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 'Lady Wtstray looked out in a liaiijiy reverie on the fair prospect 
 which stretched before her jidmiring eyes.'-Faife 13. 
 
\> ♦^v^ 
 
 r 
 
 A VEXED IXIIEEITAiVCB 
 
 ^m^' 
 
 I 
 
 BY 
 
 AXXIE S. SWAN 
 (Mkk. Ruknktt Smith) 
 
 ACTHOR or 'TWKK TKIKI),' ' ACKOHS HER PATH,' 
 
 'aujeiujvke,' 'thk oATEa OK u>hm/ etc. 
 
 ■■-'/-/ 
 
 rospect 
 
 I 
 
 TORONTO, CANADA 
 
 WILLIAM: BRIGQS 
 
 EDINBURGH and LONDON 
 OLIPHANT, ANDERSON & FERRIER 
 

 2fi0i»C2 
 
 Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand 
 ei(;ht hundred and ninety, by William BRioas, Booli Steward of the 
 Methodist Book and Publishing House, Toronto, at the Department of 
 Agriculture. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAF. 
 
 I. FOREnODlNOS, • , 
 
 II. THB LOST HEIR, • 
 
 III. A SECOND SORROW, , 
 
 IV. THE FINAL BLOW, . 
 V. THE RATHMKUR WKSTUAYS, 
 
 VI. BUEAKINO THE LAST TIE, 
 
 VII. SIR CLIFFORD WEiJlRAY, 
 
 VI I L TOUNO LOVX, • . 
 
 IX. WON, . • • 
 
 X. STORMS, • • 
 
 XL IN PICCADILLY, • 
 
 XII. NEMESIS, . . 
 
 XIII. MARRYING AND OIVING IN MARRIAGE, 
 
 XIV. pride's reven(;k, 
 
 XV. ARROWS IN THE IIF.ART, 
 XVI. AT ALDEKLEY, . 
 
 XVII. A 8TRANGE STORY, • 
 XVIII. RENUNCIATION, . 
 
 XIX. REDEEMING AN OLD rilOMISE, 
 XX. DIFFERENCES OF UPINION, 
 
 tinn 
 7 
 
 19 
 80 
 
 47 
 
 56 
 
 67 
 
 78 
 
 92 
 
 102 
 
 116 
 
 131 
 
 145 
 
 156 
 
 169 
 
 182 
 
 196 
 
 207 
 
 219 
 
 230 
 
 243 
 
A VEXED INHERITANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 FOREBODINGS. 
 
 [UBERT, dear, just look ! Only St. Valen- 
 tine's Day, and see what beauties ! I 
 am quite sure they couldn't be found 
 anywhere but in West Court woods.' 
 
 It was a sweet, young voice, and a sweet, young 
 presence, too, which interrupted Hubert Westray'a 
 meditations that afternoon in the library at West 
 Court. He started, almost tiS if he had been 
 caught unawares in some untoward action, and 
 looked up with a slight smile to greet his wife. 
 She made a fair picture, as she stood by the table 
 emptying her basket of its precious hoard of early 
 primroses and sweet violets, and a deep, yearning 
 tenderness filled the man's eyes as he looked. She 
 
8 
 
 A Vexed hiJieritance. 
 
 was a young thing, only two-aiid-twenly, with a 
 slim, girlish figure, not without its own dignity and 
 grace, a sweet, open, young fiice, wliereon no shade 
 of career pain had ever yet been permitted to dwell. 
 She wore a bine serge gown, and a warm white 
 shawl wrapped about her head and shoulders, which 
 made a fair and fitting frame for her winning face. 
 
 * I had such a walk, and such a hunt for them/ 
 she said gleefully. * You told me I should go on a 
 wild-goof:e quest, you dear, stupid old boy ; but 
 didn't I know what the swallows whispered ? 
 Didn't I feel the scent of these violets this very 
 morning in that sweet west wind ? Oh, I know 
 all about it! Nobody can deceive me when the 
 spring is coming. Isn't she my own especial 
 season ? Wasn't I born on the very first day of 
 spring ? Papa used to call me tlie spring maiden ; 
 and so, of course, I ought to know all about gentle 
 spring, when she is my true godmother.' 
 
 So she rattled on, her fair fingers all the while 
 deftly arranging the delicate blossoms in a spray to 
 Vi^ear at her bosom. 
 
 * How dull you loo!-. Hubert ! ' she said, suddenly 
 arrested by her husband's silence. 'Are you not 
 well to-day ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I was listening to you, and watching you, 
 Ada,' he Sf>M, smiling again in rather a forced 
 fashion, for his thoughts were gloomy. 
 
Forebodings, 
 
 ■ Dutiful bov. AVell, do you know it is five 
 o'clock, aiul we promised to be at Mrs. Wilmot's 
 before seven? Isn't it an hour's drive? Ifow 
 long docs tliat leave us to dress ? ^ As she spoke 
 slie left the table, and, with one of her swift 
 gosturcf?, knelt on one knee by her husband's chair, 
 and rested her bri'dit liead against his arm. There 
 was a considerable disparity in years, as well as a 
 strong contrast between them, and yet they were 
 a handsome, well-matched pair. Hubert Westray 
 looked his six-aiid-thirty years to the full. His 
 dark hair and beard were streaked with grey, and 
 his broad forehead had deep lines upon it. His 
 whole appearance was that of a man wlio had had 
 a long and possibly a bitter experience of life. It 
 was a fine face in the main, but there was an 
 irresolnte droop in the lips, and a shifting glance 
 in the deep blue eye which indicated a certain 
 weakness of character, w)iich had ever been the 
 failing of his race. 
 
 Looking into his wife's smiling, radiant face, the 
 shadow which in solitude dwelt so darkly on hi 3 
 own was somow^hat dispelled. It was as if the 
 sun had shone suddenly upon some dark and 
 gloomy spot, which only needed tlie cheering beam. 
 
 * Hubert, why is it you look sometimes so very 
 sad ? ' asked the sweet voice at his elbow. * When 
 I lock at you, often wlien you do not know, I feel 
 
lO 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 i I 
 
 my heart heavy, and I begin to fear that perhaps 
 you made a mistake in marrying one so ignorant 
 and foolish as I. I cannot be brave and clever 
 when I do not feel it, Hubert. I am only a stupid 
 little girl, who cannot give you anything but her 
 hear;.'s love.* 
 
 * Oh, my darling, hush ! ' 
 
 He put his arm about her and drew her very 
 close to him, and for a time there was nothing said. 
 
 * Adel:*ide, I am not worthy of your love. Your 
 pure heart, my dailnig, is hardly a mate for mine. 
 I marvel sometimes that I had the presumption to 
 ask such as you to share my liPe.* 
 
 ' Wiiat do you say, Hubert ? You speak as if 
 you were some quite objcjfcionable person, instead 
 of the best and noblest and dearest in the world. 
 Shall I tell you how many were disappointed and 
 disgusted when you asked poor, insignificant 
 Adelaide Courtney to bpcome the mistress of West 
 Court ? ' 
 
 ' Hush,' he said again, and laid his hand over 
 her lips. * Don't talk nonsense, wife.* 
 
 * Well, I won't. How happy we are, and how 
 comrUmentary to, and satisfied with, each other I 
 Isn't it a splendid thing, Hubert ? ' she said, witli a 
 half-wistfui, half-comical look, which was wholly 
 irresistible. But again her husband's dark face 
 had become suddenly grave ; and he turned his 
 
Forebodings, 
 
 IX 
 
 head away, as if to hide from her clear, penetrating 
 gaze. 
 
 • I sometimes wonder, Hubert, whether it can be 
 good for mortals to be so happy as we are,* said 
 the young wife, growing grave too. * As I walked 
 this afternoon, and heard the birds singing, and 
 felt the sweet wind on my face, I could not help 
 feeling very grateful for all the precious things God 
 has given to me — you and baby and West Court, 
 and papa and mnmma and all the rest. Do you 
 think I deserve to be such a happy and well-off 
 girl, Hubert ? * 
 
 ' If any girl ever deserved happiness, you do, my 
 Ada,* was the fond reply. * It does not take very 
 much to content you.* 
 
 * Now I think it takes a great deal. All these 
 things might well content a much larger and more 
 important woman than I am. But there, I am not 
 going to worry myself with these philosophical 
 questions, but just accept my sunshiny lot, and be 
 grateful for it.* 
 
 So saying, Lady Westray picked herself up, and 
 went back to her flowers. 
 
 ' I shall wear a wliite gown to-night, Hubert, 
 and in spite of Denver I shall have all my flowers 
 about me. Do you think your brother and his 
 wife will be at Eardley to-night ? ' 
 
 The slightest possible shadow marred for a 
 
 ! M 
 
 in 
 
19 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 moment the smiling face as she asked the 
 question. 
 
 ' Probably. Piobert and Wilmot are very inti- 
 mate/ 
 
 * Shall I tell you something, Hubert ? Mrs. 
 Eobert Westray always makes me feel dreadfully 
 uncomfortable, just like an interloper or something'. 
 And though I think I look all right, the moment 
 her cold eyes fall on me I feel as if my clothes 
 were dreadfully wrong somehow. Do you like 
 Eleanor, Hubert ? ' 
 
 * Not particularly. I have noticed her airs, 
 Adelaide. But you mustn't forget that you are 
 Lady "Westray. You must call up all your dignity 
 to meet her.* 
 
 ' I am afraid I have none to call up, Hubert.* 
 
 * Haven't you ? I've seen it on more than one 
 occasion.* 
 
 ' Nonsense, dear. But really, Hubert, I don't 
 wonder very much at Eleanor. It must have been 
 a disappointment to her when you married me, and 
 especially when baby came.* 
 
 'It need not have been a disappointment, then, 
 Addie. It was her own blame if she viewed me a 
 confirmed bachelor at six-and-thirt \'. Robert's wife 
 is worldly and scheming, as he is the reverse.* 
 
 *I like him, only he is so drecid<^ully meek and 
 gentle ; I'd like to try and put him in a passion. 
 
Forebodings* 
 
 13 
 
 Well, shall I ring for a cup of tea here, Hubert ? 
 I think I could enjoy it after my walk.* 
 
 ' Certainly. I think I could enjoy it with you. 
 Poring over these musty old folios makes a fellow 
 rather st ipid. I ought to have been out with you.' 
 
 * What a concession ! Some tea here, Harvey, 
 please,' she added to the servant, who entered the 
 room at that moment. * And see, give these flowers 
 to Denver, and tell her to lay them beside my 
 dress. I shall wear them to-niglit.' 
 
 Having given her orders, Lady Westray walked 
 over to the quaint little corner window which 
 always caught the last gleam of the setting sun, 
 and, with her hands lightly folded, looked out in a 
 happy reverie on the fair prospect which stretched 
 before her admiring eyes. A wide and spacious 
 park, well pi f*-^ ted with noble trees, sloped down to 
 the broad, swift-flowing river, which was one of the 
 chief beauties of the place. Beyond it many a 
 smiling meadow and rich breadth of pasture and 
 arable land owned the sway of the Westray s of 
 West Court, one of the richest and most desirable 
 possessions in the shire. To eastward, the village 
 of Westray was visible, its quaint church tower a 
 landmark for miles around ; further east still, a 
 dull haze, obscuring the mild, bright February sky, 
 indicated the situation of Wesiborough, in whose 
 ironworks and coalfields the master of West Court 
 
I I 
 
 i n 
 
 i \ 
 
 s 
 
 11 
 
 1 i 
 
 1 
 
 I i 
 
 1 1 
 
 1 i 
 
 H 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 had also a substantial interest. Westray was an 
 
 old and honoured name in shire, West Court 
 
 a place beloved and admired further afield even 
 than Westray or Westborough. It was a proud 
 thing to say that for four hundred years West 
 Court had passed, in an unbroken line, from father 
 to son, each bequeathing to his descendant an 
 unblemished name. There had never been a bad 
 master of West Court, or any scandal or doubtful 
 story in connection with the name. There had 
 always been noble, pure, dignified lives lived at 
 West Court, good deeds done, wealth well spent, 
 influence judiciously and unselfishly wielded; and 
 so Westray and the neighbourhood looked with 
 just pride and love on their old manor and their 
 great folks, and gave them at all times hearty 
 service and sincere respect. 
 
 It had been the custom always for the Westrays 
 to marry before thirty — Sir Hubert was the only 
 exception to the rule. 
 
 It had, indeed, been feared in Westray that he 
 would remain a bachelor, and that West Court 
 would pass to the younger branch of the family, 
 which would not be according to the precedent 
 established by his ancestors. The younger sons 
 had always been taught professions, which, along 
 with their portion, was supposed to be sufficient 
 for their simpler needs. Occasionally there had 
 
Forebodings, 
 
 been some disagreements, on account of the expen- 
 sive haltits of certain of the younger sons, but they 
 were never allowed to become the gossip of Westray 
 or the talk of the town. 
 
 Sir Hubert's n arriage with the young schoolgirl 
 daughter of a neighbouring squire had taken many 
 people, notably his own relatives, by surprise. It 
 was said they were not pleased with his choice ; 
 that his marriage was a bitter disappointment, 
 especially to the wife and family of his younger 
 brother, Robert — he was a gentle soul, who could 
 harbour animosity against none. But Hubert 
 Westray cared nothing whatever for the opinion of 
 others ; he had married to pleat e himself, and he 
 had loved the girl since one summer day he had 
 seen her, a shy, sweet maiden of sixteen, first 
 emancipated from the schoolroom. And from that 
 hour he had resolved that she, and none other, 
 should be mistress of West Court. Sir Hubert 
 Westray was esteemed and beloved for his goodness 
 and generous kindness of heart, but few could say 
 they knew him intimately. He was distant and 
 reserved — rather taciturn, indeed, and had the look 
 of one who had known sorrow, or had had seme 
 dark and bitter experience of life. If there had 
 been a secret sorrow or a secret sin in the years of 
 his young manhood, he sliared it with none. If he 
 had any burden or punishment to bear, he bore it 
 
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 I 
 
 i6 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 alone. Tf there were any hidden and carking care 
 in his heart, not even his gentle wife was allowed 
 to know of its existence. lint certainly there were 
 times when Hubert Westniy looked little enough 
 like a man who had everything which makes life 
 desirable and sweet. 
 
 Lady Westray saw that her husband was in one 
 of his moods that night, and wisely forbore rallying 
 him, or trying to make him talk. These varying 
 moods were the greatest, the only, trial of Adelaide 
 Westray's life. She was always oquable and sunny- 
 hearted, and it was dillicult for her to understand 
 her husband's nature. She saw no reason why he 
 should ever be gloomy or sad ; but she had learned 
 that it was the wiser way to leave him alone until 
 the cloud lifted of its own accord. 
 
 The drive to Eardley, a distance of nine miles, 
 was very silent, and Lady Westray was glad when 
 it was over. It was a task for her to be silent and 
 still, and it was a relief to her to enter the cheerful, 
 well-lighted drawing-room, and to receive the hearty 
 greeting of her genial hostess. Most of the peo[)le 
 present were known to her, and, after speaking for 
 a few minutes vv^ith Mrs. Wilmot, she crossed the 
 room to a tall, dark-skinned, handsome woman, 
 elaborately attired in ruby silk. 
 
 ' How do you do, Eleanor ? * she said, rather 
 timidly, the usual feeling of discomfort creeping 
 
Forcboiiijii^s. 
 
 17 
 
 over lier as Mrs. Ilobuit AVcslniy's coKl eye rested 
 on iier faci\ 
 
 'Quite well, thank you, Lady Westray. How 
 late you are! "VVe have been wailing (juite twenty 
 minutes.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Wilmot says we are in good time/ 
 answered Lady Westray quietly. 'Are the chil- 
 dren all well ? ' 
 
 ' All well. How is Bertie ? ' 
 
 ' Nicely. Growing so big and wise and beautiful, 
 Eleanor, you would scarcely know him/ answered 
 the young mother, her face radiant with love. 
 ' How long it is since you were at West Court I 
 When will you come ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, I have no time to spare just 
 now/ said Eleanor Westray briefly. ' West Court 
 violets and primroses already, Adelaide ! They are 
 as early as ever. But how absurdly you are 
 bedecked with them ! Such Horal adornments were 
 all very well for Adelaide Courtney. They are 
 hardly suitable for the lady of West Court. How 
 miserably ill Hubert is looking ! I often say to 
 Kobert he is just like a man who is very unhappy 
 and who has a load ou his mind.' 
 
 Lady Westray's colour rose, and the tears started 
 to her eyes. Without another word she turned 
 away from her sister-in-law, but the unkind speech 
 had left its sting, which robbed the evening of all 
 
 If 
 
 i^ 
 
 B 
 
 
 i'l 
 
i8 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 enjoyment for Adelaide Westray. She nervously 
 and anxiously watched her husband, and certainly 
 she had to admit the trutli of Mrs. Robert's words. 
 He did look miserably ill, and again a strange 
 dread filled her heart, making it heavy as lead. 
 What secret care was eating into her darling's 
 heart ? What could be the burden he would not, 
 or could not, share with her ? 
 
 I III 
 
CHAPTER 11. 
 
 % 
 
 THE LOST HEIR. 
 
 you think we could leave now, 
 Adelaide ? ' 
 
 So said Hubert Westray, drawing to 
 his wife's side, about an hour after dinner. 
 
 ' It is very early, Hubert. But if you are not 
 well, if you would like to go, I will ask Mrs. 
 Wilmot to excuse us.* 
 
 ' Do. I feel wretchedly out of sorts,' he answered 
 hurriedly. * It is insufferable to listen to these 
 people talking. I didn't want to come at alL I 
 ought to have stayed at home.' 
 
 Lady Westray hurriedly rose, and hastened to 
 make her excuses to their hostess, and to ask that 
 their carriage might be ordered at once. She was 
 glad to get away out of the room, glad to escape 
 especially from Mrs. Robert Westray's keen, cold 
 
 19 
 
 i 
 
 !; 
 
 
20 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 J It 
 
 ! I 
 
 eyes, which seemed to have a strange mocking 
 gleam in their deptlis. A prevision of coming 
 trouble had laid its chill hand on the heart of 
 Adelaide Westray, and when she was alone in the 
 carriage with her hushand, she sank back in her 
 corner, trembling in every limb. 
 
 'Forgive me, my darling; I am a bear — frighten- 
 ing and hurrying you like this. I am a miserable, 
 evil-haunted man, who can rest neither night nor 
 day.' 
 
 * Miserable ! Evil-haunted ! What do you mean, 
 Hubert ? You terrify me. Why should you suffer 
 in this way — you who have never willingly harmed 
 a human being ? You are very ill, surely, Hubert, 
 and the mind is dependent on the body. We will 
 have the best medical advice to-morrow.* 
 
 Hubert Westray gloomily shook his head. 
 
 ' You do not understand, Adelaide. My wife, 
 my trouble is not one which medical skill can 
 assist, or even your sweet sympathy cure. Who 
 can minister to a mind diseased ? * 
 
 * But what does it all mean, Hubert ? Why 
 should you be troubled ? What is it that lies so 
 heavy on your heart ? Tell it to me, dearest. 
 Although I am only an ignorant girl, I am your 
 wife ; and, oh, I could help you, I think, if you 
 would only let me.' 
 
 For a time Hubert AYestray made no answer. 
 
The Lost Heir. 
 
 21 
 
 mswer. 
 
 When he (li<l speak, at length, it was only to ask 
 a question wliich had no Itearin;; on the subject. 
 
 ' Did you go into the nursery before we left, 
 Adelaide ? * 
 
 * Yes,* she answered briefly, hurt a little at his 
 calm ignoring of her appeal. 
 
 ' Bertie was all right, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, all right.' 
 
 ' You can trust Foster ? I hope she will look 
 after the child as faithfully in your absence as when 
 you are at home.* 
 
 * Why, of course. What extraordinary questions 
 you are asking, Hubert ! You alarm me very 
 much.' Her voice shook, and he saw with what an 
 effort she kept her self-control. 
 
 ' I cannot help myself, Adelaide. I feel as if 
 there were a sword hanj^ing over my head. When- 
 ever you or the child are out of my sight, I am in 
 torment.' 
 
 'Then you must be ill, Hubert, when such 
 strange fancies possess you,* said the young wife, 
 turning her wondering eyes on his face. In the 
 dim light of the carriage lamp she could see how 
 pale and haggard he was, and what a restless light 
 gleamed in his eye. She laid her hand on his 
 arm, seeking to soothe him with her gentle touch. 
 
 * I think we must go away somewhere for a time, 
 Hubert ; to the sunny South, where you wiU forget 
 
 % 
 
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 lit! 
 
';■ I ,i I 
 
 
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 II lit 
 
 
 N' 
 
 22 
 
 y^ Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 all your gloomy fancies. You have been too much 
 among your books of late. I am very proud of my 
 husband's scholarship, but I cannot let his health 
 suffer on its account.' 
 
 He smiled, and slightly shook his head. 
 
 Then they relapsed into silence, which Adelaide 
 Westray felt no inclination to break. She was 
 glad to be still for a little, to try and think over 
 this trouble which had come into her life. Hitherto 
 no shadow had fallen across her happy heart. Had 
 the richest earthly blessings only been given that 
 through them she might learn something of the 
 ministry of pain ? 
 
 'Adelaide,' Sir Hubert's voice broke the long 
 silence, * if you were to learn that I was unworthy, 
 would you change towards me ? Should I lose 
 your love ? ' 
 
 ' I am your wife, Hubert — and there is Bertie,' 
 she answered simply, yet with a strange pathos of 
 wistfulness, *You try me very hard. If you 
 would only trust me entirely, and tell me what is 
 troubling you, it would be better for us both. 
 Here we are at home ! I never was so thankful to 
 see home, I think, in all my life before.* 
 
 The carriage drew up at the pillared entrance to 
 West Court, and Sir Hubert, jumping out, helped 
 his wife to alight, with his usual careful tenderness. 
 It was a dark, starless night, the air unseasonably 
 
 >9 
 
 ■ a. 
 
 4 
 
The Lost Heir, 
 
 23 
 
 warm and oppressively still. It was almost as if a 
 strange hush of expectancy hung over the dark and 
 silent earth. 
 
 * How hot it is ! ' exclaimed Lady Westray, push- 
 ing her hood back from her golden head and 
 throwing her cloak off her bare arms. * I feel 
 oppressed, unhappy, Hubert. You have infected 
 me, I think, with your dulness. I shall be glad to 
 get to sleep. Surely it will be brighter to-morrow 
 morning.' 
 
 They entered the house together, and both were 
 struck on the threshold by the stillness within. 
 No servant came forward, as usual, to receive the 
 wraps ; but when Lady Westray ran upstairs, she 
 met her own maid on tlie drawing-room floor. 
 
 * Why, Denver, 1 thought you were all asleep. 
 Take my things, and get me a cup of chocolate,' 
 said her ladyship lightly; then, suddenly struck 
 by something strange in the woman's demeanour, 
 she looked at her sharply. * What is it ? Why 
 do you look at me so strangely ? We are an hour 
 or two earlier than we expected, but that need not 
 disconcert you, surely.' 
 
 * No, my lady, not at all. There is nothing — at 
 least,' said Denver, trembling, and suddenly burst- 
 ing into tears, she covered her face with her apron 
 and ran away. 
 
 Lady Westray hung her wraps over the balus- 
 
 t' ! 
 
 
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 '•ill 
 
 
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 ' 1 
 
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 h' 
 
 111 
 
 ill 
 
 24 
 
 A VcxeJ Inheritance. 
 
 trade, and walked upstfiirs to tlie nursery. The 
 lights in hotli night and day nursery were at their 
 full heiglit, the doors wid(3 open, and the bahy was 
 not in his cot. Lady "Westray furiously rang the 
 bell, but there was no answer. Another peal, and 
 a young girl who assisted in the kitchen came steal- 
 ing into the room as white as the collar at her throat. 
 
 * Where is baby, and where is Foster, Anne ? * 
 asked Lady "Westray, very sharply for her, but her 
 nerves were strung to the highest pitch. * How 
 dare slie take him out of the nursery at this late 
 hour ? And how dare she send you to answer my 
 bell ? ' 
 
 * Oh, my lady, Foster is in the kitchen. She 
 has fainted three times since, and — and ' — 
 
 The little maid finished her sentence, like Denver, 
 with a burst of weeping. 
 
 * Where is baby ? Try to tell me quietly, Anne, 
 what has happened,' said Lady Westray, her very 
 agony of apprehension enabling her to speak calmly 
 and even gently to the sobbing girl. 
 
 ' I'll try, my lady. It was about half-past nine ; 
 Foster was in the hall having a bit of supper with 
 us. She had left baby sleeping in his cot, and 
 \\hen she came up after ten he was not there. I 
 offered to go up and sit by him, my lady, while 
 Mrs. Foster had her su])per, but she said he was 
 sleeping so soundly there was no need.' 
 
 I i:. 
 
The Lost Heir, 
 
 25 
 
 ry. The 
 at their 
 laby was 
 •ang the 
 )eal, and 
 ne steal- 
 r throat. 
 Anne ? * 
 but her 
 'How 
 his late 
 iwer my 
 
 1. She 
 
 Denver, 
 
 , Anne, 
 r very 
 calmly 
 
 nine ; 
 r with 
 >t, and 
 re. I 
 
 while 
 e was 
 
 Like an arrow Lady Westray swept past the girl 
 and sped downstairs to the kitchen. Sir Hubert, 
 after removing his hat and coat, had gone as usual 
 to the library. It was his habit to sit over his 
 books till far on in the morning. He did not hear 
 the light, swift footfall pass the door ; he was 
 sitting moodily over the fire, his head buried in his 
 hands, a prey to his own gloomy thoughts. In tlie 
 kitclien a bevy of terrified servants were gathered 
 about the nurse, who was rocking herself to and fro 
 in her chair, wringing her hands and bemoaning her 
 fate, for it was to her carelessness that West Court 
 owed the loss of its heir. When Lady AVestray, 
 still in her white dinner dress, with the spring 
 blossoms, now crushed and withered, at her tlimat 
 and belt, entered the kitchen, the group silently fell 
 apart ; then some of them burst into audible sobs. 
 
 * Foster, what have you done with my child ? * 
 asked her ladyship, in a calm, clear, perfectly 
 passionless voice. 
 
 At the sight of her mistress the woman went ofl 
 into hysterics ; then Lady Westray turned inquiringly 
 to the others. 
 
 * There is very little to tell, my lady,* said the 
 cook, more self-possessed than any of the rest. 
 ' Mrs. Foster was having lier supper with us, for 
 company's sake, and when she went back to the 
 nursery the baby was gone — spirited away, I say — • 
 
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 '■AW 
 
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 26 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 for no human being could take him. At first we 
 thought Anne or Polly was playing a trick on nurse 
 — trying to frighten her for leaving him — but we 
 soon found there was nothing of that kind. We've 
 searched high and low, my lady ; there isn't a 
 corner of the house we haven't been into, nor an 
 outhouse. We went through every blessed one 
 with a lantern, but it was no use.* 
 
 Lady Westray asked no more questions, but 
 walked slowly out of the kitchen and upstairs to 
 the library. There was no faltering in her step, nor 
 in her voice, when she interrupted her husband's 
 reverie by the expiring fire. 
 
 ' Baby is away, Hubert,* she said, in a quiet, low 
 voice, and she sat down and looked at him with a 
 dazed, almost vacant air. 
 
 'Away to bed, do you mean?' 
 
 ' No ; away out of the house. They have lost 
 him. Some one has taken him out of his crib. 
 We shall never see him any more, I suppose. Poor 
 Bertie ! To be lifted out of his warm bed, and 
 carried out into the dark night. It was very cruel, 
 Hubert, to him as well as to us.* 
 
 Huliert Westray sprang to his feet, his tall figure 
 quiver'ng with excitement, the veins in his forehead 
 standing out like knotted cords. 
 
 ' That was her errand,' he said, in a low, thick 
 whisper^ oblivious of his wife's unnatural calm. ' I 
 
The Lost Heir, 
 
 2/ 
 
 ought to have known that revenge brought her here. 
 That is the sword which has been hanging over me 
 for days, Adelaide. I knew it would be either you 
 or the child.' 
 
 Even in her own dread, awful misery, Lady 
 Westray was arrested by her husband's wild words. 
 
 ' Who are you talking about, Hubert ? Mystery 
 seems heaped upon mystery here. Do you know 
 who can have taken Bertie ? ' asked his wife, press- 
 ing her hands to her throbbing temples, as if trying 
 to collect and calm her thoughts. 
 
 * Yes, I know. I saw Kosumond Vane in West- 
 borough yesterday, and her eyes have haunted me 
 ever since. They foreboded evil to me and mine.* 
 
 * Who is Eosamond Vane ? ' 
 
 * Ah, I forgot ; you do not know. Yes, I will 
 tell you, Adelaide. The crisis has come, and you 
 must know all. It cannot matter now whether you 
 leave me or not. I told you I have been a miser- 
 able, evil-haunted man, pursued by the ghost of the 
 past — by the misery of a sin for which I have been 
 oitterly punished. But there, I cannot tell you the 
 story now. I must go and seek her and the child.* 
 
 So saying, and leaving his wife to her helpless, 
 unavailing pain, he quitted the house. A little 
 later she heard the rinoj of a horse's hoofs on the 
 avenue, and if at that moment Adelaide Westray 
 felt as if the very foundations of earth and heaven 
 
 r 
 
 ' 
 
 ';•■:{ 
 
 m 
 
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 m 
 
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! "Ill 
 
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 28 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 were shaken, she may be 'orgiven. She dragfred 
 herself up at length, and went to make some more 
 inquiries in a strange, listless, dispirited way, with- 
 out that exhibition of frenzy which a mother thus 
 suddenly and mysteriously bereft might have been 
 expected to display. There was little more to learn. 
 The gross carelessness of the servants was only 
 confirmed : they were too miserable and conscience- 
 stricken to attempt to screen or defend themselves. 
 
 While they had been enjoying their evening 
 meal, the hall door had been open, and the entire 
 house left at the mercy of any who might elect to 
 enter it. The servants' quartero were quite shut off 
 from the upper part of the house, and only a very 
 unusual noise could be heard downstairs. How 
 easy then for the robber to steal upstairs and carry 
 away the sleeping child ! The mystery was why 
 the child should have been taken, and so much that 
 is commonly valued by the thief left untouched. 
 Lady Westray wandered about the house for a 
 time like one in a dream, looking blankly into one 
 room after another, until at length she sat down on 
 a chair by the empty cot in the night nursery, and 
 there, with folded hands and wide-staring eyes, 
 waited for what she scarcely knew. 
 
 None of the servants came near; they were 
 afraid to see her, they whispered to one another, 
 and so a dreary hour dragged itself away. 
 
The Lost Heir, 
 
 29 
 
 Towards two o'clock in the morning the sound of 
 a horse's returning hoofs rang out over the still and 
 heavy air, and Lady Westray sprang to her feet, 
 and, with a wild light of expectancy in her eyes, 
 sped down to the hall, only to see her husband 
 enter alone ; then with a low moan she tottered 
 and sank unconscious on the settle in the halL 
 
 
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 nil ' ; 'I 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 A SECOND SORROW, 
 
 )HEN Adelaide Westray awoke from what 
 seemed to her to have been a long sleep, 
 she found herself in bed in her own 
 room. It seemed to be broad day, for the sun- 
 beams were shining through the Venetian blinds 
 and falling aslant the walls and floor. She raised 
 herself on her elbow, and looked round her in- 
 quiringly, not remembering just then the occurrence 
 of the night. She was alone in the room, but at 
 that moment Denver came slipping from the adjoin- 
 ing dressing-room; a pale, heavy-eyed creature, 
 with an anxious expression on her face. At sight 
 of her maid memory suddenly returned in all its 
 cruel vividness to the unhappy mother, and she 
 turned her wide, hollow eyes imploringly on the 
 
 woman's face. 
 
 to 
 
 : ■ I 
 
A Second So^'roiv, 
 
 31 
 
 Tora what 
 ong sleep, 
 her own 
 the sun- 
 an blinds 
 )he raised 
 her in- 
 ccurrence 
 ai, but at 
 le ad join- 
 creature, 
 At sight 
 n all its 
 and she 
 on the 
 
 
 ' Has baby been found, Denver ? * 
 
 The maid shook lier head. 
 
 ' Oh, no, my lady, there is no news. Doctor 
 Kaynor is downstairs. He has been here since 
 before daybreak, and he bade me tell him directly 
 you were awake. May I ask him to come up ? ' 
 
 ' Where is Sir Hubert ? ' 
 
 ' Sir Hubert, my lady, is away to London, I 
 tliink, to get detectives, or something. But if you 
 will see Doctor liaynor, he will tell you all about 
 it. He was here before Sir Hubert left.' 
 
 'You may tell him to come up,' said Lady 
 Westray languidly ; and, lying down wearily on 
 the pillow, she turned her face to the wall. There 
 was no hope in her heart. The baby, the light of 
 her eyes, the darling of her heart, the precious heir 
 of West Court, was lost for evermore. What then 
 had she to live for ? She could not even at that 
 moment think with tenderness or longing of her 
 absent husband. She had a vague, inscrutable 
 consciousness that for this terrible calamity he 
 was somewhat to blame. She could not tell in 
 what way ; only the consciousness was there, add- 
 ing to her weight of hopeless pain. 
 
 ' I am here. Lady Westray. I am thankful to 
 see you conscious again.* 
 
 It was the physician's voice, and when Adelaide 
 Westray turned her head and looked upon the kind 
 
 
 I 
 
 ill 
 
 -111 
 
 m 
 
32 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 face of the friend wlio had known her since her 
 childhood, her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 * Hubert has gone to London, Doctor Raynor,' 
 she said quickly. * Denver says you know why. 
 lias he any clue ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. He asked nie to tell you that a woman 
 and child travelled from Westray by the 10.10 
 exi)ress last ni<,dit, and that he hopes to trace hci 
 and rescue the child before niiiht.' 
 
 * What woman ? What could be her object ? ' 
 The old man shook his head. The thing was 
 
 an utter mystery to him, and if he had any sus- 
 picions it did not behove him to communicate them 
 to the wife of Sir Hubert Westray. 
 
 ' Jt was a cruel thing to do, Doctor Eaynor,* she 
 moaned. ' I did not dream we had in the world 
 an enemy who would so use us. I'erhaps we have 
 loved him too much. Perhaps I made an idol of 
 him, and this has come to show me my sin. 
 But he was so sweet and winning and beautiful 
 — my Bertie, my precious child, my son, my 
 son ! ' 
 
 The old man, watching the paroxysm of grief, 
 wiped his own eyes, and walked away over to the 
 window ; wisely permitting her to give vent to her 
 overcharged heart. 
 
 * Did Hubert say he would surely be back to- 
 night ? * she said, growing calmer again. * If not, 
 
 1 ; 1 
 
 
A Secofid Sorrow. 
 
 •J 
 
 r since her 
 
 I must go to London to-day. I cannot be here 
 eating' my heart out.' 
 
 ' It would kill you to fittenipt the journey to- 
 day, my dear. You do not know how weak you 
 are,' said the physician soothin;^dy. 'IJcsides, would 
 it not be a foolish errand ? Could you assist your 
 husband in any way ? Could you even find him 
 in London ? Try and keep calm and quiet, Lady 
 Westray, and trust Sir Hubert. If ever a stern 
 resolve sat upon man's face, it did on his when he 
 left this morninjT. He will leave no stone unturned 
 to find the heir of West Court.* 
 
 ' He ought to have taken me/ she said, almost 
 wildly. ' He loves Bertie, I know, but he has not 
 the instinct of a mother. I believe that were I 
 in London at this moment, doctor, love would guide 
 me to the very spot where my darling is.' 
 
 The doctor compassionately shook his head. 
 
 ' London is a great place, Lady Westray. I fear 
 you would only experience the bitterest disappoint- 
 ment. Try and keep quiet and brave, for your 
 husband's sake, and believe he is doing his utmost 
 at this moment. It is his deep interest as well 
 as yours.' 
 
 * I am not excited, I am quiet and calm, Doctor 
 Kaynor ; only something tells me I shall never see 
 Bertie again. He is lost to us for ever.' 
 
 ' Pray, my dear lady, try and rid yourself of such 
 
 i •> 
 ( 
 
 
34 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 an iinhnppy tlioiight/ said the pliysician hastily. 
 ' Let me remiiid you of tlie surpassing skill aiul 
 expedition of the authorities at Scotland Yard. 
 When th(!y fail, it is the exception and not tlie rule. 
 And then no expense will be spared. Try and 
 dwell rather upon the many chances of success. 
 One woman, however clever, can scarcely in so 
 short a time bailie all the energies of Scotland 
 Yard.' 
 
 So the good old man tried to comfort and sustain 
 the unhappy mother, although himself utterly be- 
 wildered and perplexed. 
 
 * Mr. and Mrs. Courtney have arrived, my lady,' 
 said Denver, entering the room. But just then 
 some one swept past her, and in a moment Ade- 
 laide Westray was sobbing all her heart's grief out 
 on her mother's breast. Doctor liaynor inmiediately 
 left the room. In the library he t- und the Squire 
 of Alderley pacing restlessly up and down the room, 
 evidently in a state of huge excitement. He was 
 a broad, burly, rather vulgar-looking man, with a 
 puffy red face and an angry blue eye. A hasty, 
 domineering temper and a somewhat selfish disposi- 
 tion were the besetting sins of Squire Courtney, 
 but he had a certain ready kindness of heart, and 
 manner too, which somewhat softened these un- 
 pleasant characteristics. 
 
 'Hulloa, liaynor, good morning. Extraordinary 
 
 1/ ii 
 
 'Li: 
 
A Second Sorrow, 
 
 35 
 
 occurrence this,' he said, pausing in his walk and 
 transtixiiiL,' the mild little doctor with his jiicrcing 
 eye. ' AVhat on earth is the nieanin<^ of this cock 
 and hull story we got to our breakfast this morn- 
 ing ? Is it true what they say, that the child has 
 bur.'n stolen ? ' 
 
 * Quite true, Mr. Courtney, I am sorry to say/ 
 
 * How did it happen ? Tell me all about it — 
 quick. They might have sent word to Alderley, 
 iit any rate. "Where's Westruy ? and Ada too? 
 where are all the inmates of this house ? There 
 isn't a servant to he seen, to answer a civil 
 question.' 
 
 * Sir Iluhert and Lady Westray were dining at 
 Eardley last night, Mr. Courtney. During their 
 absence the nurse, I understand, had gone down- 
 stairs for some supper. She was absent about 
 thirty or forty minutes, and on her return found 
 her charge gone. There is no other explanation, 
 nor any particulars to give in the meantime. Sir 
 Hubert has gone to London to get detective assist- 
 ance, and hopes soon to recover the child.* 
 
 ' Extraordinary ! ' repeated the Squire, tapping 
 his riding whip impatiently on the floor. * What 
 do they mean, going dining at other folk's houses 
 and leaving the child and the house in charge of 
 careless idiots ? But hang it, man, what do you 
 suppose it means ? If we were in Italy, the thing 
 
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 li III 
 
 36 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 might be understood. It's a common thing for 
 children, and grown people too, I am told, to 
 be stolen, and kept by the brigands till a fine 
 ransom is paid. But whoever heard of such a 
 thing happening in England ? It's like a scene 
 out of a foolish novel. You're sure there's no 
 mistake ? ' 
 
 * No mistake, Mr. Courtney. It is only too real 
 a calamity for the house of Westray.' 
 
 * I wonder now if that dark-browed, haughty 
 hussy Eobert Westray married has anything to do 
 with it,* said the Squire, in his blunt injudicious 
 fashion. 'You know it was an awful disappoint- 
 ment when my girl became Lady Wesiray, and the 
 mother of an heir.* 
 
 * Hush, Mr. Courtney. It is unwise even to 
 hazard such a supposition. For her own 2nd her 
 children's sake, Mrs. Eobert Westray would never 
 dare such a crnne,' said Doctor Eaynor hastily. 
 
 *Well, perhaps not,* assented the Squire. 'Be- 
 sides, what would be the good of that ? There is 
 no reason why Lady Westray should not have 
 another son, and Mrs. Eobert couldn't go on steal- 
 ing children for ever. How is the poor thing ? 
 She'll be taking it terribly to heart.* 
 
 * She is indeed. She has no hope herself, Mr. 
 Courtney. It will scarcely be a disappointment 
 to her though they should find no clue.' 
 
 I- 
 
 ! \\.\'\ 
 
A Second Sorrow. 
 
 37 
 
 * Tut, tut ; that's foolish/ said the Squire. * Wait 
 a moment till I run up to see her, and then I'll 
 ride down with you. Mrs. Courtney is driving, 
 but will likely want to remain with Ada.' 
 
 So saying, Mr. Courtney stumped upstairs in his 
 heavy riding boots, and witnout any ceremony 
 entered his daughter's room. His wife, a gtnile, 
 ladylike woman, whom to look at was to love, was 
 sitting close by the bed, with her arm round her 
 daughter's slender shoulders, her soft hand gently 
 smoothing the golden curls back from the hot brow. 
 
 * Well, Addie, this is a sad affair,* said the 
 Squire, in his loud, brisk fashion. * Stupid thing 
 of you all, to lose the boy you've been so fond and 
 proud of.' 
 
 Adelaide Westray winced, but tried to smile 
 faintly up into her father's face. 
 
 Scarcely yet had she got rid of a certain shrink- 
 ing awe and dread of the loud - voiced, quick- 
 tempered, imperious parent, who had kept such 
 strict discipline among the children at Alderley. 
 
 * Keep up your heart. They'll find him, never 
 fear. Come, now, don't shake your head so dole- 
 fully. I say tliey'll find him for you in no time ; 
 why shouldn't they ? It's what they're paid and 
 kept up for. So don't let your spirits down. I'll 
 bet you two to one Hubert brings him back to you 
 safe and sound. 
 
 #1 
 
 ' f 
 
 1 1 
 
 i , 
 
 
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 IH 
 
 ■! ili 
 
 38 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 * I will try to be hopeful, papa/ answered Lady 
 Westray, l»ut there was no hope in her voice. 
 
 * That's right. Well, mother, I suppose you'll 
 want to remain here for a bit ? ' said the Squire to 
 his wife. * I'll get away back to Alderley, and keep 
 things going in your absence. There's no saying 
 whiit mischief that Flo may be up to. She's as 
 much of a tomboy as ever, Addie — worse, I think, 
 since you left ! ' 
 
 Adelaide Westray smiled in spite of herself, as 
 a vision of her bright-eyed, round-faced^ happy-go- 
 lucky young sister rose up before her. Florence 
 Courtney was eminently the life of the old house at 
 Alderley. Never a day passed without leading her 
 into some serious scrape. Yet she was now 
 sixteen, and a source of considerable anxiety to her 
 mother, as well as of some trouble to her father. 
 Means would not perndt of her being sent to school 
 to have her animal spirits tamed, for money was 
 scarce at Alderley. The Squire himself had 
 expensive tastes ; he liked a fine mount, and was 
 in the forefront of all sports. Then Toro> the only 
 son, was being educated at Eton ; so it was the 
 women folk who were stinted, and wlio had to 
 exercise the virtue of self-denial most frequently. 
 Perhaps it was these things, and the burden of 
 anxiety tliey entailed, which gave to Mrs. Courtney's 
 face that peculiarly sweet, patient expression, 
 
 ■^'Wj*. 
 
A Second Sorrow, 
 
 39 
 
 
 often worn by those who are harassed by many 
 cares. 
 
 Adelaide was the mother's darling. Her sweet, 
 bright, unselfish nature, her untiring devotion and 
 willingness to share any burden, had been for years 
 the very brightest thing in Mrs. Courtney's life. 
 She had given her up with a grudge, and, while 
 glad that so beautiful and easy a lot had been 
 vouchsafed to her dearest child, she knew that 
 never, never could her place be filled. Studious, 
 thoughtful Anna, and careless, gleeful Florence were 
 each well in her owa place, but none could ever be 
 to her what her eldest child had been. 
 
 Having said his blunt say, the Squire of 
 Alderley took his departure, and rode away with 
 the doctor, discussing the new Game Bill, which 
 was engrossii. J tlie attention of the newly opened 
 Parliament. 
 
 Very sweet to the stricken heart of Adelaide 
 "Westray was the presence and sympathy of her 
 mother through the long hours of that May day. 
 Towards evening she rose and dressed, and there was 
 a nervous restlessness about her which indicated a 
 mind t'^rribly ill at case. She could not sit still. So 
 hnv^ as daylight lasted, she was scarcely away from the 
 turret window, which commanded the whole length 
 of the avenue and a portion of the high-road to 
 Westray, the road by which all travellers came from 
 
 
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 11, 
 
 I 
 
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 40 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 ii 
 
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 Mil 
 
 the station. But darkness fell without bringing 
 the anxiously - expected comer. Towards seven 
 o'clock the sound of wheels broke upon her listening 
 ears, and a veliicle was driven rapidly up to the 
 door. 
 
 The master of West Court had returned home 
 once more alone. When he entered, his wife met 
 him, and when she looked upon his worn and 
 haggard face her heart sank. He looked like one 
 who had kept a protracted vigil, and whose mind 
 had been long upon the rack. 
 
 ' My darling ! my poor wife ! * 
 
 He put his arm about the slender, dark-robed 
 figure, led her gently into the library, and shutting 
 the door, gathered her closely to his heart. 
 
 * This day has been so long, Hubert,* she said, in 
 broken, faltering tones. ' I am thankful you have 
 come back to me.' 
 
 * Even without the child, Ada ? ' he asked 
 hoarsely. 
 
 ' I have given him up. I had no hope,' she 
 said, in that still, quiet, indescribably pathetic way. 
 * But I could not have borne your absence very 
 much longer. The day has been so long.* 
 
 She shivered in his arms, and looking into her 
 white, wan face, a dark shadow crept over Hubert 
 Westray's own. 
 
 * I have done my best, Adelaide, and I have 
 
 ■4«U^ 
 
A Second Sorrow, 
 
 41 
 
 faileil,' lie said at lenf:;th. ' She has been traced to 
 London, and they hold out strong hopes at Scotland 
 Yard that they may speedily find her. I could 
 do nothing more than leave the matter in their 
 hands, so I have come back.' 
 
 * Who is this woman who has taken our treasure 
 from us, Hubert ? Tell me about her. The 
 mystery and the misery of it all are eating into my 
 heart. Tell me now.* 
 
 She drew him over to the fire, she made him sit 
 down in an easy-chair, and drawing a stool close to 
 it, sat down at his feet, and folded her pale hands 
 on his knee. In all these actions there was a 
 confidence and trust, an unsuspecting and innocent 
 tenderness, which smote him to the heart. Poor 
 child, the shadows had as yet only whispered 
 themselves to her heart. Soon, soon enough they 
 would darkly fall. 
 
 * Rosamond Vane, you called her, Hubert. Why 
 should she take our child from us ? ' she asked, with 
 her innocent eyes fixed wildly on his face. ' Tell 
 me what you know.' 
 
 * You do not know the task you have set me, 
 Adelaide, but I will tell you. I will keep nothing 
 i)ack, and leave you to judge, and condemn nie if 
 you will,' said Hubert Westray, passing his hand 
 wearily across his brow. * It was at Oxford that I 
 firet "^aw Rasanroud Vane, and that is ten jtars ago 
 
 i; i!"i 
 
 !' 
 
 ■ M 
 
 - » i4 
 
 !L. i 
 
 I' 
 
 1 1 
 
 
m 
 
 42 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 i ! >l 
 
 nay, it will be twelve in tiie summer since the clay 
 her eyes ensnared me first. She was a handsome 
 girl, Adelaide, with Spanish blood and Spanish fire 
 in her veins. Her mother had been a popular 
 singer in her time, and liosamond had inherited 
 from her a fine voice, but it had never been 
 properly trained, or she might have attained to 
 some eminence as a singer. They earned a 
 precarious and oftentimes scanty livelihood at the 
 places of amusement in the town. liosamond's 
 handsome appearance and fine voice were often in 
 requisition, and she was generally sure of a 
 temporary engagement with almost every manage- 
 ment that came to the theatres. I beli^'ve she had 
 many a chance offered her to rise in the profession, 
 but she seemed to prefer her untrammelled easy 
 existence, and so refused them all. All the 
 students of a certain set knew Kosamond Vane, and 
 many a precious hour was lost — ay, and a great 
 deal of money spent — in dancing attendance on 
 the handsome singer. She was a born coquette, 
 but she could keep them all at a distance. She 
 took their gifts and let them spend thei^' money 
 on her, but she never encouraged one more than 
 another. It was Wilmot, Adelaide, who first intro- 
 duced me to Ko'^iamond Vane. Up till that time 
 I had been a diligent student, caring little for the 
 frivolities arid follies in which so many of the 
 
 fel 
 I cj 
 
 rail 
 siiij 
 a f| 
 
 (hxi 
 it 
 
 j'i' 
 
A Second Sorroiv, 
 
 43 
 
 fellows indulged ; but after I saw Rosamond VaiK? 
 I did no more work. She, and she alone, was the 
 cause of my [,'radnating with such poor credit. I 
 su])pose I must have fallen in love with her, after 
 a fashion, for I can remember yet how I used to 
 dream of her by day aud night. It was not love, 
 it was a mad pass'm which could not last. Ay, 
 you hide your face, my wife, and well you may. 
 Perhaps when all is told, you will not let me call 
 you wife again. 
 
 * A great calamity befell me, Adelaide. Rosamond 
 Vane learned to care for me, as such undisciplined, 
 fiery natures do, with a fierce and all-absorbing 
 love, which would seek to sweep everything before 
 it. While my own infatuation lasted, I found it 
 very pleasant to be so much to her, but soon, very 
 soon, I began to weary, and to wish that I had not 
 been so foolish as to pay any attention to her. I 
 had promised to marry her, and though it was only 
 a jest, for I knew how utterly impossible it would be 
 for me to take such a step in my father's lifetime 
 at least, she took it terribly in earnest. I had only 
 llirted a little with her, Adelaide, and had never 
 said half as much as many fellows had said to her; 
 but the difference was that she believed what I said, 
 because she was so terribly in earnest herself. She 
 would not let me break off our engagement, as she 
 persisted in calling it, and at length, sick of my 
 
 
 "r;! 
 
 :i 
 
 
 n 
 
 
44 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 :i . I 
 
 chains and of her, I told her it would be impossible 
 for me ever to marry her, and that I was wry 
 sorry if she had been led to believe it. That is the 
 way men speak now when they have been guilty of 
 that grave sin, playing with a woman's heart. For 
 poor Iiosamond Vane had a heart in spite of her 
 coquettish, foolish ways, and unfortunately she had 
 given it to me. Well, I broke off with her, but 
 she persecuted me with letters and coming to my 
 rooms, until I was obliged to speak very strongly to 
 her ; and then, when she saw I was in earnest, that 
 I cared nothing for her, she turned upon me. I 
 shall never forget her as she looked then, magnificent 
 in her wrath. She told me she would watch me : 
 that so long as I remained unmarried she would 
 leave me unmolested, but directly I took a wife she 
 bade me beware. I laughed at her, not knowing, 
 fool that I was, what " fury hath a woman scorned." 
 Some yeais went by, and I remembered no more 
 aViout her. Otlier interests occupied me ; my 
 father died, I became the master here, and then, 
 Adelaide, I met you. You know the rest — you 
 know what revenge Rosamond Vane has taken for 
 the wrong I did her. It was a wrong, Adelaide, 
 to win her love and then cast it aside, as I did. I 
 have tried to excus*^. myself often by telling myself 
 others have done it, that it is thought lightly of, 
 \)ut uot latterly. Since I have known and loved 
 
A Second Sorrow, 
 
 45 
 
 no more 
 
 you, my darling, you have taught me many things 
 you have shown me in yourself what is noble and 
 true and good, and so my sin has weighed upon me 
 until it grew so heavy I could scarcely bear it. My 
 wife, can you forgive me, or must T lose you too ? 
 I am a man of few words, but this is a matter of 
 life and death to me.' 
 
 Adelaide Westray had her face hidden in both 
 her hands. She sat very still, the heaving of her 
 breast was scarcely perceptible, what she was 
 suffering at the moment even he could not guess. 
 Ah, it is a cruel thing to have the idol we have 
 worshipped shattered at our feet, leaving us desolate 
 among the ruins of a pride and joy that was. 
 Earth holds no more bitter pain than that. But 
 she had not shrunk away from him, the folds of her 
 dress still touched him, the golden head was so near 
 that with a motion he could have laid it on his 
 breast, only he did not dare. 
 
 * If she loved you, I forgive her,* she whispered 
 at length, without revealing her face. 
 
 * You have forgiveness for her, Adelaide. What 
 have you for me .? * he asked, in an intense whisper ; 
 and there shone on his haggard face a gleam of 
 fitful joy and hope. 
 
 * I must not judge, Hubert,' she whispered. * You 
 were very cruel to her, but you have never been so 
 to me, and I am your wife.' 
 
 » I 
 
 'i'l 
 
 'X%^ 
 
 
 ■\ t. 
 
 t 
 
 i iH 
 
 li 
 
46 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 She crept to his side, and he touk her to his 
 heart af,'ain, and his heavy tears fell upon lier head. 
 
 ' Perhaps if I could see her, Hubert,' said Adelaide 
 Westray, in her gentle, pitying voice, * I could soften 
 her heart. Oh, I am sure I could — poor Iiosamond 
 Vane. If they find her, Hubert, we must not let 
 them punish her. We must remember how she has 
 been tried, and be very gentle with her. I am 
 quite sure she never thought how cruel and terrible 
 a thing it was to take away a little child from its 
 mother.* 
 
 So Adelaide Westray's innate unselfishness and 
 generous sweetness came to the surface even in that 
 hour of deep pain. For the story her husband had 
 just told her had for her its own peculiar sting. He 
 felt himself humbled in her eyes, he stood shame- 
 facedly before her purity and nobleness of soul. But 
 the master of West Court was happier then than he 
 had been for many years. His broken vows and 
 faithlessness to Eosamond Vane had long hung like 
 a millstone about his neck. 
 
' to his 
 
 er head. 
 
 Vdeluide 
 
 d soften 
 
 )samond 
 
 not let 
 
 she has 
 
 I am 
 
 terrible 
 
 from its 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE FINAL BLOW. 
 
 I \y 
 
 
 less and 
 1 in that 
 and had 
 He 
 shame- 
 ul. But 
 than he 
 )ws and 
 ung like 
 
 expense was spared, nor any trouble 
 grudged by the detectives in whose 
 hands Sir Hubert Westray had placed 
 his case. But the days wore on, lengthening them- 
 selves into weeks, until a month went by, and there 
 was no clue found to the lost heir. Eosamond Vane 
 must have been an exceptionally clever woman, for 
 slie ballled Scotland Yard completely. What had 
 tliese interminable weeks been to the bereft parents ? 
 What of the young mother, whose lirst-bc^n son had 
 been so suddenly carried, as by an invisible hand, 
 beyond her vision or ken ? We will ;-3e. On a 
 sweet, mild, exquisite March afternoon, a young girl, 
 with her hat swinging over her arm, her long fair 
 hair crowned with a wreath of primroses, came 
 singing through the West Court woods, as if there 
 were no such thing as care in the wide world. 
 
 47 
 
 mi 
 
 t i 
 
 ii 
 
 ilf 
 
 1 
 
 'Hi 
 
 It 
 
48 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 Few cares indeed had cis yet fallen to the share 
 of Flon^nee Courtney, although she was never out 
 of schoolroom scrapes, and was generally under 
 the han of parental displeasure. But such small 
 troubles sat lightly on the heart of the young girl, 
 and her sunshiny face and merry black eyes were 
 index sullicicnt to her happy disposition. 
 
 Florence had walked all the way from Alderley, a 
 distance of five miles by wood and hill and meadow, 
 but she was not fatigued, and had found the stroll 
 one very much to her mind. The main object of it 
 was to see her sister, of whom she was passionately 
 fond ; and she had also not been at all reluctant to 
 play truant from her music lesson, although she 
 knew well enough that a double portion and a 
 penance of practising would be the price she would 
 have to pay for her stolen pleasure. 
 
 Adelaide's marriage had been a very real grit if to 
 Florence Courtney. She did not at all approve of 
 it, nor of the husband she had chosen. Sir Hubert 
 Westray was about the only person in the world 
 who could make Florence uncomfortable. In his 
 presence she felt herself to be a tall, gawky girl, 
 whose clothes did not fit and whose hair was un- 
 tidy, and who was of no use or account to anybody 
 except as an eyesore. Her animal spirits were 
 checked by his dignity and reserve ; and, besides 
 feeling plain and aw^kward, she was also miserably 
 
^he Final Blow. 
 
 49 
 
 share 
 
 er out 
 
 under 
 
 small 
 
 g girl 
 is were 
 
 irley, a 
 eadow, 
 3 stroll 
 ct of it 
 3nately 
 tant to 
 ^h she 
 and a 
 would 
 
 ^rit'i to 
 
 rove of 
 
 Hubert 
 
 world 
 
 In his 
 
 ky girl, 
 
 /■as un- 
 
 nybody 
 
 s were 
 
 besides 
 
 Lserably 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 m 
 
 3 
 
 conscious of beinf^ unutterably stupid. In tlu^se 
 circumstances it need not bo wondered at that 
 Florence did not j)ay many visits to West Court. 
 How Adelaide had ever learned to like Sir Ilultert 
 well enough to go, of her own free will, and live 
 with him, was to Florence Courtney one of the 
 problems of life. 
 
 It was about four o'clock when she emerged from 
 the thicker shadow of the woods and crossed the park 
 to the avenue. Before going up to the house, she 
 smoothed her tumbled hair witli Jier hatids, tied on 
 Iier hat, pinned up a rent the bramble briars had torn 
 in her frock, and drew on a pair of worn, torn gloves. 
 In spite of these little efibrts, she knew she was 
 not tidy, or even presentable ; but she did not know 
 that her face was as fresh and as sweet as a daisy, 
 her whole appearance winning and attractive in 
 the extreme. Some day Florence Courtney would 
 be a lovely woman, the fairest of Squire Courtney's 
 daughters. 
 
 She was wondering how she would frame a digni- 
 fied request to Harvey, should that august individual 
 happen to answer her summons at the door, when 
 she suddenly caught sight of Adelaide at the drawing- 
 room window nodding to her with somethincr like the 
 old sweet smile. And as the hall door was open, and 
 there was nobody to be seen, Florence made a rush 
 upstairs, and found her way to the drawing-room. 
 
 :if 
 
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 ^^^ ' 'i' 
 
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 ■PHP-'i 
 
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 1 
 
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 ^ 
 
 ■ ^ . 
 
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 l-l: 
 
 
 
 
50 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 ' I am so glad you saw me, Addie/ she said, giving 
 her sister a warm liiig. * It's an awful trial to me to 
 meet Harvey. If I had millions upon millions of 
 money, I'd never have a man-servant of any kind in 
 the house. They always look as if they were doing 
 you an immense favour to remain in the house, and 
 seem to regard all the inmates from a lofty pinnacle 
 of scorn. There, Addie, am not I improving ? I 
 am sure that was a One expression, and fitted in 
 beautifullv.' 
 
 Adelaide smiled, and laid her fair white hand 
 caressingly on her sister's tumbled hair. 
 
 * It is like a gleam of sunshine to see you, Flossie. 
 Did you know I was alone to-day ? ' 
 
 * 1^0, are you ? I'm so glad. No, I did not know. 
 I just took a pining, Adelaide, and ran off. Is Sir 
 Hubert not at home ? ' 
 
 Never by any chance did Florence fail to prefix 
 the title to her brother-in-law's name. 
 
 ' No, he has gone to London,' answered I-ady 
 Westray, and then she turned a little away and 
 looked out of the window. 
 
 Florence felt a lump in her throat, and in 
 trying to get rid of it, burst into a sobbing fit. 
 
 ' I can't help it, Addie, but it is so awful to come 
 here and not see Bertie. Oh, do you think they will 
 never find him ? ' 
 
 * I am afraid not,' Adelaide aiiswered, in that 
 
The Fmal Blow, 
 
 51 
 
 quiet, still, self-possessed way in which she always 
 spoke of her child. 
 
 Hers was a strange grief ; it made no sign, it had 
 dry eyes while others wept, but all the while it was 
 doing its sure work upon her. Already her gowns 
 hung loosely on her figure, her rings slipped off her 
 fingers unawares, there was no bloom upon her 
 cheek, no brightness in her eye — only a settled and 
 melancholy calm, which told of a laden heart. 
 
 * Is mamma quite well, Flossie ? ' she asked, after 
 the girl's sobbing had somewhat subsided. 
 
 * Not quite so well to-day, and papa is so cross 
 and so grumpy I could hardly live. Oh, Addie, why 
 did you go away from Alderley ? There's nobody 
 to help me or love me since you went away.' 
 
 * Hush, dear, that is not a way to speak. It is 
 your own fault if you are not happy,' said Lady 
 Westray gently. * No doubt life sometimes seems a 
 little hard to you because you don't just get all you 
 would like. Some day, my darling, you will wonder, 
 looking back, and perhaps think these little troubles 
 blessings in comparison with the cares which come 
 with later life.' 
 
 * Adelaide, aren't you just twenty-two ? ' Florence 
 asked quickly. 
 
 ' Very little more, Flossie. Why do you ask ? ' 
 ' I thought you must be about fifty, you look so 
 old. I shall never marry, Addie, I am quite sure.* 
 
 r 
 
 m 
 
 I i 
 
 I 
 
 I ; 
 
 
 V 
 
 ^ H 
 
 t, 
 
 ■i-'l 
 
 = .11 
 
 t : i 
 
52 
 
 A Vexed InJieritance, 
 
 * I am not, though/ said Adelaide, with that slight 
 sweet sndle which could Hit across her face even yet. 
 * I hope you will. It is the happiest life, dear.' 
 
 * Is it really, though ?' Florence leaned her elbows 
 on her knees, her chin on her hands, and fixed 
 her round, big eyes wonderingly on her sister's face. 
 
 * There is no doubt about it. But you are too 
 young to be talking of such things. Kun away 
 upstairs, and take off' your things. Then we'll have 
 tea together, and I wane to hear how you are getting 
 on with your music' 
 
 * Do you play the piano just now, Addie ? * 
 
 * Yes. I must do something, Flossie. If I am idle 
 a moment, I feel desperate,' answered Adelaide. 
 
 Then Florence stole very softly away, awed by 
 her sister's look and tone. She had had experiences 
 and sorrows of which Florence knew nothing — 
 which she could not even understand. And it 
 seemed to the child as if a strange, wide gulf 
 was between them now ; and that, though love 
 still existed, they could never be very near to 
 each other any more. She took off" her things in 
 her sister's dressing-room, and, before going back, 
 ra^i up to the nursery-floor, her heart yearning 
 hungrily and painfully for the child, whom she 
 had veritably worshipped. He had loved her too. 
 He had been wont to clap his baby hands in glee 
 at sight of her winsome face, and many a frolic 
 
The Final Blow. 
 
 53 
 
 he 
 
 had she gone through for his amusement. But it 
 was all over now. She only peeped into the 
 desolate chamber, and at sight of the empty cot, 
 and the cold, cheerless aspect of the place, she ran 
 off again, sobbing as if her heart would break. 
 
 ' When does Sir Hubert come home, Addie ? ' she 
 asked, when they were at tea. 
 
 ' Not till eight. I think you had better remain at 
 "West Court all night, Flossie. I shall send Bennett 
 over with a note forniamma, and you can be driven 
 home in time for your lessons in the morning.* 
 
 * I'd like to, but I believe papa would whip me. 
 He's awful angry with me just now, because I took 
 out Cherry and rode her into West borough just for 
 a frolic. Oh, didn't she fly ! * 
 
 ' I don't wonder he was angry, Flossie ; you 
 might have been killed. Isn't Cherry papa's best 
 mare, too ? You might have damaged her.' 
 
 ' No, she's as quiet as a lamb. You should have 
 seen them stare in Westborough. I met Clifford 
 Westray on his way home from school. You should 
 have seen how he looked. It was his mother who told 
 papa, or he'd never have known I had Cherry out. 
 I don't think she's a nice woman, do you, Addie ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know her very well, dear,' was all the 
 answer that Lady Westray gave. 
 
 ' I like Clifford Westray. He's good fun. Mamma 
 took me to call at Rathmere one Saturday a while 
 
 
 III:! 
 
 t f 
 
 ! " 
 
 i'ii 
 
 n't 
 
 M 
 
 m 
 
 ■ \ 
 
 - \ 
 
 t 
 
 it 
 
 ■ ■ 1:1 
 
 It 11 
 
 » 
 
54 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 ago, and Clifford showed me round. He's awfully 
 clever, they say ; the best boy in Westborough 
 Grammar School.' 
 
 ' He is a handsome lad ; very like his mother.' 
 
 ' Oh, he's far nicer, though. You don't eat any- 
 thing, Adelaide. Do have some of this delicious 
 cake. Do you know what Clifford "Westray said 
 about you ? — that you were the loveliest woman he 
 ever saw. When he said that, I was chums with 
 him ; because, you know, I think so too.' 
 
 It was impossible not to be amused and interested 
 by the child's lively chatter, and Adelaide Westray 
 was thankful for her company. After tea they had 
 a pleasant walk together through the woods ; then, 
 in the gloaming, Florence, obedient to her sister's 
 request, played what she knew. It was a curious 
 selection, but she had an exquisite touch and a 
 wonderful ear; though she hated the drudgery 
 of her music. Her governess was hard put to it 
 to keep her in bounds ; it was difficult to con- 
 vince Florence that the only way to become an 
 accomplished musician was by attei^ding to the 
 drudgery first. It was so easy and delightful 
 to play everything by ear : so hard to bring one's 
 fingers into subjection to scales and exercises. 
 
 As the evening wore on, a visible restlessness 
 took possession of Lady Westray. She had not told 
 Florence that Sir Hubert had gone to London in 
 
The Final Blow. 
 
 55 
 
 ;s 
 
 answer to a communication received that morning 
 from Scotland Yard. They fancied they liad a clue 
 to Eosamond Vane, and they wished to see him before 
 following it up. 
 
 At half-past seven Bennett drove the dog-cart 
 down to Westborough to meet the eight o'clock 
 train. An hour passed, and there was no sign of 
 his return. Lady "VVestray was now almost in a 
 fever of excitement, which Florence shared. 
 
 Their anxiety was growing almost intolerable 
 when the dog-cart was again driving up to the door. 
 Lady Westray, closely followed by Florence, went 
 downstairs, expecting to meet her husband. But 
 Bennett was there alone, and there was something 
 in his face which boded ill news. 
 
 * Has Sir Hubert not come with this train, 
 Bennett ? ' 
 
 * No, my lady. The train is not in. It won't be,' 
 he said confusedly. * There has been an accident — 
 a collision on the other side of Westborough, near 
 Carlin Junction. Oh, my lady, I wish anybody but 
 me could deliver this message.' 
 
 * There have been lives lost — Sir Hubert — ? ' 
 exclaimed Adelaide Westray, as pale as death. 
 
 * Yes, my lady. He is badly hurt. A telegram 
 came while I was at the station, and I have come 
 back to drive you to him. He is lying at the hotel 
 at Carlin Station.' 
 
 I'. 
 
 
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 !f H 
 
 1 il 
 
 ' \ 
 
 i I ( 
 
 !: 
 
 ill 
 
 i 
 
 
 ) 
 
 r 
 
CHAPTEK V. 
 
 THE KATIIMERE WESTRAY3. 
 
 'EAKFAST was just over at Eathmere. 
 The younger children had left the table, 
 c^TTcrr-iSy but Airs. Eobert Westray was still in her 
 place at the liead, and her husband, with a cup of 
 cold coffee beside his plate, was deep in the newly 
 cut pages of the Spectator. It was a Saturday 
 niornin<^-, and Clifford was at home. He was stand- 
 ing in the low, old-fashioned window, his hands 
 thrust into his pockets, his face wearing at that 
 moment a vexed and gloomy look. It was seldom 
 a cloud dwelt on Clifford Westray's face. He was 
 by nature lunny - hearted, sweet - tempered, and 
 amiable. Every one loved Clifford Westray ; he had 
 more chums than any boy in Westborough Grammar 
 School ; the juniors especially looked up to him 
 with a species of loving adoration. He was a fine 
 
 ft 6 
 
The Rathmere West rays. 
 
 57 
 
 specimen of young England, tall, lithe of limb, and 
 strong of muscle ; but he was not a Westray. 
 There was no likeness in him to his pale, delicate, 
 nervous father ; he was undoubtedly his mother's 
 son, they said, but it was in outward appearance 
 alone. Mrs. Robert Westray was a woman who 
 made idols of herself and children, and who had no 
 interest or sympathies beyond her own household 
 and her own ambitions. For she had been a very 
 ambitious, as she was now a thoroughly disappointed 
 woman. She was well connected, and had made a 
 foolish marriage — foolish, at least, from a worldly 
 and practical point of view. Eobert Westray, 
 though a scion of a very old family, was only the 
 second son, and as such possessed of very limited 
 means. Then he was not calculated to push his 
 way in the world, being of a studious, shrinking 
 nature, devoted to books and literary pursuits of a 
 kind which, though engrossing, were not at all 
 profitable from a pecuniary point of view. 
 
 The house of Rathmere, a quaint, old-fashioned 
 residence, with a few acres of ground about it, had 
 fallen to Mrs. Westray as her share of her father's 
 possessions. So they had a good roof-tree above 
 them, and there Mrs. Westray fretted and schemed 
 and planned, face to face with that hard problem — 
 the upbringing of a well-born family on strictly 
 limited means. 
 
 vk 
 
 \ i 
 
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 1 ) 
 
 
 
 
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 K 
 
 ] 
 
 M 
 
 .'».■» 
 
 I7 
 
 >4 
 
 »;i 
 
 ^^M 
 
 ■ i. I 
 
S8 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 ' Instead of turning up your nose, ClifTord, you 
 sliould be very thankful for the offer of such a 
 chance/ she said, glancing with some severity to- 
 wards her son. * You are old enough to understand 
 the state of matters here. It is time you were turn- 
 ing your attention towards making a livelihood for 
 yourself.' 
 
 * There is no hurry, is there, Eleanor ? ' asked 
 Mr. Westray, looking mildly over the piiges of his 
 paper. * Clifford can surely jBnish th'i term at 
 school.' 
 
 Mrs. Westray curled her lip, and it gave to her 
 handsome face a singularly unpleasant expression. 
 
 ' Clifford may finish his term at school, and then 
 the chance may be gone, Mr. Westray,' she said 
 briefly. 
 
 * I shall certainly write to Mr. Eichards to-day, 
 accepting his offer.' 
 
 * Then I have had my last day at school, 
 mamma ? ' asked Clifford, with outward quiet ; but, 
 oh, how the quick, warm, boyish feelings were 
 rebelling within ! 
 
 ' Yes,' was his mother's curt retort, and she took 
 up an open letter on the table and fixed her eyes 
 upon it. But she did not read a word. If 
 Clifford rebelled at the thought of the office stool 
 in a Liverpool shipowner's establishment, she 
 resented it yet the more. Eleanor Westray was a 
 
The RatJunere Westrays, 
 
 59 
 
 proud woman, and she almost worshipped her first- 
 born son. But it was with a stranc^^e, self-contained, 
 undemonstrative love, which found no vent in 
 tender words or gentle acts. Clidbrd Westray had 
 never been accustomed to motherliness in his 
 mother. But the deep, passionate love was there, 
 and she would have laid down her life for aim at 
 any moment. 
 
 *I only wish I had the chance, Cliff!' said 
 Clara, who had chanced to enter the room, and had 
 overheard part of the conversation. * You should 
 be glad to get away from this wretched, dreary place.' 
 
 Clara Westray was a pretty, slender girl of 
 fifteen, giving promise of some beauty in later 
 years. She was a different being from Clifford, 
 being selfish, indolent, and shallow-hearted — not at 
 all a lovable child. There were very many dis- 
 cordant elements in the household at Kathmere, and 
 the Westrays were not a very happy family. 
 Clifford made no reply. His shadowed eyes were 
 roamincj across the wide stretch of wood and field 
 which lay between Bathmere and West Court. He 
 could see the belt of trees which indicated where 
 the policy began, and as he looked a deep yearning 
 filled them. Of what was he thinking ? Was he 
 picturing to himself what his lot might have been 
 had he been heir to those wide lands ? No such 
 thought had ever whispered itself to the lad's noble 
 
 l#i!;il 
 
 M 
 
 1 \A 
 
 ill 
 
6o 
 
 A Vexed Inlicntance, 
 
 soul ; ho was only longing for a little talk with 
 * Aunt Adelaide/ as he called the sweet, gentle girl 
 who was his uncle's wife. At that moment Clifford 
 Westray was in sore need of sympathy, of some 
 word of kindly help, to make the pathway of duty 
 seem less hard. He had one desire in life at that 
 moment, and one only, but it was enough to absorb 
 his whole soul. It was to continue at school until 
 it was time for him to go to college to perfect himself 
 there as a scliolar. He felt the stirrings of genius 
 in him ; he knew that with an ordinary chance he 
 could make his mark in life. And here it was all 
 over. He must leave school at sixteen, and, tramp- 
 ling his day-dreams for ever under foot, bring him- 
 self down to the everyday level of a working life. 
 And not that only : he must strive to be grateful 
 to his mother's kinsman, who had taken thought for 
 him and offered him the place for which dozens 
 would gladly have paid a premium. 
 
 ' There's somebody riding at break-neck pace 
 along the Westborough Eoad,' he said presently, as 
 if glad of something to divert his thoughts. * Just 
 look at that animal, Clara. It was just like that 
 little Florence Courtney was riding when I met her. 
 How would you like to be flying through the air 
 like that ? ' 
 
 * Not at all. I don't wonder Flo Courtney's 
 fatlier was angry,' said Clara, in her prim, languid 
 
■u 
 
 The Rathmerc West rays. 
 
 6i 
 
 fashion. ' When I ride, Cli fiord, I sliall ride like 
 a lady, not like a jockey. Why — isn't that man 
 coming up our lane ? * 
 
 * Yes, and it's one of the West Court grooms. 
 Something must he up,' said CliOord excitedly ; 
 and, without more ado, he opened the window and 
 vaulted into the garden, meeting tlie groom just 
 as he reined his reeking steed at the door. 
 
 * Good morning, Mr. Clilt'ord,' said the man ; and 
 though the lad did not notice it, there was a respect- 
 ful courtesy in his manner whirli West C(jurt 
 servants did not always pay towards the family at 
 Eathmere. ' liad news this morning.' 
 
 'What about, Bennett? lias anything happened 
 to my lost cousin ? ' 
 
 * No, no ; worse than that, Mr. Clifford. Haven't 
 you heard of the railway accident at Carlin Junction 
 last night ? ' 
 
 * No ; we never hear anything here. What 
 
 about it ? ' 
 
 * Good morning, Mrs. Westray,' said Bennett, 
 
 touching his hat to the lady, who appeared at 
 the door ; then he looked very keenly at her as he 
 continued — * I have bad news, ma'am. There has 
 been a railway accident at Carlin ; it hapj)ened to 
 the eight down train, by which Sir Hubert travelled 
 from London.' 
 
 * And has he been injured ? * 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 11 
 
 
 I ■ 
 •ti fl 
 
62 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 ^frs. Wostrny's fuce j^n-w a sliado paler as she 
 jiskt'd the (question, but wlu'llicr with appiehuiisioii 
 or expectation it was diiruult to tell. 
 
 ' Yes, iiiji'am ; so seriously, that he died tliis 
 morning before five o'clock. He was at the Station 
 Hotel, and was not able to be moved.' 
 
 'What is that ?' asked Mr. Westray's hesitating 
 voice, as he appeared behind his wife. 'Did I hear 
 him say somebody hud died at the Station Hotel?* 
 
 ' Yes ; there has been an accident on the railway 
 at Carlin Junction, ^Ir. Westray,' his wife answered, 
 and pushed past him on her way back to the dining- 
 room. For it had Hashed ujjon her all in a moment 
 what changes this one death would bring, and she 
 felt as if she must be alone. 
 
 * Has any one been killed ? ' asked I\Ir. AVestray, 
 looking from the groom to Clifford in a vague ques- 
 tioning way. He was always like a man waking 
 out of a dream, and the ordinary affairs of life 
 possessed no interest for him, 
 
 * Yes, sir,* answered Bennett, with a respectful 
 touch to his hat. 
 
 * Uncle Hubert, papa,* broke in Clifford trem- 
 blingly. * He says Uncle Hubert has been killed in 
 the accident.* 
 
 * Oh, impossible ! I saw him the day before 
 yesterday. The man must be dreaming,' said 
 liobert Westray, quite sharply for him. 
 
The Rathmcre IVestrays, 
 
 63 
 
 'T nm sorry to say it is qiiito true, sir/ said Ben- 
 nett. ' I'iuly Wcsti'iiy lias been with him all nij^fht. 
 lie died this morning at twenty minutes to five.' 
 
 liobert Westray passed his hand across his hrow 
 in a dazed, uncertain fashion. He found it dillicult 
 to eomi)rehend the man's meaning, though his words 
 were clear and unmistakable enough. 
 
 'Hubert dead! It om't be, ClifTord/ he said 
 again. 'Why, he was as hale and heaity a man on 
 Thursday as you or 1 to-day.' 
 
 'Yes, but he has been killed, papa,* said Clifford, 
 and, turning his liead swiftly away, he burst into 
 tears. Clillbrd's feelings were warm and quick and 
 impulsive, and with his Uncle Hubert he had been 
 an especial favourite. 
 
 * Lady "Westray sent me to tell you, sir,' continued 
 Bennett ; ' and she will be glad if you can come to 
 West Court later in the day. Can I take any 
 message to her ladyship ? ' 
 
 ' Eh, message ? — no. I don't know. Hubert 
 killed ! Dear me, I can't realize it. Tell Lady 
 Westray I shall con>e when I've got accustomed to 
 the idea. Bless me, Clifford, this is an awful tiling. 
 Your poor Aunt Adelaide will be quite prostrated. 
 Poor thing, she has had so much to bear of late.' 
 
 Seeing there was no hope of a further message, 
 Bennett rode away again, and llobert Westray 
 re-entered the house. 
 
 ;^lj 
 
 w i 
 
 *'r, 
 
 
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 A 
 
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 64 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 \ \ 
 
 * Are you there, Eleanor ? Isn't this a terrible 
 thing ? * he said to his wife. ' I can't realize it. 
 Hubert dead ! Aren't you shocked ? * ^ 
 
 *Very much so. It is very unexpected/ an- 
 swered Mrs. Westray, her voice low, but neither 
 grieved nor sympathetic. Strange thoughts were 
 in her heart at that moment ; selfish interests had 
 her in their bondage. 
 
 * I must go over to "West Court. Adelaide has 
 sent for me. You had better come too, Eleanor.* 
 
 * No, I shall not go to-day. Tell Adelaide I am 
 deeply grieved, and that I will come soon. It will 
 he no kxudness, believe me, to intrude upon her 
 just now. She will be terribly upset.* 
 
 *Ay, poor thing — coming on the back of her 
 other loss, she will find it hard to bear. What is 
 it Sliakspeare says ? — 
 
 "When sorrows come, thoy come not single spies, 
 But in battalions." 
 
 So it has proved with her. Hubert dead ! I cavHt 
 realize it, Eleanor.* 
 
 * It is evidently too true. One never knows what 
 is to happen next. Where is Clifford ? Not away 
 to West Court, I hope. It would be quite like him 
 to rush off on the impulse of the moment.* 
 
 * No, I left him crying at the door. He seems 
 to feel it very much. He has always been a 
 favourite at West Court,' said Ptobert Westray. * 1 
 
The Rathmere Westrays, 
 
 65 
 
 am very sorry for that poor girl, Eleanor. She is 
 only a child — and to be so left ! It is unspeakably 
 sad. I really think I shall go over just now. What 
 do you think ? ' 
 
 * Please yourself, Mr. Westray ; only it might he 
 well to wait a little. It might look as if you were 
 in haste to assert your claim.' 
 
 * What claim ? ' 
 
 * Your claim to West Court. You are the next- 
 of-kin. Unless tlie child be found, and it is hardly 
 likely now, you will be master of West Court.' 
 
 * You are quite right, Eleanor. I never thought 
 of that,' said Kobert Wcstray, looking more than ever 
 like a man in a dream. ' I do hope the child will 
 be found, for the mother's sake as well as for its own. 
 I hope I shall never be master of West Court. 1 
 should not like to step into my brother's shoes, and 
 turn his wife out of West Court. It is heartless of 
 us, I think, even to be speaking of such a possibility. 
 Hubert dead ! Dear me, it seems impossible.' 
 
 He walked away out of the room, rubbing his 
 hands slowly together, his pale face wearing a vexed 
 and puzzled look. His wife sat still, witli her 
 hands folded on her lap, thinking her own thoughts. 
 Presently Clifford entered the room, his eyes swollen 
 with weeping, his lips still quivering with grief. 
 
 ' ^lamma, isn't this an awful thing ? Poor Aunt 
 Adelaide.' 
 
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 \ %^-^ I 
 
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 vV. 
 
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66 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
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 I '. ! 
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 ' It is bad, Clifford ; but it can't be helped, and 
 there is no use making such a noise about it. 
 Things as bad, or worse, have befallen others besides 
 your Aunt Adelaide.' 
 
 Clifford walked over to the window and held his 
 peace. 
 
 ' Pon't go out of the way, Clifford,' his mother 
 said, rising as she spoke. ' I have some letters to 
 write, which you must take to Westborough. I 
 must answer James Eichards' letter to-day.' 
 
 * What will you say, mamma ? Am I to go 
 next week ? ' the lad asked, his thoughts diverted 
 for a moment from West Court and its stricken 
 inmates. 
 
 'There need be no hurry in going, or even in 
 accepting now, Clifford. This unfortunate thing 
 may change the current of all our lives. I shall 
 write ambiguously to James IJicliards.* 
 
 * I don't understand you, mother.' 
 
 ' Then you ought to. Unless the child is found, 
 your aunt cannot remain where she is. You will 
 be heir to West Court, Clifford.' 
 
 Up rose the hot blood to Clifford's cheek, and 
 dyed it red. His soul revolted at his mother's 
 words, at the very idea they presented. Mrs. 
 Westray saw the rising colour and the flashing eye, 
 and before Clifford's hot answer could fall from his 
 lips, she had left the room. 
 
t'!' 
 
 
 ' 11 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 BREAKING THE LAST TIE. 
 
 ^DDIE, I must speak out or I shall die, OT 
 do something dreadful.' 
 
 It was Florence Courtney who thus 
 spoke, and her flushed face and restless eye in- 
 dicated that she was in one of her most wildly 
 excited moods. She had her hat and gloves on 
 when she burst into Lady Westray's dressing-room 
 that April afternoon, both of which she tossed on 
 the floor, and flung herself on her knees beside her 
 sister's couch. 
 
 * What now, Flossie ? * The pale thin hand was 
 laid caressingly as ever on the tumbled hair, the 
 sweet shadowed eyes dwelt kindly as ever on the 
 \il)tiirned eager face. They presented a strong, 
 ahiiost a sad, contrast to each other. Florence 
 with the ruddy hue of health, and all the energy 
 
 67 
 
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 I 
 
 
iiy-n ^•.mmsamitv^ - 
 
 68 
 
 A Vexed hihcritance. 
 
 M 
 
 and spirit of her bright girlhood ahoiit her ; and 
 Adelaide, the new-made widow, a pale, sweet shadow 
 in her mourning robe, looking like a fragile lily, 
 which the slightest breath of wind would break on 
 the stalk. Life during these summer days had 
 become a strange experience to Adelaide Westray. 
 
 * What has happened at Westborough to excite 
 you so, dear ? You should try to keep calm/ she 
 said gently. *Hush, Flossie, don't cry so. My 
 pet, what has vexed you ? ' 
 
 * Do you think it will be true, Adelaide ? Have 
 you really no business to be living here now ? * 
 
 * What do you mean, Florence ? I cannot under- 
 stand nor answer you, unless you speak calmly and 
 tell me collectedly what is troubling you,' said 
 Adelaide, without the least symptom of wonder or 
 excitement. She had borne so much, that few 
 things roused her interest now. 
 
 ' It was in Hopkinson's. I was waiting while 
 they got the music you wanted, and there were 
 two gentlemen talking behind me. I don't know 
 who they were, and I wasn't listening until I heard 
 them speak of West Court,* said Florence, trying to 
 control herself. *Do you know what they were 
 saying, Adelaide ? That it was kind of Eobert 
 W^estray to let you stay on for a while at West 
 Court. And then they said, that as the heir was 
 lost, you would be entitled to very little unless Sir 
 
> 'il-l' 
 
 ii\: 
 
 Breaking the Last Tie. 
 
 69 
 
 Hubert had made a will, and that you would just 
 need to go back to Alderley. I felt so, Adelaide, I 
 just walked up to them and told them who I was, 
 and asked them how they dared talk such nonsense. 
 But they only looked at me pityingly, and walked 
 away out of the shop. Oh, Adelaide, do you think 
 there can be anything in it ? * 
 
 * Yes, Florence, I am afraid therr is a great deal 
 in it,' said Lady Westray, quite still, though a 
 tiny red spot had risen in either cheek. * I knew 
 there must be a change of some kind, Flossie, 
 though I hardly knew what its form would be. 
 They were quite right. Eobert Westray has been 
 very kind, but when people are beginning to discuss 
 his kindness publicly, it is time I bestirred myself. 
 Perhaps I have been doing them all an injustice. 
 I am glad you have told me this, Florence. It will 
 rouse me up. Now, go away for a little, my dear, 
 and let me think this matter out.' 
 
 * But, Addie, it is not right. If you marry a 
 man, don't you get all he has ? ' inquired Florence, 
 who could not at all see the justice of liobert 
 Westray's right to West Court. 
 
 *Xot always, Flossie. I could not explain it to you. 
 It is a very intricate affair,' said Lady Vv'estray. 
 
 ' F>ut, Addie, suppose Bertie should be found — 
 and ho might, you know, even yet — wouldn't that 
 make a difference ? Suppose all the lialhmeie 
 
 
 
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 I 
 
 ■\ 
 
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 MS' 
 
 I 
 
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 1 1 
 
 •1: 
 
70 
 
 A Vexed hihcritance. 
 
 Westrays were here, wouldn't they just need to go 
 away again ? Wouldn't it be better to wait a little 
 while yet, and see ? ' 
 
 * You are troubling me, Flossie. Some other 
 day I will try to explain it all to you/ said Lady 
 Westray, and Florence rose and reluctantly left the 
 room. It was only to wander aimlessly through 
 the liouse, pondering certain things in her mind. 
 Some of life's mysteries and deep sorrows had been 
 revealed to Florence during her four months' stay 
 at West Court, and thus had sobered her not a 
 little. Her passionate love for her sister had made 
 it a joy to her to remain at West Court, and she 
 had never slept a night at Alderley since Sir 
 Hubert's death. It was a quiet, still, sad life 
 for a young girl ; but perhaps that sobering 
 influence was just what Florence needed. She was 
 an unspeakable comfort to Adelaide, who was never 
 too tired or too sad to be troubled with Florence's 
 high spirits and ceaseless flow of girlish talk. 
 
 She was leaning up against the balustrade on the 
 drawing - room landing, meditatively watching the 
 red August sun streaming through the painted 
 window in the staircase, when she heard the door 
 of her sister's room open. 
 
 ' Are you there, Flossie ? * 
 
 'Yes, here,' she answered quickly, and in a 
 moment was at her sister's side. 
 
Breakiu(: the Last Tie. 
 
 71 
 
 ' I am going over to Ivathmere, dear/ Adelaide 
 said. 'You may come witli me if you like.' 
 
 Florence's dark eyes dwelt keenly and doubtfully 
 on her sister's sweet, calm face. 
 
 * What are you going for, Addie ? To tell them 
 to come here ? ' she said, almost sharply. 
 
 * I must see about it. It is quite time,' Adelaide 
 answered ; but she did not tell Florence that she 
 marvelled Robert Westray's wife had been so kind 
 and forbearing with her. She guessed she owed 
 it to Eobert Westray himself. 
 
 * I'd like dearly to go. Will you drive your 
 own ponies, Addie ? ' 
 
 * Scarcely, my dear. You forget how very 
 seldom I have been out of late. We must have 
 the carriage, to close as we come home ; for the 
 dews will be falling then, you know.* 
 
 Florence was slightly disappointed. She did not 
 at all approve of being shut up in a close carriage, 
 especially on a lovely August evening, but she was in 
 a restless mood, when any change would be welcome. 
 
 The sun was setting when they drove up the 
 leafy lane to Eathmere, to find the young Westrays 
 ])laying croquet on the lawn. There were five of 
 tlicm now. Cliflbrd and Clara, Robert and Fred, 
 and little Ella, a blue-eyed mite of fourtvfccn months, 
 just beginning to toddle alone, and to be winning 
 and lovable in the extrem ■. 
 
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 X 
 
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■■ ttMH«mf,mr^-' 
 
 Ml 
 ii 1' 
 
 ! 
 
 72 
 
 A Vexed Inherilaiice. 
 
 Fred, a very fat little lellow, scarcely big enough 
 to handle his mallet, seemed to be enjoying himself 
 immensely, for his round, red face was radiant with 
 glee. It was beautiful to see Clifford's patient, 
 loving kindness with the little ones. He never 
 lost his temper, an t" 1 to keep Clara from 
 scolding, but that was fno -> y task. Directly the 
 carriage was in view, the gamo "'as suspended, and 
 Clifford, recognising the horses before he saw 
 Bennett's solemn face on the box, came forward 
 eagerly, and was standit^g at the carriage door 
 when it stopped, and his aunt looked out. 
 
 * How are you, Clifford ? ' she said, shaking hands 
 with him kindly, and smiling a little into his 
 flushed, boyish face. Clifford's huart was full, and 
 he could only grip the slim hand very firmly in his 
 own, and look the sympathy he could not utter. 
 
 * This is my little sister. I tliink you and she 
 have met before,' said Lady Westray. Florence 
 gave her head a queer little nod. At that moment 
 she felt very suspicious, and not very friendly, 
 towards the household at Eathmere. 
 
 ' Are your father and mother at home ? Ah, 
 there he \^l said Lady Westray, as she stepped 
 from the carringe, and saw IJoliert Westray on the 
 steps at the door. ' How are you, Iiobert ? I have 
 made out my vi:^Mt to Kalhineie at last, you see.' 
 
 * Yes, yes. How do you do ? Don't speak of 
 
 \'\ 
 
Breaking the Last Tie. 
 
 73 
 
 it. My dear Lady Wcstray, we are very glad to 
 see you. Come in, come in/ said liobert West ray, 
 in his fussy, nervous nKunier. 
 
 •Perhaps you would like to stay a little with 
 the young folk, Flossie,' said Lady Westray then, 
 glancing at Florence, who again gave her head a 
 queer little jerk, and then walked over to the grass, 
 where Ella was rolling over and over Dandie, a very 
 fat poodle, who seemed to be enjoying the fun as 
 nnich as the chiM herself. 
 
 ' Oil, you darling, you lovely little pet ! ' she said, 
 folding her arms round the wondering ohild wit' a 
 suddenness and fervour which surprit-ed hersi it. 
 Her heart was like to break at sight of the l)al)y, 
 who reminded her so of that other child she had 
 loved so well. She did not wonder that, after one 
 hasty glance, Adelaide should hurry into the house ; 
 oh, no, she understood it all. 
 
 'Wouldn't you like a game at croquet. Miss 
 Florence ? ' Clifford asked at length. 
 
 ' No, thank you, Fd rather play with baby. But 
 don't mind me. Go on with your game,' said 
 Florence, with a politeness which ;''id not sit 
 awkwardly upon her. 
 
 ' Oh, we were only amusing ourselves ; we could 
 hardly call it playing a game,' said Clifford. ' This 
 is Clara, my sister. You did not see her when you 
 were at Piathmere before.' 
 
 n 
 ■ ( . 
 
 ; 1 
 
 \k\ 
 
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 4 
 
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 ; I* 
 
 iV^^ 
 
74 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 t. •! 
 
 a'. I 
 
 - ' '' 
 
 * No, I only saw you. How do you do ? ' said 
 Florence, risin<^ and shiikuiL,' hands with Clara, who 
 liad been absorbed in contemplation of the stranger's 
 el(!;;antly made frock. 
 
 Dress was already a pass-ion with Clara Westray. 
 ' What a dear baby this is ! I didn't know you 
 had a sister so young. What is her name ? ' 
 
 * Ella,' answered Clifford briefly. 
 
 Somehow he did not feel so much at home with 
 Florence as when they had met before, and had 
 become so friendly in their discussion of dogs and 
 horses and other live stock. 
 
 * Her name is Eleanor Margaret, after mamma. 
 Don't you think it a pity wo have begun to call 
 her Ella ? It is so babyish,' said Clara. 
 
 * It is pretty, I think,' answered Florence, with 
 her arm still tightly round the baby. 
 
 Seeing she was not at all inclined to talk, they 
 went back to their game, and Florence talked to 
 Ella in a language of her own, which the child could 
 understand. Sometimes she glanced wistfully towards 
 the house, wondering what was passing within. 
 
 Eobert Westray ushered his brother's widow into 
 the drawing-room, where his wife sat at her sewing. 
 She had heard the carriage drive up to the door, 
 and, peeping from behind the curtain, had seen who 
 alighted therefrom, but it suited her to remain 
 where she was. They shook hands when they met, 
 
Breaking the Last Tie. 
 
 75 
 
 but did not kiss each other. Eleanor Westray was 
 neither a fussy nor a hypocritical woman, and she 
 had never professed any attacliment for her sister- 
 in-law. Had she been less cold of heart, she must 
 liiive been moved at the sight of the young, slender 
 girl in her widow's weeds, her pale face and anxious, 
 shadowed eyes telling of that desolate hunger of the 
 heart which could not be satisfied this side the grave. 
 
 ' I have been so long in coming, Eleanor/ she 
 said (juietly. * You have been very forbearing and 
 very .kind. I have been roused to-day, by some 
 chance words, from my letliargy ; for, indeed, I 
 have been like one in a dazed sleep. I am very 
 sorry I have kept you from your own so long.' 
 
 * Hush, hush, Adelaide,' said Robert Westray, 
 the sensitive colour rushing to his face. * How can 
 it be ours while you have a child living ? I have 
 never ceased impressing on my wife's mind the 
 probability of Bertie being still alive.* 
 
 Lady Westray's eyes looked for a moment in a 
 kind of gentle wonder upon her sister-in-law's 
 handsome face. These words told a great deal ; 
 and the sensitive colour rose again in Adelaide's 
 pale cheek. 
 
 ' There can be no hope. I have never entertained 
 it from the first,' she said, turning her head and 
 addressing herself exclusively to Eobert. ' The 
 authorities have given up the search. There is no 
 
 I 
 
 \ i» 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 ■ , 
 
 
 
 t 
 
 .l|V 
 
76 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 1 1 
 
 heir to West Court but you. It is tinin you entered 
 on possession now. The soonc^r T <;o the better. 
 I liave been too loii^' scifisli, and tlie people are 
 missing the muster's guichng hiind.' 
 
 She jMiused, and there was a constrained silence. 
 Eleanor Westrny looked stedfastly out of the win- 
 dow, not a muscle of her face moving. lUit her 
 heart was luxating high with exultant ])ride. 
 
 'I wonder you never s])()ke, llobiiit. I would 
 not willingly have usurped your i)lace even for a 
 moment. You see 1 am only a woman, and I have 
 had many sorrows. These I plea 1 as my excuse. 
 They entirely engrossed my thoughts. You will 
 see the solicitors. You will do all that is necessary. 
 You will see me at any time at West Court until 
 I leave it. Don't shake your hcnd, Ilobert. The 
 truest kindness you can do me now will be to get 
 this matter comi)letcly settltd with the utmost 
 speed. 1 shall be h;i])pior niid moie at rest when 
 I am with my motlier at Alderh y.' 
 
 ' I would give my right hand — nay, my life, I 
 believe, Adelaide, if I could restore you the child,' 
 said Iiobert Westray huskily. ' You believe that 
 I have no desire to iill Hubert's shoes, that it will 
 be as great a trial for me to go to West Court as 
 it is for you to leave it ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; you have been, and are, all that is 
 good and kind,' said Lady Westray, somewhat 
 
Breaking the Last Tie. 
 
 77 
 
 Imrriodly, and rising us she spoke. * I need not 
 ])r(»l(»iig this interview. It is somewhat painful for 
 us all. (lood-bye, Eleanor. I wish you happiness 
 at West (.\jurt.* 
 
 'Thank you. Good-hye,' said Eleanor Westray, 
 with a strange abruptness of numner and si)eech. 
 
 Her husband looked at her with a gleam of 
 indignant wonder in his gentle eye, then gave his 
 arm to his sister-in-law to lead her downstairs. 
 She entered the carriage at once, and Floience, 
 after kissing Ella half-a-dozen times, ran to her 
 place. 
 
 Clifford, anxious and miserable-looking, stood by 
 the carriage door with his eyes fixed on his aunt's 
 face. When they were seated, and she had said 
 good-bye to the father, she put up her veil and 
 took the son's hands in hers. 
 
 * Oh, Aunt Adelaide ! * he said quickly, with 
 a sob in his voice, for that look went to his 
 heart. 
 
 She leaned forward, and, just as the horses moved, 
 kissed him on the brow. 
 
 * Good-bye, deu/' ClilTord. I thank God that 
 some day you will be master of West Court.' 
 
 So Adelaide Westray gave up the last of the 
 precious things her marriage had given her. 
 
 Ere many weeks were over, there were great 
 changes, and a new reign bcL'an at West Court. 
 
 ' U 
 
 
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 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SIR CLIFFORD WESTRAY. 
 
 ELL, are we to ask any of the Courtneys 
 xor the eighteenth ? ' 
 
 * Just as you like, mamma. I am 
 not particularly fond of them, but it might look 
 odd not to have them.' 
 
 ' Clifford would be very much disappointed if 
 they weren't asked, I am sure,' said another voice, 
 younger and sweeter and gentler than either of the 
 others. 
 
 * What do you know about it, Ella ? ' said Clara 
 Westray sharply. ' Why should Clifford care a 
 pin whether they are here or not ? ' 
 
 Ella, thus rebuked, coloured slightly and bent 
 her head over her plate. She was a sensitive 
 child, whom a hasty word cut to the heart, and 
 Clara often spoke hastily and harshly ; her temper 
 
 78 
 
 t 
 
Courtneya 
 
 la. I am 
 ight look 
 
 pointed if 
 ther voice, 
 her of the 
 
 Isaid Clara 
 rd care a 
 
 and bent 
 
 sensitive 
 
 lieart, and 
 
 ier temper 
 
 Sir Clifford Westray. 
 
 79 
 
 had not improved with advancing womanhood. 
 
 The mother and two daughters were in the morning 
 
 room at West Court, lingering over a late breakfast. 
 
 Lady Westrny was now widowed, the new master 
 
 of West Court having enjoyed his inlicritance only 
 
 for three brief years. He was scarcely missed, for 
 
 be had carried into his new position his retiring, 
 
 solitary ways, and studious, scholarly habits. His 
 
 clever wife was virtually the head of the house, 
 
 d,nd she handled the reins of government well. 
 
 Those under the West Court sway felt keenly the 
 
 difference betwixt the old reign and the new, and 
 
 there were very many whose hearts' true allegiance 
 
 was still turned towards the sweet, gentle widow of 
 
 Sir Hubert, who had her home in her father's house 
 
 at Alderley. There were very few comings and 
 
 goings between West Court and Alderley. Formal 
 
 calls were periodically exchanged, an occasional 
 
 invitation to dinnev was given and accepted, but 
 
 the intimacy ended there. Lady Eleanor Westray 
 
 was still possessed of a strange, sharp, deep-rooted 
 
 jealousy of Lady Adelaide. There was another 
 
 thing, too, which caused her to regard Alderley 
 
 and its inmates with aversion — but of that more anon. 
 
 * I had better send invitations to Tom and Anna, 
 
 then,' said Lady Westray. ' It is not incumbent 
 
 upon me to ask three out of one family. Our list 
 
 is already too long.' 
 
 i. 
 
 III? 
 
 
 If. 
 
 ! ^ i 
 
 11 
 
 « . -I 
 
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 80 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 ' If you are going to ask any of them, you needn't 
 leave Florence out, though she is a forward thing,' 
 said Clara languidly. * I guess that would make 
 CliObrd mad enough.' 
 
 * Why, pray ? ' asked Lady Westray sharply, 
 though she knew why, alas ! too well. 
 
 * You know Clifford's little weakness as well as I 
 do, mamma,' sidd Clara calmly. ' He worships the 
 whole household at Alderley, notably Florence.' 
 
 * He had a boyish weakness for the girl, but I 
 am sure three years' knocking about the world 
 must have cured him of it, or he would not 
 have stayed so long away,' said Lady Westray 
 contidently. ' She would be no fit wife for Sir 
 Clifford Westray.' 
 
 With what infinite contempt did Lady Westray 
 emphasize the pronoun in the latter part of her 
 s[)eech ! The curl of the lips, the si 1 rug of th(i 
 shoulders, were as unpleasantly characteristic as of 
 yore. 
 
 ' Don't you like Florence, mamma ? ' asked Ella, 
 raising her sweet violet eyes somewhat timidly to 
 her mother's face. 
 
 Ella was just in her budding girll'ood, and 
 beijinuing to awake to some of the realities of life. 
 Her young heart was often sorely perplexed by the 
 conflict betwixt its own finer promptings and the 
 worldlv wisdom she was accustomed to hear from 
 
Sir Clifford iresiray. 
 
 8i 
 
 the lips of her mother and sister, and to see in 
 every action of their daily lives. 
 
 ' Like her, child ! I am indifferent to her — that 
 is all,' answered her mother carelessly. ' Shu is a 
 scheming thing, and presumes upon her relationship 
 with your Uncle Iluhert's widow.' 
 
 Ella looked mystified. She did not in the least 
 comprehend the meaning of hei" mother's words. 
 
 ' Shall I ask them all, then, Claia ? ' pursued 
 Lady Westray presently. 
 
 * I think so. Among so many, Florence Courtney 
 will be quite extinguished. I don't suppose Aunt 
 Adelaide will care to come to so gay a gathering.' 
 
 * Oh, no. I shall not ask her, anyway. And 
 Clifford will dance suihcient attendance upon her, 
 never fear. Alderley will be the first road he will 
 seek directly he returns.' 
 
 She spoke with considerable bitterness, for 
 Clifford's deep love and reverence for his uncle's 
 widow, and constant courteous attendance upon her, 
 had always been a very sore point with the proud, 
 passionate mother. She was keenly jealous over 
 the affection of her boy, and would fain have hugged 
 it all to her own selfish heart. In his vounf;^ 
 manhood Clifford Westray had found in his Aunt 
 Adelaide that indescribably precious sympathy and 
 aid in his nobler strivings, which it ought to be a 
 mother's highest and sweetest privilege to bestow 
 
 ti 
 
! I .! 
 
 W 
 
 82 
 
 A P^exed Inheritance. 
 
 upon lier sons. But Eleanor AVestray was not 
 synipathelic. Slie would have lanu;he(I at Cliffoid's 
 anxious di.'siros to bo and to do good in liis 
 responsible posn I ion as master of West Court; her 
 interests and ambition for him were solely of the 
 world, w^orldly. Duty had no liiL^li, noble meaning 
 for her. Life's end and aim was simply to attain 
 to the heights of worldly ambition and prosperity, 
 and to be named anionic the OTeat ones of the eartli. 
 It was to cure Clifibrd of his sentimental nonsense, 
 and also of his evident liking for Florence Courtney, 
 that she had urged him to take a tour round the 
 world. i\nd now, after an absence of nearly three 
 years, Cliilbrd was coming home to take up his 
 finid position at West Court, but not, as his mother 
 fondly hoj)cd, to fulfil all l:er ambition for hnn. 
 Clillbrd's heart wns pure and true, and he was 
 coming home unchanged. 
 
 Lady Westray was issuing invilaiions for a ball 
 to celebrate her son's home-coming, and it was 
 expected that it would be the gayest gathering 
 West Court had witnessed for many years. Clifford 
 Westray was deservedly beloved by rich and poor 
 alike ; his frank, winning, unstudied ways, his open, 
 generous heart, and ready sympathy and interest in 
 the "ttujerns of others, v/on him the hearts of idl. 
 
 There was deep, true rejoicing in Westray at the 
 project v)f h'o final Lome-coming and settlement 
 
)ther 
 
 lum. 
 was 
 
 ball 
 was 
 
 Sir Clifford Westray. 
 
 83 
 
 as lord of the manor in their midst. His wife was 
 chosen for him too : the one upon whom his own 
 heart wis set. Florence, as of yore, was 'everybody's 
 bairn * in AVestray, though she did not know she 
 was regarded as the future mistrt ss of West Court. 
 Florence had not as yet analysed her feelings 
 towards Clillbrd Westray, but she knew very well 
 tliat there was a strange thrill at her heart when 
 she thought of looking upon his face and touching 
 his hand again. 
 
 It was the month of September, and West Court 
 was looking its loveliest, when its master came home. 
 The invitations had been all accepted for the 
 eighteenth, and the whole district was on the i£iii 
 vive regarding the auspicious occasion. 
 
 Some little delay occurred during the latter 
 part of Sir Clifford's voyage from Sydney, and it 
 was the evening of the seventeenth betbre he arrived 
 at Westray. The hour of his coming being uncertain 
 there was no demonstration, nor even any one froi 
 the Court to meet him, though tlie news was not 
 long in spreading from the railway station to the 
 village. He walked through the woods to his 
 home, and a? his eyes once more rested on the 
 broad acres which owned his sway, his heart swelled, 
 and almost unconsciously his lips breathed a half 
 audible prayer that he might bo guided aright in 
 the many responsibilities which his position entailed 
 
 !f 
 
 5, 
 
t i 
 
 
 1 
 
 Hi 
 
 i 
 
 hi 
 
 84 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 upon him. When he turned into the avenue and 
 came in sight of the fine old house, he saw his 
 sisters on the lawn, and the tall stately figure of 
 his mother walking up and down the gravelled 
 sweep before the door, as if she were possessed of 
 the spirit of unrest, lie kept as much as possible 
 in the shadow of the trees as he swiftly approached, 
 and was upon them ere they dreamed he was so 
 near. His welcome was very warm. His mother's 
 face flushed in her gladness, and there was a strange 
 S(3ftness in her haughty eye, as it dwelt on the 
 bronzed handsome face of the boy who was verily 
 i.ier heart's idol. He was no boy now, for these 
 years of travel seemed to have addeci to his stature, 
 and given to his fine figure a new manliness and 
 grace. 
 
 * How changed and improved you are, Cliff! ' said 
 Clara critically, ai'ter she had given her cool little 
 greeting. ' I declare you look quite distinguished.' 
 
 * I return the compliment, Clara, mial he said, 
 laughing. * You are prettier than ever. And you. 
 Pussy, ha.'e grown c.uite a young lady in my absence. 
 I'm afraid you'll be i'-o big now for our old game of 
 battledore. £.■:, nii^ny a jolly time we had at it. 
 Hush, my pet, n tears to-night.' 
 
 His b' jwn hi id lay with deep tenderness on 
 Ella's {'Unny head, his eyes full of love looked down 
 into the sweet upturned face nestling at his side, 
 
so 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 -* 
 '<l% 
 
 Sir Clifford IVestray. 
 
 85 
 
 Ella's greeting had been very quiet, but he could 
 see her heart was full. There was a deep and 
 yearning love between Clifford Westray and his 
 little sister, who was liker him in nature than any 
 of the others. 
 
 * Come away in then, Clifford, and have a cup of 
 tea, and we will hasten dinner,' said Lady Westray 
 presently. *We have a great deal to hear about 
 your travels.' 
 
 * There cannot be much left to tell, mother,' 
 laughed Clifford. * I am sure I was the most faith- 
 ful of correspondents all the time I was away. Did 
 I not please you in that ? ' 
 
 * Yes, my son, you were very attentive,' said Lady 
 Westray, slipping her hand through his arm as they 
 turned to enter the house. ' Do you know I was 
 beginning to tremble lest you should not arrive in 
 time for to-morrow ? ' 
 
 'No fear. I have still the old weakness for a 
 dance, and I am quite ready to be made a great 
 deal of by old friends. I have been so long among 
 unfamiliar faces,' Clifford said ; and he looked with 
 real affection into his mother's handsome face. It 
 was touching to see how her eyes followed his 
 every movement that night, and what love and 
 pride were in her glance. There could be no doubt 
 about Eleanor Westray 's deep affection for her first- 
 born son. 
 
 ! 
 
 1 
 
 « 
 
 i-i 
 
 
 !.' 
 
 1 
 
 i ' 
 
i^gmm* 
 
 1 
 
 86 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 \'\ 
 
 
 \ 
 
 * I am afraid it will be too late to go to Aldcrley 
 to-night/ he said, when dinner was over. 'No, it is 
 just eight, and if Blossom is in as good condition as 
 when I left her, she should carry me over in half 
 an hour. Just to shake hands with Aunt Adelaide, 
 mothf^r; you won't grudge me the time it will 
 take?^ 
 
 ' As you like, Clifford/ his mother answered ; but 
 her look and tone, her whole manner, had iinder- 
 gone a change. Again that fierce, swift, jealous 
 pain smote her to the heart. The very first night 
 of his home-coming to leave her and go to Aldcrley ! 
 It was more than she could bear. But she held her 
 peace. Clifford, all unsuspecting of his mother's 
 bitter feelings, gave the order for his horse, and 
 went to get ready for his ride. Ella slipped after 
 him into the aali, and watched him with a wistful 
 face. 
 
 •^ I wish I could go with you, Clifford. It is 
 so long since I saw Aunt Adelaide/ she said 
 presently. 
 
 * How long. Pussy ? * 
 
 'Not since she dined here on Christmas Day.* 
 ' Last Christmas Day, Ella '\ * 
 ' Yes, Clifford.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say Aunt Adelaide has never 
 been at West Court since last Christmas Day ? * 
 
 * She has never been, except to call, a week or 
 
Sir Clifford Wcstray. 
 
 S7 
 
 or 
 
 two after the diniior. I don't think mamma has 
 been to Aldcrley since then.' 
 
 Clifford's face clouded slightly as he stooped to 
 put on his spurs. 
 
 ' If it wasn't so late, Ella, I should take you 
 to-night ; but never mind, I'll drive you over some 
 day very soon. "We are going to liave jolly times 
 now, I can tell vou.' 
 
 * Oh, Clifford ! It is so nice to have you home. 
 It seems centuries since you went away. I have 
 missed you so,' Ella said, with a little sob in her 
 voice. 
 
 * I like to hear you say tliat. It is sweet to 
 be missed, Ella/ said Cliilord, bending to kiss the 
 sweet face so near his own. ' Never mind, my 
 little sister. 1 am home now for good, and we ^.io, 
 all going to be as hajjpy as the day is long.' 
 
 So saying, he went off w^histling on his ride, but 
 as Blossom carried him swiftly along the moon- 
 lit roads, his own words recurred to his mind with a 
 strange sense of misgiving. He had a vague feeling 
 tliat there was trouble loomini: on the horizon of 
 his life. 
 
 When he came within sight of Alderley he saw 
 lights gleaming in the three long windows of the 
 drawing-room, and his heart beat a little faster. 
 Much that was dear to the heart of Clifford Westray 
 was underneath that old roof-tree. There was no 
 
 
 ■ ' 
 
 k 
 
 
 r 
 
 , i 
 
 Ijil 
 
li 
 
 '.'\ 
 
 i 
 
 4i 
 
 88 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 , \ 
 
 bell at the hall door, but his knocks sent its echoes 
 reverberating through the house, and brought a 
 maid very speedily to answer the summons. 
 
 ' Well, Mary ! ' he said frankly and smilingly, in 
 answer to the surprised, pleased look on the girl's 
 face. * Is there any one about to take my horse 
 while I pay my respects to the ladies ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Sir Clifford ; Coleman happens to be in the 
 kitchen at this minute. He has just come back 
 from driving tlie young ladies to Westborough.* 
 
 ' Ah, they are not at home, then ? ' 
 
 Mary was quick to note the disappointment in 
 his face and voice. 
 
 ' No, Sir Clifford ; they have gone to a dance at 
 Norton. Mr. and Mrs. Courtney are dining at 
 Eokeby Hall, but Lady Westray is upstairs.' 
 
 *Ah, I am glad of that. Ask Coleman to r-inie, 
 if you please,' said Sir Clifford, and in a few mi lutes 
 he was relieved of his horse and following Mary 
 upstairs. 
 
 ' You need not announce me, Mary,' he said, and, 
 opening the door, entered the room. 
 
 Lady Westray, sitting by the fire reading, turned 
 her head at the opening of the door, and sprang to 
 her feet. 
 
 * Clifford, my boy, is it really you ? ' 
 
 * Yes, Aunt Adelaide,' Clifford answered, and took 
 her in his arms and kissed her, his eyes full of 
 
t' J 
 
 at 
 at 
 
 Sir Clifford IVeslray, 
 
 89 
 
 tears. It was a strange, deep love, which existed 
 between these two, and Adelaide Westray had gi\(Mi 
 to him the place which her own son, had he lived, 
 would have occupied. 
 
 'Let me see you, Aunt Adelaide,* ho said at 
 length. * You are not a bit changed ; only looking 
 younger and lovelier than ever.' 
 
 'Always the same ilattering, foolish tongue, 
 Clifford,' she said, her sweet face radiant, her eyes 
 bright with the gladness of her heart. * When did 
 you come ? I suppose they were growing rather 
 anxious at West Court lest you should not arrive 
 in time for the grand fete to-morrow. How well 
 you look, and how handsome ! You are immensely 
 improved, Clifford.' 
 
 ' A thousand thanks,' laughed Clifford, with a 
 stately bow. ' Oh, Aunt Adelaide, how jolly it is to 
 be at home again, and most of all to see you ! And 
 how are they all ? j\Iary tells me they are at a 
 (lance to-night, and they will have plenty of it 
 to-morrow night. I am afraid you are not keeping 
 your young sisters in order, Aunt Adelaide.' 
 
 Lady Westray only smiled. She had been feeling 
 a little lonely and heartsore, and the sight of Clifford 
 was like a draught of the wine of life. There was 
 something so fresh and bright and true about him, 
 and that ring of manliness which is especially dear 
 to a woman's heart. 
 
 
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 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14SS0 
 
 (7I«) S72-4S03 
 
 
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 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
■ « 
 
 90 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 ' I 
 
 ! I, 
 
 ;l 
 
 There was not much change in Adelaide Westray. 
 Perhaps the cheek was a little less rounded, the 
 fij^'ure'nioie fragile, but she did not look her years. 
 She had found a safe and happy shelter in her 
 father's house, and time had somewhat softened the 
 agonies of the past. But there was a subdued and 
 chastened quiet about her wliicli told of tboce past 
 sorrows — the happy, cheerful, girlish lightness of 
 heart was gone for ever. 
 
 ' And what have you been about, Cliflbrd ? To 
 tliink that the tliree years should be ended, and you 
 home once more ! Do you remember how doleful 
 we were when you went away, thinking it such an 
 interminable time to look forward to ? * 
 
 * Oh, it soon passes ; but I am thankful to be at 
 home. I'm sure I've been a most faithful scribe. 
 You have had good accounts of all my wanderings. 
 Tell me about people and things here. How are 
 they all ? ' 
 
 * Quite well. Just as when you left. There has 
 been no change.* 
 
 Cliflbrd began to walk up and down the room 
 then in his quick, impatient fashion, and presently 
 paused before a small cabinet, and took therefrom a 
 plush frame, which held the photograph of a young, 
 sweet-faced girl attired in a riding-habit which 
 exquisitely fitted her lissom figure. 
 
 * V/hen was this done, Aunt Adelaide ? ' 
 
Sir Clifford Westray, 
 
 91 
 
 * What, dear ? Oh, Flo's photograph- ? Not long 
 since. Isn't it very good ? ' 
 
 'Splendid. I wish I'd had it with me.' 
 
 * Do you, Clifford ? ' 
 
 * Yes.* He came back to her, still holding the 
 picture in his hand. 
 
 ' Do you know I have never seen any one the 
 least like her since I went awfiy ? * 
 
 *I daresay not. Florence is nothing if not original 
 — and yet she is a dear, sweet woman, Clifford.' 
 
 ' Don't I know that, Aunt Adelaide ? I'm going 
 to speak now. "Will you wish me joy ? * 
 
 * What of ? * 
 
 * Florence — if she will have me. I'm going to 
 ask her to-morrow. I'd have done it to-night, if I 
 had had a chance.' 
 
 * Ask her what ? * 
 
 Adelaide Westray sat straight up, and stared in 
 utter bewilderment. 
 
 *I want Florence for my wife. Aunt Adelaide. 
 I have loved her all my life. Will you give her to 
 me ? ' said Clifford with emotion. * I should not 
 dare venture without your blessing.* 
 
 ' But you shall have it,' said Adelaide Westray, 
 through dropping tears. * I had no idea of this, 
 Clifford ; and now I find it is the very desire of my 
 heart. You are worthy of each other, and may 
 God bless you both for ever and ever.* 
 
 W '^ 
 
 f^ 
 
 ri 
 
 f .'-■; 
 
 W 1 V ^1 
 
il 
 
 it 
 
 . 1 
 
 :( 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 YOUNG LOVE. 
 
 ^ .ji'kjyji ' M l^ 
 
 ADY ELEANOR WESTRATS enter- 
 tainments were invariably a success. 
 Whatever she undertook she performed 
 gracefully and well, and she had speedily become a 
 leader of society in the county. Her dinners were 
 never wearisome or monotonous ; the guests, being 
 chosen with a nice discrimination of character and 
 social qualities, always assimilated well. At Lady 
 Westray's table there was no chance of any guest 
 meeting any individual he or she wished to avoid, 
 no fear of any unpleasant or painful matter becom- 
 ing the topic of conversation. Lady Eleanor, by 
 some native gift, had made her dinner-table talk an 
 art in itself. She was not less happy in her larger 
 gatherings. The few assemblies given at West 
 Court were things to be remembered and talked 
 of for the thorough enjoyment they afforded to the 
 
 02 
 
Young Love, 
 
 93 
 
 fortunate few who participated therein. Tliere was 
 no crowding, no stillness, no discomfort of any kind. 
 The handsome rooms were ex(iuisiiely decorated, 
 efVcctively lighted, and deliylitfully co(d; tlie music 
 the best that could be wished ; the mnm j»erfection ; 
 in a word, nothing was lacking to make the gather- 
 
 ing a success. 
 
 So was it on the night of the eighteenth, Sir 
 Clifford's home-coming J etc. 
 
 Mother and son received their guests in tlie small 
 reception - room communicating by folding - doors 
 with the spacious ball-room which occupied the 
 entire length of the western wing. 
 
 The trio from Aldorley were among the very last 
 to arrive, though Sir Clifford had eagerly watched 
 every entrance, longing for a sight of Florence 
 Courtney's dear face. His own face flushed when 
 she entered at last with her brother and sister. 
 Tom was now a big, broad-shouldered young fellow, 
 bearing a startling resemblance to his father, and 
 upon whom an expensive education had been simply 
 thrown away. Anna was a tall, pale, rather faded- 
 looking woman, in a limp velvet gown, and wearing 
 a double eye-glass, which required an effort to keep 
 it in its place. Her studious literary habits had 
 given her a peculiar look, on which she jjrided her- 
 self. She certainly seemed out of j)lace among the 
 gay assemblage thronging Lady Westray's rooms 
 
 "' 
 
 iM- 
 
94 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 \\ 
 
 ■ I 
 
 N 
 
 that night. Not so Florenre. She was now almost 
 twenty-five, but her round, fresh, happy face, huighing 
 eye and girlish air, made her look six or seven years 
 younger. Iler dress was Idaek lace, cut a little 
 low at the neck, wiiich was of dazzling whiteness. 
 Her abundant fair hair was plaited round and round 
 her head, but some bright ringlets strayed upon her 
 brow. She wore no ornaments but a big spray of 
 bramble blossom, with which nolody but Florence 
 Courtney would have ventured to adorn herself, but 
 it became her well. She was neitlier expensively 
 nor richly dressed, but she had a style all lier own, 
 and would attract admiring attention anywhere. 
 
 Lady Westray's greeting to the Courtneys was 
 characteristically cool, but Clifford's warmth of 
 manner atoned for his mother's stifl'ness. He said 
 nothing to Florence, though her laughing, unconscious 
 eyes were on his face ; but he did grip her hand 
 firmly in his own, and had he but dared he would 
 have raised it to his lips. Ere the night was over 
 he hoped to have the right to a sweeter caress. 
 
 Clara was in the ball-room, looking her best in an 
 elaborate costume of pink silk, but beyond a cool 
 little nod from the other side of the room she did 
 not bestow any Lirerting on the Courtneys. Could 
 it be that her fair lace flushed as Tom Courtney's 
 big, flashing blue eyes dwelt eagerly upon it ? 
 Surely not. Miss Westray of AVest Court could 
 
Vo/pfg Love, 
 
 95 
 
 Imost 
 
 years 
 little 
 eness. 
 rouiul 
 jii her 
 ray of 
 Drence 
 •If, but 
 isively 
 r own, 
 re. 
 
 ys was 
 iiU of 
 lie said 
 ISC ions 
 hand 
 would 
 s over 
 Is. 
 in an 
 a cool 
 he did 
 , Could 
 Iney's 
 
 in it? 
 could 
 
 not be in any way affected by the evident admira- 
 tion of the sporting young S([uire of Alderley. Tom 
 Courtney was a general favourite in and al)out 
 Westray, on account of his happy-go-lucky ways 
 and imperturbable good- nature. Nothing put him 
 about. He took life easily and pleasantly, enjoying 
 it to the full, witliout troubling himself concerning 
 the future. His feelings towards Clara AVestray 
 were the most serious he had ever entertained in 
 his life, and were of a kind which caused him some 
 surprise. He did not quite understand why this 
 dainty, liigli-bred haughty young woman, wliom few 
 liked, shouUl make him feel so ([ueer. ( hdy he 
 knew he felt a strange sense of pleasant contt nt 
 when in her piesence ; lie was not sure thnt she did 
 not interest him more intensely than anything else 
 in the world. lUit with the wherefore of all this 
 Tom Courtney hf^ 1 not as yet troubled himself. 
 
 Florence Courtney was not long in the room 
 before she had a little throng about her; and 
 Clillbrd, whooC duties as host iorbade him paying 
 l»articular attention to any, at the outset of the 
 proceedings at least, watched her jealously, longing 
 for the moment when he could claim a dance and 
 a word with her. Florence was quite unconscious 
 of this jealous scrutiny, and did not look at all in 
 Cliflbrd's direction. 'J'hey were such old friends, 
 she felt sure he would seek her out before the 
 
 i-.i 
 
96 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 . 
 
 !f 
 
 evpmng was over, and, tlioiij^'h she was honestly 
 longing for a little talk with him, she could easily 
 wait and be happy in the interval. 
 
 So her bright eyes sparkled, lier ready repartee 
 and sweet ringing hiuuh were not lacking, and 
 somehow gleams of joy and heart-gladness seemed 
 to surround her wherever slie went. 
 
 Clifl'ord found o])portunity for one word during a 
 set of Lancers, when he was near enough to speak 
 without being overheard. 
 
 * You had better behave yourself, miss. My time 
 is coming immediately, and I'll be even with you,* 
 he whispered, half in jest, half in earnest. 
 
 ' What for ? ' 
 
 'Wasting your sweetness on the desert air,* was the 
 ambiguous response ; and tlien tho dance separated 
 them, and they did not meet again till Clifford 
 claimed her for a waltz. 
 
 * At last I shall have a little enjoyment,* he said, 
 with a breath of relief. * If I had been anybody but 
 myself to-night, you would have been under better 
 surveillance.* 
 
 * Oh, indeed ! What have I been doing ? * 
 
 * Never mind. I see I have been away just long 
 enough,' said Clifford daringly. * Come, there*s the 
 music* 
 
 ' And if I don*t choose to go up with you at all ? ' 
 
 * Oh, but you will choose. Don*t you know this 
 
 .utaJga 
 
Young Love. 
 
 97 
 
 is what I've been loni,'in^ for all night ? What are 
 all these fine ladies to me when you are here, 
 Florence ? ' 
 
 ' Then I'm not a fine lady ? ' said Florence, liftii)g 
 her laughing eyes to the handsome bronzed face 
 above her. 
 
 ' No, thank goodness, only — but I needn't tell 
 you, as you are vain enough already. Wliat a 
 shame of you to be out last night when I called 1 
 Are you glad to see me back, Florence ? * 
 
 ' Pretty glad.' 
 
 • Is that all ? ' 
 
 ' Isn't it enough ? It is more peaceful in these 
 parts when you are away. Don't look so pathetic, 
 Clillbrd. Must I be honest, and tell you I've 
 counted the days since I knew you were on the 
 way home ? That's a good deal even for your chum 
 to say, isn't it ? ' 
 
 After a moment's wondering at his silence, 
 Florence turned her head and looked into her 
 ]turtner's face. It was very grave, and there was 
 something in his eyes which puzzled her. But she 
 met his gaze honestly, without any consciousness in 
 her own. 
 
 They had always been like brother and sister, 
 and it seemed the most natural thing in the world 
 tliat she should feel glad to see him again, and that 
 she should tell him so. 
 
 f 
 
 ^1 
 
: I* 
 
 98 
 
 /i Vexed Inhcritauce, 
 
 * I shall not forj^et that, FIohmioo. It is worth 
 being away to hear that,' he said, quite «^ravely, 
 and tlien, as the music took a faster strain, ho 
 relapsed into his old joking way. ' I hope you are 
 going to be more respectful to nie after my travels. 
 Kemember, I've seen all the things youve oidy rcail 
 about in books.' 
 
 ' l^ut whicli, in all probability, I know more about 
 than you yet,' said Florence saucily. ' How your 
 mother is looking at me, Cliflbrd I Do you think 
 shp :h angry ? ' 
 
 ' Not likely, why should she be ? * asked Clifford 
 lightly. ' I say, why did you put on that thorny 
 thing at your throat ? Am I to take it as a 
 challenge that the old skirmishing is to be renewed ? 
 "We used to fall out frightfully, did we not V 
 
 * An' sae wuU we yet,' hiughed Florence, the 
 Scotch falling quaintly and prettily from her lips. 
 * I hope you are just going to be as you were, 
 Clifford. I don't want a solemn, pompous, much- 
 travelled gentleman in your place. There, I think 
 I must stop now. The room is getting hot. Let 
 us sit down.* 
 
 * Let us go out for a stroll, Florence. I think 
 the harvest moon is smiling with especial brilliance 
 to do honour to my home-coming.' 
 
 * That's a pretty conceit,' laughed Florence. ' I 
 should like to run out just for a minute, but I 
 
Young^ Love. 
 
 99 
 
 think you had better stay. You are the host as 
 well as the lion of the evening, you know.' 
 
 ' Unfortunately I am ; but I mean to have a 
 turn with you. Nobody will miss us. Come 
 away, and I'll get you a wrap somewhere.* 
 
 And Florence went, in her usual happy unthink- 
 ingness, leaving the throng to note her absence and 
 to comnu'nt upon it as they willed. 
 
 ' That's not my hood, ClifTord. It must pertain 
 to Lady Edith Marsden at least, it is so fine,* said 
 she, when Clifford presently appeared with a rich 
 blue satin wrap, quilted with white and edged with 
 swansdown. 
 
 ' Never mind. Lady Edith will not grudge you 
 tlie loan of it. She likes you, Florence,' said 
 Clifrord, and fastened it about her fair head and 
 sweet white throat with a skilful, tender hand. 
 The next moment they were out in the clear, mild 
 night air, wandering arm - in - arm through the 
 shrubbery, as if there was nothing in the wide 
 world to care for but each other. 
 
 * And what have you to tell me about yourself, 
 Florence ? ' asked Clifford presently. ' You might 
 have written to me when I was away.* 
 
 ' Oh, there was no need when Adelaide corre- 
 sponded so regularly. I always read her letters, and 
 endorsed all she said.* 
 
 ' But I did not know that.' 
 
 'H 
 
 
 I 
 
 V \\ 
 
 
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 % 
 
 il 
 
II 
 
 lOO 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 r: 
 
 I ' li 
 
 'I daresay not. And have you really coniC 
 back heart-whole, Cliftbrd ? Has no fair soulherri 
 beauty stolen away your hc^art ? ' said Florence 
 jijaily, all unconscious that she was treading upon 
 perilous ground. No girl ever thought less of lovers 
 or marriage than Florence Courtney, and the idea 
 that Clillord Westray, who had been her chum 
 since her cl'ildish days, might have learned to care 
 for her in any other way than as a friend had 
 never once presented itself to her mind. It waa 
 this utter unconsciousness and happy girlish freedom 
 which so endeared her to all who knew her. There 
 was not a spark of selfish consideration nor of 
 sickly sentimeutality in Florence Courtney's nature. 
 It was sound, wholesome, and sweet to the heart's 
 core. 
 
 * You are conscience-stricken, sir,' she went on, 
 when he made no reply. ' What shall I tell you ? 
 I shall be five-and-twenty in a few days. Five-and- 
 twenty, Clifford Westray I I can't believe it. I 
 feel so young. I wish we never grew any older. 
 I remember what a grief it was to me, too, when I 
 had to go into long frocks and have my hair put up. 
 I don't suppose anybody knew the pangs I endured. 
 It seemed to me like setting a limit to my 
 life.' 
 
 * And I shall soon be se^ en-and-twenty, Florence.* 
 
 * How soberly you take it ! Is advancing age 
 
Young Love, 
 
 lOI 
 
 bojrinning to toll upon you ? Doni prow r»M, 
 Clifford. It won't improve you in the loast.' 
 
 * Many men at my age are the responsible heads 
 of households, though * — 
 
 ' Hear him ! Now I knew you would come hack 
 spoiled. I always said to Adelaide you would.* 
 
 ' I hope I am not spoiled. I have learned a 
 great many things while I have been away.* 
 
 ' Oh, of course ; and now you are aspiring to 
 play the part of universal mentor/ said Florence 
 teasingly. 
 
 *May I tell you one thing I have learned, 
 Florence ? ' 
 
 *liy all means. Diminish the dose with the 
 utmost speed. I am quite resigned.* 
 
 To the girl's astonishment her compani(m stood 
 still, and with a sudden, almost passionate gesture, 
 caught her hands firm and fast in his own. 
 
 'I have learned, then, that you are dearer and 
 more precious to me than any earthly thing. Do 
 you know what that means, Florence ? Don't look 
 at me with such startled eyes. I want you for my 
 wife, my darling. Have you known me long enough 
 to trust yourself to me for life ? * 
 
 II 
 
' 
 
 I, 
 
 !'f 
 
 ii ■ :!il 
 
 fl ' i: 
 
 
 ^0J 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WON. 
 
 :RE you asleep, Adelaide ? ' 
 
 ' No, Flossie. Come in.* 
 ' Why, are you not even in bed ? ' 
 asked Florence, when she stepped into the room, to 
 find her sister sitting in her dressing-gown by the 
 fire. * Do you know it is nearly three o'clock ? ' 
 
 * I know, but I was restless thinking of you,* 
 said Adelaide Westray, looking with keen, affection- 
 ate eyes into her sister's flushed face. * Have you 
 had a pleasant evening ? * 
 
 ' Not very,* answe- ed Florence briefly, and walk- 
 ing over to the toilet toble, took off her gloves and 
 unfastened the bramble spray at her bosom. ' Anna 
 is away to bed. May I stay here a little. Adelaide ? 
 I could no<^ sleep.* 
 
 * Stay by all means. I am sorry you have not 
 
 loa 
 
IVou. 
 
 103 
 
 enjoyed yourself. T tliink it is often the case when 
 we look forward very much to {inyt.hing.' 
 
 ' I diiresay,' answered Florence, briefly as before, 
 and continued tovinir with the articles on the 
 dri'ssing-tiible, just as if she dared not meet her 
 sister's gaze. 
 
 But Adelaide noted the flushed cheek, the glitter- 
 ing eye, and nervous movements of tlie hands, signs 
 of strong mental excitement. Either ClifTord had 
 spoken, or something else had occurred to rufUe the 
 girl s composure. 
 
 ' How did it pass off, Flossie ? You must have 
 left early.' 
 
 *Yes, we were among the first. Tom grumbled, 
 of course, but I was determined to leave. Anna 
 was getting tired of it too. It was a very brilliant 
 afl'air, Adelaide.' 
 
 ' That was to be expected on such an auspicious 
 occasion. Flow did Clitlbrd behave ? ' 
 
 'Well enough, so far as I saw,' answered 
 Florence in a low voice, and her head drooped on 
 her breast, and the rich colour heightened iii her 
 cheek. * Clara looked perfectly lovely. Do you 
 know I think Tom is in love with her, Addie ? ' 
 
 ' I have known that for a long time, Florence.* 
 
 * Have you ? How do you know ? Did be tell you ?' 
 
 ' Scarcely. An observant eye can put two and 
 two together, and some tli.igs won't hide.' 
 
 ' i ^ I 
 
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 !ii U* 
 
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 104 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 1 . 
 
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 ; 
 
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 III ill! 
 
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 Florence started, and for a moment her bright 
 eyes met her sister's earnest gaze. 
 
 * I know nothing about such things. I am 
 always taken by surprise when engagements are 
 announced, though other people always seem to 
 have known all about them. I suppose it makes a 
 difference having been married. Lady Westray was 
 particularly haughty to-night, Adelaide. I am not 
 very touchy, but I don't think she was very civil 
 to us.* 
 
 ' That would mat your enjoyment, of course ? * 
 
 * Oh, well, no. I don't like her, so I don't care 
 a fig for her pride. I enjoyed myself very well for 
 a bit,' answered Florence, and then there was a long 
 silence. She took off her dress, unbound her long 
 fair hair, and throwing her dressi?ig-gown round 
 her, came and knelt down at Adelaide's feet. Htr 
 breast was heaving, her breath coming quick and 
 fast. She seemed on the verge of giving way to 
 passionate weeping. 
 
 'Tell me what has vexed you, my darling.* 
 *If I only might. It would be such a relief,* 
 she said falteringly, and keeping her face hidden. 
 *A miserable thing happened to-night. I have 
 nevp. oeen so unhappy, I think, in all my life.' 
 
 * Tell me, dear ; I am very anxious.' 
 
 * It was Clifford, Adelaide. He naid such things 
 to me. If you know about these things, did you 
 
 .y^ 
 
Won, 
 
 105 
 
 think he cared anything about me — in that way, 
 you know ? ' 
 
 * My darling, I have known it for a long time.* 
 
 * And what do you think of it ? ' 
 
 The sweet face, still flushed, was raised with an 
 indescribably touching, wistful look upon it. It 
 was like the look of a child questioning its mother 
 rogiinling right or wrong, and it went to Adelaide 
 AVest ray's heart. 
 
 ' You are both very dear to me, Flossie,* she 
 said, with the utmost tenderntss. * There is nothing 
 in the wide world could give me such happiness 
 now as to see you the wife of Cli fiord Westray. 
 What did you say to him, Florence ? * 
 
 ' Say ? Nothing ! I ran away with all my might, 
 I got such a fright. I was so vex d and miserable, 
 I did not know what to do. Why has he gone and 
 spoiled all our jolly friendship ? Of course, we can 
 never be the same any more.' 
 
 * Not quite, but I trust there will be another and 
 a sweeter relationship between you.* 
 
 * No, no ! * Florence emphatically shook her head. 
 ' I don't v/ant to have any relationship with any- 
 body. Why couldn't we all go on as we have done 
 so long ? Weren't we jolly and happy ? ' 
 
 * Yes, but you forget, Flossie, ClilTord and you 
 are man and woman grown now, and what was 
 very pleasant and desirable when you were boy and 
 
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 A Vexed hiheritance. 
 
 girl, cannot possibly go on. To my mind, the old 
 friendship has come to its most beautiful and 
 perfect ending — or beginning rather, for I do trust, 
 my darling, that this will be the beginning of a 
 new life for you.* 
 
 But Florence still rebelliously shook her head. 
 
 ' I have no wish to be married, Adelaide. I am 
 perfectly contented as I am.' 
 
 ' Then there is no hope for Clifford ? ' 
 
 * How no hope ? He knows I like him, and if 
 only he will never speak so foolishly again, we may 
 be as hap[)y as ever.' 
 
 * You speak of what is impossible, Florence. If 
 Clifford cannot have you for his wife, he will take 
 care not to see you at all. I wish you could 
 understand this, my dear. This is a very serious 
 matter for Clifford. It may mar his whole life. 
 He loves you very dearly.' 
 
 ' Did he say so to you ? * 
 ' He did.' 
 ' Oh, dear ! ' 
 
 It was comical and yet pathetic to hear the sigh 
 which fell from the girl's lips. 
 
 * Let us look at it in another light, Flossie. You 
 are sure you don't care anything for Clifford in that 
 way ? Would you be perfectly happy to see him 
 marry Lady Edith Marsden, or Frances Tremaine, 
 or Kitty Warden ? ' 
 
Won. 
 
 107 
 
 ' Oh, he wouldn't have any of those, I know. 
 They couldn't get on with him,* said Florence 
 promptly. 
 
 'That isn't the point. "Would it please you to 
 see him marry some one else ? ' 
 
 *I don't know,' said Florence doubtfully. 'You 
 see I can't imagine it at all.' 
 
 * Would you like if you never saw him again ? ' 
 ' No, I shouldn't.' 
 
 * Then what do you mean, Florence ? ' 
 
 * Oh, I don't know. I'm afraid I do like him 
 better than anybody else in the world, only I didn't 
 know it, and I wish I didn't,' said Florence, so 
 dolefully that Adelaide laugiied outright. In her 
 own mind she had had very little doubt regarding her 
 sister's feelings towards ClifTord Westray. 
 
 * Then you must tell him so, Florence.' 
 
 * I tell him ! What do you take me for, 
 Adelaide ? I would just like to see myself trying 
 to say such a thing.' 
 
 Adelaide Westray took the sweet, true face in 
 both her hands, and looked at it with a long, 
 lingering look. 
 
 ' It will all come right in the end, my little 
 sister. To think that some day you will fill the 
 place which was once mine ! You will make a 
 dear mistress of West Court.' 
 
 ' If, after years and years, I should — I don't 
 
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 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
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 think I will, you know — but if I should, you won't 
 mind, Adehiide ? It won't be painful for you, will 
 it?' 
 
 * How could it be ? Any pain which West Court 
 may have given is past for ever, Flossie. Kather it 
 will be like the dawning of a brighter life to see 
 you there. It will be like a blossoming of my own 
 dead hopes. I cannot uproot my love for West 
 Court. It is all dear to me, and it nearly breaks 
 my heart when I enter it as a stranger now.* 
 
 'I didn't know you felt so, Adelaide. How 
 bright and brave you always are ! Nobody would 
 know you had had such sorrows. Do you know, 
 sometimes when I get thinking over things, I am so 
 puzzled. I cannot understand why all the very 
 best people in the world should have so many 
 troubles. I always think of you and Lady Eleanor. 
 She has everything the world cnn give, and you 
 have nothing, and you know she is not to be com- 
 pared to you. You are so good, so good. Why 
 should it be so ? * 
 
 * There is a wise purpose, my darling, in all our 
 sorrows ; nnd what puzzles and mystifies here will 
 all be mude plain to us some day. I would not 
 change places with Lady Westray, Florence, except, 
 perhaps, to call Clifford my son.' 
 
 Florence was silent a moment. Memory had 
 taken her back to the dreary days when the blight 
 
Won. 
 
 109 
 
 had fallen on her sister's life. But she could not 
 speak her thouj^'hts aloud. There was a misgiving 
 in Adelaide Westray's heart concerning Clifford's 
 mother which she could not utter to her unconscious 
 sister. She knew Eleanor Westray well, and she 
 also knew her ambition for her son. She could 
 only hope and pray that love for him would make 
 her kind to the wife he had chosen for himself. 
 But she greatly feared that the future held more of 
 sorrow than the past for Florence. 
 
 * Will Clifford be here to-morrow, dear ? ' 
 
 * How can I tell ? ' asked Florence, jumping up. 
 *I hope he won't; I shall feel idiotic when I see 
 him.' 
 
 * Yet you will be disappointed if he doesn't come.' 
 
 * You seem to know me through a id through, 
 Adelaide/ said Florence, with a swift, shy smile. 
 * Suppose I go off to bed now, seeing it is about four 
 0'v.iock, and papa expects us to breakfast at eight 
 whatever time we get to bed ? I don't suppose I 
 shall sleep, though. If I were the heroine of a 
 novel, I should say my nerves were unstrung. 
 Good-night, my own precious old girl, good-night.* 
 
 So Florence darted off, only turning to nod back 
 from the door, with her bright eyes full of tears. 
 That was an eventful night for Florence Courtney. 
 All the sweet, true womanliness in her nature had 
 been awakened, never to lie dormant any more. 
 
 IS- 
 
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 11 
 
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 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 \ 
 
 ; 
 
 For she had given her heart's love away, never to 
 be recalled. Whether it would bring weal or woe, 
 who could tell ? At breakfast next morning she 
 was her bright, merry self once more, ready with 
 her gay jests and comical allusions to the fite^ all 
 particulars of which the Squire was anxious to 
 learn. He was the same fussy, consequential indi- 
 vidual as of yore, but whether time had mellowed 
 his stern sense of the relative duties of parent and 
 children, or whether the children had got beyond 
 parental control, it is certain they did now much 
 as they liked. But they were good and dutiful 
 still, and de>'otedly attached to their father and 
 mother and their home. It might be that Adelaide's 
 sweet, quiet influence had done much to soften the 
 more rugged edges of the home life at Alderley, 
 and that their common sympathy for her had 
 drawn them as a family more closely to each 
 other. 
 
 After breakfast Florence went away for a run 
 through the park with the dogs, and as Adelaide 
 watched from the window the light figure darting 
 in and out among the trees, a very tender smile 
 played about her lips. 
 
 'Do you know what happened at "West Court 
 last night, mamma ? ' she asked presently. 
 
 Mrs. Courtney looked up from her accounts in 
 surprise. 
 
 ! ! 
 
IVon. 
 
 II I 
 
 Jourt 
 
 * Notljing except what the children told us/ she 
 answered. 
 
 * Clifford has asked Florence to be his wife, 
 mamma.* 
 
 ' Has he ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Courtney laid (lo'"n her pen and leaned 
 hack in her chair, her face wearing a much-perplexed 
 look. 
 
 ' And what has she said ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing yet, but she loves him, mamma. What 
 do you think of it ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, Adelaide. You know my opinion 
 of Clifford, but what will Lady Westray say ? We 
 need hardly expect her to be pleased.* 
 
 ' I fear not, unless her love for Clifford softens 
 her. I know she has other views for him. I 
 hope for Flo's sake there will be no unpleasantness. 
 The idea of such a thing has never occurred to her.* 
 
 * No ; I believe that anticipating trouble will 
 never shorten the child's life. I am afraid I am 
 rather sorry this has happened at all, Adelaide. 
 Lady Westray has it in her power to make us 
 all very unhappy over it if she likes.* 
 
 ' But why should she object to Florence ? She 
 is my sister, and I was mistress of W^est Court, 
 mother.' 
 
 ' Yes, but Eleanor Westray is just the woman to 
 ignore that fact,* said Mrs. Courtney with a sigh. 
 
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 A Vexed Inherit ance. 
 
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 ' I wonder wliat your fatlier will say. T shall not 
 ti'll him until Clinbrd speaks himself.' 
 
 ' I think that wise. Cliflbrd and Florence must 
 settle it between them first. She is an odd mixture, 
 (lur Flo, l)ut wholly and irresistibly lovable,' said 
 Adelaide. ' Why, here conies Clifford already, and 
 on foot ! Ah, he has seen Florence, so we need 
 not exj)ect to see the truants for houis.' 
 
 She smiled again as she watched the pair meet. 
 She observed that there was no hand-shaking, and 
 that Florence's attitude was rather defiant and 
 careless. She had evidently been taken by 
 surprise. 
 
 Aftir a moment, during which Clifford seemed 
 to be speaking earnestly, they turned and w.ilked 
 away together through the trees, and were soon 
 lost to sight. 
 
 * Did you walk over ? ' Florence asked, swinging 
 a riding-switch backwards and forwards in her 
 hand, and keeping her eyes on the ground. 
 
 ' No. Bennett drove me in the dog-cart. He 
 has gone on to Westborough to give some orders 
 for my mother. You have not told me how you 
 are this morning,' he said, looking earnestly at the 
 slight figure in the neat, well-fitting morning gown, 
 at the flushed, sweet face so persistently turned 
 away from him. 
 
 * Oh, Fm well enough. Juno, you wicked animal 
 
li^on. 
 
 113 
 
 come here ! We dcm't want a covey of partridges 
 whirring about our ears.* 
 
 'You are vexed this morning, Florence. I have 
 never heard you speak so cross before, even to a 
 
 dog.' 
 
 * Haven't you ? How angelic I must have been 
 in your company ! Yes, I'm vexed • I'm as cross 
 as two sticks, Clifford Westray, and I don't know 
 what you are here for ; there now.* 
 
 ' Yes, you do. I came to apologize for what I 
 said last night. I am very sorry I spoiled any 
 enjoyment you might have had.' 
 
 'Oh!' 
 
 That was all Florence said. She was rather 
 taken aback, being quite prepared for a repetition 
 of the previous night's folly. But evidently Clifford 
 had taken her unceremonious reception of his wooing 
 as final She turned her head a little, and just 
 lifted her sweet eyes to his face. Shall I tell you 
 her thought at the moment ? That it was the 
 dearest, truest, noblest face in the whole world. 
 But, of course, he must never know she entertained 
 even for a moment such a thought. 
 
 ' It was good of you to take the trouble to come 
 so far just to apologize. There was no need,' she 
 said, a trifle stiffly, for she could not at all under- 
 stand the soreness at her heart. 
 
 Then she stood still, and, turning her back to 
 
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114 
 
 A Vexed In/ientatice, 
 
 1 
 
 II 
 
 i 
 
 him, loaned on a fonco, and looked away into the 
 dusky depths of the autumn woods. She knew 
 she was rude to her companion, hut she did not 
 at that moment care what she was doin<^'. 
 
 * Well, am I to he forgiven, B'lorence ? Are wo 
 to he friends again ? It isn't like you to hear 
 malice.' 
 
 No answer, except an impatient shake of the 
 head, which set her tweed cap all to one side. 
 
 Cliflford stood a moment with a look of deep 
 perplexity on his handsome face. How to propi- 
 tiate his old friend was the question of the moment. 
 
 ' I couldn't help it, Florence,' he said presently. 
 *I thought you Knew all along what I felt and 
 what I meant. But I'm a stupid, hluudering fellow, 
 to give you such a fright.* 
 
 ' And you wish to recall your foolish words ? * 
 Florence .asked, with a little ripple of annisement 
 on her face. ' You were not in earnest, then ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, of course I was. I was never more in 
 earnest in my life, worse luck,* Clifford said. * Of 
 course it's an awful disappointment to me, hut 
 don't let it make any difference to us, Florence.' 
 
 Florence was silent still. She could not tell 
 him that she repented of her haste ; she could not 
 say she would willingly listen to his wooing ; what, 
 then, must she do ? 
 
 Something in the sweet, softened expression of 
 
Won. 
 
 115 
 
 her face made Clifford take a step nearer to 
 her. 
 
 'Florence, don't you think that after a while 
 you mi<,'ht like mo in that way?' he said, with all 
 the old eager earnestness. ' I can't give you uj), 
 you know ; you've always belonged to mo siuce ever 
 we were anytliing.' 
 
 ' If that's so, then I suppose I belong to you now,' 
 said Florence ruefully, but with the most ex(|uisite 
 blush mantling her cheek. * Clifford Westray, if 
 you dare,' she said, suddenly changing her tone, as 
 Clifford put his arm round her shoulders. 
 
 But Clifford did dare, and sealed his proprietor- 
 ship with a kiss, which deepened the hot blush on 
 her cheek. 
 
 She broke away from him then, called to the 
 dogs, and darted through the trees, leaving him to 
 follow at his leisure. 
 
 i I 
 
 •i ^ 
 
 
 f 
 
 
1,1 
 
 1,1 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 STORMS, 
 
 HERE are you going this morning, 
 Clifford ? ' 
 
 *To Alderley, mother. Won't you 
 come ? If you will, I shall gee out the dog-cart 
 and drive you over. It is a lovely morning.* 
 
 * No, thank you.' 
 
 Nothing could be more coldly uttered than these 
 three brief words which fell from Lady Eleanor's 
 lips. Her handsome face was darkly clouded, her 
 lips compressed in bitterest displeasure. 
 
 *I need not ask when you will be home. I 
 
 suppose we shall see you in time for dinner. It is 
 
 a pity, I think, that you should trouble to return 
 
 even for that. No doubt those who give you your 
 
 other meals would be happy to allow you to dine 
 
 with them too.* 
 
 lid 
 
Storms, 
 
 117 
 
 t;- : ■ i ! 
 
 Clifford bit his lip. He could not deny that 
 theie was some ground for his mother's remarks, 
 for during the past week he had done little more 
 than sleep at West Court. In the first happy days 
 of his accepted love he had forgotten, perhaps, 
 something of his duty to others. But, oiice con- 
 victed of an error, there could be none readier than 
 ClifTord Westray to acknowledge himself in the 
 wrong, so he made answer promptly. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, niulher. I have been very 
 careless. Will you forgive me ? ' 
 
 Lady Westray did not speak. She was standing 
 by the flower-stand in the breakfast-room window, 
 her unfathomable eyes fixed stedfastly on the 
 brown and yellow tree-tops waving in the pleasant 
 September wind. 
 
 * There is nothing to be forgiven,' she said slowly, 
 at length. * It is I who ought to ask pardon. I 
 have no right to question the comings or goings of 
 the master of West Court.* 
 
 This little shaft went home. She had touched 
 Clif Ford's generous heart in the tenderest part 
 
 * That isn't fair, mother,' he said quickly. 
 
 * It is as fair as your treatment of me, Clifford,* 
 was the calmly uttered reply. 
 
 Would it please you were I to discontinue my 
 visits to Alderley altogether ? * he asked, a trifle hotly. 
 
 * I decline to say.' 
 
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 ii8 
 
 j4 Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 Clifford was silent a moment. This was scarcely 
 a propitious moment to plead his cause with his 
 mother, but neglected duty reproached him and 
 whispered that she had a right to be told that he 
 had wooed uud won his wife. 
 
 •Do you know what takes me to Alderley, 
 mother ? ' 
 
 ' I am not blind. I am aware it has many 
 attractions for you/ she answered quietly, but the 
 displeased expression did not relax on her face. 
 
 Clifford looked at her with something of deep 
 yearning in his earnest eyes, but if she was conscious 
 of it she made no sign. 
 
 ' I have something to tell you, mother,* he said 
 bravely. ' I admit that I ought to have told you 
 at once. I have asked Florence Courtney to be my 
 wife, and she has accepted.' 
 
 ' The latter part of your speech is all quite un- 
 necessary, Clifford,* was his mother's solo comment, 
 delivered with icy coldness. 
 
 ' Have you nothing to say, mother ? Her answer 
 has made me very happy. Have you not a word of 
 congratulation for me ? ' 
 
 ' No. I have nothing to say.* 
 
 ' Then I may infer that you do not approve of 
 my choice ? * 
 
 * Since you ask the question directly, I do not.* 
 
 * What have you against her ? I am sure there is 
 
Storms. 
 
 119 
 
 no sweeter, purer, more lovable woman in England 
 than Florence Courtney.' 
 
 ' That is your opinion, in which you cannot compel 
 others to coincide.' 
 
 The proud, calmly-measured words, the icy cold- 
 ness of his mother's look and tone, were almost more 
 than impulsive Clifford Westray could bear. 
 
 ' Say what you mean, mother. Tell me frankly 
 wlmt are your objections to Florence Courtney ? 
 What have you against her ? * 
 
 * What have I against her ? ' she asked slowly ; 
 then turned her head and looked him straight in the 
 face, with wrathful eyes. *I have everything against 
 her. Even if she were not a pert, forward, presum- 
 ing thing, with no regard for the proprieties of life, 
 she is Adelaide Westray's sister. That in itself 
 would be sufficient to make me refuse to countenance 
 her, to make your foolish passion for her the bitterest 
 disappointment of my life.' 
 
 * What has Aunt Adelaide done to you to make 
 you feel so bitterly against her?' Clifford asked. 
 
 * She has been a constant thorn in the flesh to me 
 ever since I came to West Court,' exclaimed Eleanor 
 Westra}' passionately. * Her whining, wheedling 
 ways have weaned the allegiance of the people away 
 from me — from us, who are owners of West Court. 
 Have I ever been mistress here, Clifford ? No ! 
 While I have held the outward reigns of govern- 
 
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 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 . I 
 
 ' 
 
 
 ment, she has reigned supreme in the hearts of the 
 people. They hate me, and they wonld lay down 
 their lives for her at any moment. They regard 
 her as a heroine and a martyr, and us as unjust 
 usurpers. I am not a woman who can think lightly 
 of, nor easily forgive, such injuries as these. If 
 you marry Florence Courtney, you do so without 
 my approval or consent, and I shall never darken 
 the door of West Court while I live.* 
 
 Clifford Westray looked inexpressibly shocked. 
 For a moment, the blow to his own hopes was lost 
 sight of in his astonishment at the depth of 
 passionate anger exhibited by his mother against 
 his aunt. The bitter animosity she had long 
 cherished against that unconscious, inottensive 
 woman had found vent at last. 
 
 ' I think you are mistaken,' he venturad to say. 
 ' I am sure Aunt Adelaide would not * — 
 
 * Don't speak of your Aunt Adelaide to me, boy,* 
 she interrupted hotly. * I know you worship the 
 very ground she treads upon. There were some 
 who gave me credit for helping to make away with 
 the child. She has had her revenge, for she has 
 stolen my son's heart from me. Adelaide Westray 
 and her kindred have made me of no account to 
 him. You may tell them so, and say Eleanor 
 Westray wishes them joy of their revenge.' 
 
 Her passion was terrible to see. Her figure was 
 
M 
 
 Storms. 
 
 121 
 
 drawn to its full height, her dark eyes flashed, her 
 hauf:jhty face was flushed, her white hands had 
 unconsciously clenched. She looked magnificent in 
 her wrath. 
 
 ' Mother, mother, hush I * 
 
 Clifford's voice faltered. It was no ordinary 
 grief to him, to have revealed to him the hardest 
 side of his mother's nature. 
 
 ' I am sure you wrong them,* he said, after a brief 
 constrained silence, during which his mother had 
 once more turned away from him. * How have they 
 stolen your son's heart ? Do I not love you as I 
 have ever done ? Although another love has come 
 to me, it will not kill or destroy the old ; nay. It 
 but serves to make it stronger in every way.' 
 
 Clifford looked his noblest at that moment, 
 pleading his own cause. His fine face was softened 
 into eager entreaty, his whole appearance winning 
 in the extreme. 
 
 ' If it be as you say, it exhibits extraordinary 
 signs, which to the untutored might readily be taken 
 for the attributes of natural decay,' his mother 
 answered slowly. * I regret that I should have 
 displayed such weakness before you, Clifford. It 
 would have been more dignified in vour mother to 
 have borne her humiliation and made no sign.* 
 
 * What humiliation, mother ? There has been 
 none offered or intended/ said Clifford eagerly. 
 
 
 m 
 
 I 
 
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 f U ,1 
 
 
 ii 1 
 
 A , 
 
122 
 
 A Vexed hiheritance. 
 
 ii 
 
 * I am sincerely sorry if I have seemed to lack 
 in courtesy and deference to you. Will you 
 forgive me ? * 
 
 'As I said before, there is nothing to forgive. 
 You are absolutely your own master.* 
 
 * I do not wish to be. It hurts me that you 
 should even seem to throw me on my own responsi- 
 bilities so entirely. I would seek your advice, your 
 sympathy, your help in everything.* 
 
 ' In the face of what you have told me this 
 morning, your assumptions of deference to my 
 opinion are not only absurd but offensive, Clifford. 
 You knew right well that I should not approve your 
 entanglement with Florence Courtney.* 
 
 * Then am I to understand that your decision is 
 final — that you will not countenance and receive her 
 as my future wife ? ' 
 
 * I have made no decision other than has always 
 been in my mind. I lay down no law, nor ask 
 you to consider me in any way. As Sir Clifford 
 Westray of West Court, you are not bound to 
 consult any concerning your future wife. Only you 
 know what to expect from me, Clifford. I am no 
 hypocrite. I will not lower myself in my own eyes 
 by assuming a cordiality and a friendship I do not 
 feel. Your Aunt Adelaide will tell you that, if you 
 like to ask her ; and I daresay Florence knows I do 
 not regard her with any favour.* 
 
storms. 
 
 123 
 
 So snying, Lady Westray swept from the room, 
 leaving Clifford standing perplexed and troubled his 
 happiness suddenly overshadowed by a dark and 
 impenetrable cloud. 
 
 Denied all sympathy at home, what more natural 
 than that he should seek it where it had never 
 failed him yet ? 
 
 Florence was out of doors when he reached 
 Alderley, and he was fortunate in finding his Aunt 
 Adelaide alone in the library, where she was looking 
 over some proofs for Anna. 
 
 ' Good morning, Clifford. Florence has gone out 
 for her walk, so I need hardly ask you to sit down 
 beside me. Is not the air cold this morning ? I 
 was out on the terrace for a little, and was glad to 
 come in ; it felt so wintry.' 
 
 ' I don't know, Aunt Adelaide. I never thought 
 of anything but one subject as I rode over ; it was 
 more than sufficient, I can tell you.' 
 
 * 'Vhat ? You look quite depressed, now that 1 
 see you better. What has ruffled you to-day ? * 
 
 * I told my mother this morning about Florence, 
 Aunt Adelaide.' 
 
 Adelaide Westray winced slightly, and laid down 
 her pen. What she had feared and anticipated had 
 come then, and there was to be a storm. 
 
 ' Well, Clifford ? ' 
 
 * She was awfully angry, Aunt Adelaide, though I 
 
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 124 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 Hrli 
 
 ■ 
 
 can't, for the life of me, understand why she doesn't 
 like Florence. She say^s she will never give our 
 enojafrenient her countenance or sanction.* 
 
 ' This is bad, Clifford ; but I am not surprised.* 
 
 * Then what am I to do ? ' 
 Adelaide Westray shook her head. 
 
 ' I dare not advise. You must see what Florenca 
 says, in the first instance.* 
 
 * Do you mean me to tell her ? * 
 'Most certainly.* 
 
 * That will be a hard task. Aunt Adelaide.' 
 
 ' It will ; but Florence will take it better from 
 you than from any one.* 
 
 Clifford, with his hands in his pockets and his 
 eyes down-bent, took two or three turns across the 
 floor. 
 
 ' Aunt Adelaide, do you tliink that it would be a 
 right or a just thing for two people to spoil their 
 life's happiness for the wrong prejudices of one ? ' 
 
 'When that one happens to be your mother, 
 Clifford, the case assumes a different aspect. It 
 might be your duty to wait till these prejudices 
 were overcome ; to try and win her by love.' 
 
 Clifford made no reply. Even to his loved aunt 
 he could not say that to him that seemed a forlorn 
 hope. 
 
 * Do you say, then, that I must give up Florence 
 till then ? ' 
 
Storms, 
 
 125 
 
 *I only said that might be your duty,' said 
 Adelaide Westray, with a sigh. * I\Iy boy, it is im- 
 possible for any one, least of all fur me, to advise 
 you how to act in this matter.* 
 
 * To give up Florence — never to see her, until 
 some far-off time when my mother might relent,' 
 said Clifford gloomily. * I fear that would be for 
 me an Impossible task. Then there is Florence — 
 God bless her ! I believe she cares for me a little. 
 Have 1 any right, having won her, to throw her off 
 for this ? Has my mother any right to ask me to 
 do such a thing ? Which would be the greater 
 wrong ? ' 
 
 At that moment the trilling of a young fresh 
 voice in a gay snatch of song broke upon their 
 ears, and presently Florence's bright face was 
 pressed against the window-pane. 
 
 * Adelaide, do come out. It is lovely now that 
 the sun has come out. It will do you no end of 
 good.' 
 
 ' Go to her, Clifford,' said Adelaide hastily, for 
 Clifford had withdrawn into a shadowed corner 
 where Florence could not see him. * Tell her 
 frankly what has happened, and leave it with 
 her. I could trust Florence to make a wise and 
 honest decision, and she will not waste much time 
 over it.* 
 
 Clifford took her advice, and as Adelaide 
 
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126 
 
 A Vexed In/ierifauce. 
 
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 Westray watched the pair stroll away together her 
 heart was heavy for them, and there was an earnest 
 prayer on her lij)s that this barrier to their joy 
 might be removed. She had been so hai)py and 
 proud of them ; she liad lived her own youth in 
 their sweet wooing, and the bright future had 
 promised to atone for the bitter past. Surely it 
 could not be all at an end, even when it had 
 scarcely begun. She dared not trust herself to 
 think of Eleanor AVestray, lest she should forget 
 that charity which * suh'ereth long and is kind.' 
 
 * What is the matter with you to-day, Clifford ? * 
 Florence asked, when they had traversed the 
 breadth of the park in unusual silence. * Are you 
 meditating on your slender chances of success at 
 the election ? Is it true what Tom told us last 
 night, that you are to contest the county against 
 Lord Marsden ? ' 
 
 ' Quite true, Florence.* 
 
 * How mad they will be at Marsden Towers ! 
 Lady Edith will not talk to you any more, I am 
 afraid.' 
 
 * Perhaps not.' 
 
 * I don't believe you are even listening to what 
 I am saying, Clifford Westray,' said Florence 
 severely. * How is Ella to-day ? I met her in 
 Westborough yesterday. She did not seem well.' 
 
 * She has not been very strong lately. There is 
 
Storms. 
 
 127 
 
 some talk of RCiidinp; lier to winter abroad. "Was 
 my mother with Ella yestejday when you met 
 her?* 
 
 * Yes.' 
 
 'Did she speak to you, Florence ? ' 
 
 ' After a fashion, yes. She said, " How do you 
 do ? " and " Good-bye." I had just begun to talk 
 to Ella about that little spaniel she has taken a 
 fancy for, when Lady Westray gave I'ennett the 
 order to drive on. She said it was too cold to 
 stand.' 
 
 Clifford coloured, and bit his lip. 
 
 ' Were you not angry, Florence ? * 
 
 * No, only amused. Your mother disli^ies me 
 very much, Clifford. She cannot even take the 
 trouble to be civil to me,' said Florence calmly. 
 
 * I told her of our engagement this morning.' 
 
 * Did you ? I thought you had done it yester- 
 day, she looked so at me. But there is no 
 engagement. You need not have called it by so 
 formal a name. What did she say ? ' 
 
 * She was much displeased.' 
 
 Clifford's answers were curt and brief, because he 
 felt so keenly on the subject. 
 
 ' I expected that. Please to tell me what she 
 said, Clifford,' Florence asked quite quietly, picking 
 the berries one by one from a cluster of mountain 
 ash she held in her hand. 
 
 3 
 
 i 
 
 X 
 
I' 
 
 128 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 ii h 
 
 ' She said she would not countenance it, and 
 that if I married you it would be without her 
 consent.' 
 
 Florence winced very slightly, and unconsciously 
 crushed the berries in her hand until the red dyed 
 her gloves. 
 
 * She is very kind. What did you say to that, 
 ClifTord?' 
 
 ' I said what I say now — that I shall never 
 give you up,' said Clillord passionately, catching 
 her hand in his. * How can you be so quiet and 
 calm, Florence ? Do you care so little about it, 
 after all ? ' 
 
 Florence uplifted her big eyes to his face for a 
 moment, with that wistful, pathetic look which 
 sometimes gave to her such an innocent, childish, 
 irresistible look. Her heart was h ngry and sore 
 at that moment, though she made no other sign 
 than by that mute, uplifted glance. 
 
 During the past days, love, being slowly revealed, 
 had become a strangely precious thing to the heart 
 of the wayward girl. But so is it with very many 
 things on earth. We only know their dear value 
 when they are about to be taken from us. 
 
 ' What do you say, Florence ? You will not 
 give me up for this ? I have a right to choose my 
 own wife, and my mother's prejudice is unjust 
 and unkind. Will yoii not go with me through 
 
Storms. 
 
 129 
 
 whatever betides ? If I have you, I care for 
 nought else.' 
 
 ' You must not say that ; I have not been 
 accustomed to see you so wlioUy selfish, Clifford,' 
 said Florence, with an exquisite, quiet earnestness 
 which sat beautifully upon her. ' You know as 
 well as I that without the approval of your kindred 
 I can be nothing to you. You may be very sure 
 that I shall never go unwelcomed to any new 
 home.' 
 
 ' Then you care nothing for me, after all ? ' said 
 Clifford, with fierce reproach in his passionate 
 voice. 
 
 'If you are pleased to think so, you may,' was 
 Florence's calm reply. But suddenly she stood 
 still by the little gate where they had plighted 
 their troth only one short week ago, the ash berries 
 fell from her hands, and she laid them with a 
 tender, clinging touch in his. Florence had some- 
 thing to say now, and she would say it with all 
 the dear earnestness of her earnest heart. 
 
 ' I do not pretend, Clifford, that it will not vex 
 me to have you go away noiv* she said, with siiy 
 emphasis on the last word. * I do not know 
 whether I should ever have been your wife,' she 
 said, finding it difficult to speak in so matter-of- 
 fact a fashion of what an hour ago had only seemed 
 a very far-off and vague possibility. ' But I do 
 
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 * 
 
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 II 
 
 1 !■ 
 
 130 
 
 A Vexed Inheiitance, 
 
 know that until your mother freely gives her 
 consent, until she says to me of her own accord 
 that she repents of her treatment of me in the past, 
 I shall never be anything more to you.' 
 
 * And what of my happiness ? Is that nothing, 
 Florence ? ' 
 
 ' You will have the consolation of knowing that 
 I am as miserable as you,' said Florence, a little 
 comical smile doing battle with some rebellious 
 tears which fell in spite of herself. ' Perhaps I am 
 wrong ; but if the day ever comes when I am 
 convinced of it, I'll tell you so, Clifford, though it 
 should humiliate me to the very dust.* 
 
 And Florence kept her word. 
 
 i ! 
 

 CHAPTER XL 
 
 IN PICCADILLY. 
 
 ,i!T:t 
 
 jT was yet early in February, but London 
 was quite full The Queen had opened 
 Parliament in person for the first time 
 since the Prince's death, and never had the season 
 begun so brilliantly. Every noble family was in 
 town, every mansion had its full complement of 
 inmates, and the votaries of fashion and lovers of 
 pleasure were in high glee, for there was promise 
 of an unusually large number of the best enter- 
 tainments. 
 
 On a sweet, mild afternoon two ladies were 
 seated in one of the upper windows of a fine house 
 in Piccadilly ; one elderly, the other in the loveliest 
 bloom of youth. Hers was not the ordinary type 
 of beauty, nor one perhaps to be just at once 
 universally admired or even admitted. Her figure, 
 
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 131 
 
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 132 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
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 li 
 
 
 
 
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 perhaps, was too insignificant, being a little under 
 the niicUUe height, and slender and slight to a 
 degree. Then her face was very pale, and though 
 lier features were refined they lacked regularity. 
 There could be no doubt, however, about the lustre 
 of her dark eyes, nor about the sheen on her bright 
 golden hair, which curled all round her head in 
 refractory ringlets, giving to her something of a 
 childish look. She wore a soft, grey cashmere 
 afternoon gown, with loops of blue ribbon at the 
 throat and wrists, and a knot of the same in her 
 hair. She was leaning back in a low rocking-chair, 
 her slender fingers lightly interlacing each other, 
 her lips moving in a low pleasant song. Evidently 
 her heart was perfectly at rest. 
 
 There was little likeness between her and the 
 elderly woman opposite ; it was difficult to believe 
 them mother and child, but such was the relation- 
 ship between them. 
 
 That face, handsome though it undoubtedly was, 
 had nothing winning or attractive about it; far 
 otherwise. The eyes were cold and piercing, the 
 lips resolute and keen, the whole expression that of 
 a woman accustomed to rule rather by fear than 
 love. Years had not added any mellowing or 
 womanly touch to the Lady Eleanor Westray. 
 There was no languor or reposeful ease in her 
 attitude. She sat close at the window, watching 
 
In Piccadilly, 
 
 "^^^Z 
 
 der 
 
 ) a 
 
 ugh 
 
 :ity. 
 
 stre 
 
 ight 
 
 i in 
 
 of a 
 
 mere 
 
 ; the 
 
 a her 
 
 chair, 
 
 othv^r, 
 
 lently 
 
 the 
 elieve 
 ation- 
 
 y was, 
 far 
 the 
 hat of 
 than 
 ng or 
 jstray. 
 in her 
 Itching 
 
 
 with keen and critical eye every equipage which 
 rolled past on its way to or from the City. She 
 knew each one, and could have traced the pedigree 
 of the occupant back to its first begiuning. There 
 were many in society who feared Laay Westray 
 with a consuming fear. If there was a blot on 
 any family escutcheon, a skeleton in the cupboard, 
 or a shadow on the hearth, these cold eyes had 
 seen it ; it was needless to try to hide it from her. 
 Few, very few, regarded Lady Westray with any 
 kindly feeling whatsoever. 
 
 * Are you watching for any one, mamma ? ' said 
 the sweet voice of the young gin. ' Don't your 
 eyes grow tired of that endless stream ? — and there 
 is not ^ven a bud yet on the trees.* 
 
 * I am looking for Clara. She promised to como 
 over this afternoon, Enderby being out of town. 
 I think I can descry her ponies yonder. Come 
 and look, Ella.* 
 
 Obedient to her mother's request, Ella rose and 
 approached the window. 
 
 * Yes, that is Clara's phseton, and Clara too. She 
 dues not look well, mamma. Don't you think she 
 is getting to look very old ? * 
 
 ' Nonsense, child ! ' was Lady Westray 's sharp 
 retort, although the very thought had occurred to 
 her when her eyes fell on her elder daughter's worn, 
 faded face. 
 
 
 P\fS\ 
 
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 ; i 
 
 
 J 
 
 !j- 
 
 1 
 
 !i 
 
 134 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 * She looks worried and unhappy too, I think/ 
 pursued Ella, her pathetic eyes full of sympathy. 
 'Mamma, I don't know how she ever married 
 Enderby.' 
 
 * Don't be absurd. Enderby is a very good sort 
 of fellow ; though, 1 admit, he might be a little more 
 polished. But think of his position and his rent 
 roll. You will soon learn how much these count 
 now-a-days in a woman's matrimonial engagement.' 
 
 ' But, mamma, if Clara didn't like him — and I am 
 sure she didn't, now when I recall her demeanour 
 at the time of her marriage — wasn't it a sin for her 
 to marry him ? ' 
 
 Lady Westray laughed, and the sound raised the 
 delicate colour in Ella's cheek. She was even more 
 sensitive now than she had been as a child, 
 
 ' Clifford has imbued you with some of his 
 quixotic ideas, which, I expect, you will get rid of 
 permanently before the season is over. See, Ella, 
 there is the Earl of Cluneraven. His eyes are 
 fixed on our windows. Give him a smile.' 
 
 But Ella drew quickly back behind the curtain, 
 and just then the Marchioness of Enderby was 
 announced. It is hard to believe that that haggard, 
 careworn woman could be the dainty and beautiful 
 Clara Westray of yore. Surely she had paid dearly 
 for the privilege of wearing a coronet, and of writing 
 herself Clara, Marchioness of Enderby. 
 
■^. . tl 
 
 In Piccadilly. 
 
 135 
 
 ' How are you to - day, mamma ? * she said 
 languidly. ' Well, Ella, have you recovered from 
 your recent excitement ? You look pale and tired. 
 I am afraid our season will wear you out.* 
 
 'Never fear. The child is quite well. It is 
 natural for her to i.ok pale,' said Lady Westray. 
 ' Well, did Enderby go into Cornwall to-day ? ' 
 
 * Yes ; he left this morning. Ilis return is 
 uncertain, but the longer he remains away the 
 better I shall be pleased,' said the young Marchioness 
 bitterly. * Look at Ella's shocked face. My dear, 
 before the summer is done, I prophesy you will 
 regard such a speech, and the feelings which prompt 
 it, as a matter of course.* 
 
 *Then I wish I were back at West Court,' 
 said Ella slowly. ' Is everybody unhappy here, 
 Clara ? * 
 
 ' Most married people, my dear ; so you had 
 better enjoy life while you may. When once you 
 bind yourself in chains, as I have done, you will 
 find little enough good in anything.* 
 
 * Don*t turn Ella against society with your bitter 
 philosophy,' said Lady Westray rebukingly. * Had 
 you a quarrel with Enderby before he left this 
 moriiing ? ' 
 
 * Yes ; but that is nothing new,* said Clara, 
 throwing aside her dainty gloves, and leaning 
 woanly back in lier seal. ' The Courtneys are in 
 
 
 I ' 
 
 1 
 
 nt- 
 
^3^ 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 4 t 
 
 I 
 
 I i 
 
 ' i 
 
 ;i I 
 
 
 :lt 
 
 town. I met Aunt Adelaide driving with Florencti 
 in the Park/ 
 
 ' Indeed ! Did you speak ? ' 
 
 'Yes. Aunt Adelaide stopped to ask for you, 
 but more especially for Ella. They are living 
 in Prince's Gate. Aunt Adelaide has taken the 
 Brabazons' house for the season.* 
 
 ' Really ! It must be true that she has come 
 into some money.' 
 
 'Quite true, I should think. Her brougham 
 was exquisitely appointed, and both she and her 
 sisters handsomely dressed. Of course it is for 
 their benefit she has come to town. A gay life 
 has no charms for Aunt Adelaide. Do you know, 
 Florence Courtney looks as young as she did ten 
 years ago. She is very pretty, mamma.' 
 
 Lady Westray shrugged her shoulders. Tho 
 subject was not pleasant to her. 
 
 ' Perhaps your Aunt Adelaide is meditating a 
 second alliance for herself. She is still handsome 
 in her way, and, now that she has means, no doubt 
 she will prove attractive to many.* 
 
 *0h, mamma, how can you say such a thing 
 about Aunt Adelaide ! ' exclaimed Ella quickly. 
 
 ' I agree with you, Ella. I think Aunt Adelaide 
 brs had sufficient of matrimony. I should think 
 it is more to make matches for her sisters that she 
 has faced once more the fatigues of a London season. 
 
\ ./: 
 
 In Piccadilly. 
 
 "^11 
 
 ' I wonder who will visit them — to what set 
 they will be admitted/ said Lady "VVestray musingly. 
 
 ' The very best, I should think. Aunt Adelaide 
 mentioned casually that she and Florence had 
 agreed to spend the Easter holidays with the 
 Duchess of Cardross at her villa on the Italian 
 Kiviera. She was explaining that but for that 
 engagement they should have been abroad just now.' 
 
 Clara >)miled slightly at the expression on her 
 mother's face. To Ella it was inscrutable, but 
 Clara knew her scheming, ambitious mother within 
 to the heart's core. 
 
 Lady Eleanor Westray was not a favourite in 
 society, and none knew better than she that it was 
 solely on her son's account that she was made much 
 of in certain quarters. Sir Clifford Westray, now 
 over thirty, and still a bachelor, was very eligible 
 in the eyes of many mothers and daughters. But 
 he seemed impregnable, and while courteous to 
 all women, paid special attention to none. He 
 seemed wedded to public life, in which lie was 
 becoming well known as an able and rising 
 politician. 
 
 ' I suppose I shall have to call one of these 
 days,' said Lady Westray, rising to ring for tea. 
 * Though, really, as your aunt never acquaints me 
 with any of her movements, I might very well be 
 excused from paying any attention to her.* 
 
 
 i I y. ' 
 
 I ! j r 
 
 &M 
 
138 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 \ i 
 
 ' 
 
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 * I am very glud Aunt Adelaide has com 3 to 
 town,* said Ella, and her sweet eyes confirmed her 
 s.itisfaction. * And when they are so near, you will 
 surely see her often.' 
 
 ' You share Clifford's absurd adoration for her,' 
 laughed Clara. ' Well, what shall 1 tell you ? 
 That you are to create a furore, in society. En derby, 
 who is an fait in all these items, tells me you will be 
 one of the successes of the season. Your daughters 
 do you credit, mamma.' 
 
 ' Did Enderby really say so ? ' inquired Lady 
 Westray eagerly. 
 
 * He did : and though his mode of discussing a 
 pretty woman is not the most refined imaginable, 
 he is generally right. They say you have made a 
 
 conquest of the Earl of Cluneraven. Will that 
 please you, Ella ? ' 
 
 The girl's sweet, sensitive face coloured painfully, 
 and she turned her head swiftly away, for her eyes 
 liad filled with tears. Somehow the whole tone of 
 the conversation jarred upon her, and she was filled 
 with vagUR forebodings concerning the future. 
 What if, by some strange combination of circum- 
 stances, by the exercise of stronger wills than her 
 own over her dastiny, she should be drawn into 
 marriage with a man she disliked and despised ? 
 If it were true, as Clara said, that there was nothing 
 but convenient and unhappy marriages in society, 
 
ture. 
 
 jum- 
 her 
 into 
 
 sed ? 
 
 ,hing 
 
 iety, 
 
 In Piccadilly. 
 
 139 
 
 how could she hope to escape ? Her young heart 
 cried out rebelliously against her sister's repulsive 
 creed, and at that very moment she was longing to 
 be a child once more, playing with careless glee in 
 the West Court woods, without a thought beyond 
 the moment with her. 
 
 ' Do you know Fred is getting on splendidly with 
 his painting, Clara ? ' said Lady Westray, hastening 
 to change the subject, for she must be wary yet 
 where Ella was concerned, if she hoped for a 
 successful issue to her latest ambition. ' Tadema 
 saw some of his thinc^s late 1 v. Cliff jid showed 
 them to him, and he says they show no ordinary 
 promise.* 
 
 * Good for Fred,' Clara commented, as she sipped 
 her tea. ' Have you heard from Bertie lately ? ' 
 
 * Yes, the other day. He is at Malta, you know, 
 with the Duke's squadron. He is rising, too. We 
 may see him an admiral yet,' said the vain mother. 
 ' My family are all successful in whatever they 
 attempt.' 
 
 ' Oh, the vanity of mothers ! ' laughed Clara. * I 
 haven't seen Fred for a long time. He is so 
 devoted to his art. I suppose he cares for noihing 
 else; but I never was much of a favourite with 
 the boys.' 
 
 'We don't see much of him. His spare time is 
 spent at the home of a friend of his at Highbury. 
 
 m. 
 
 ill 
 
I40 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 w. 
 
 
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 '\ 
 
 i 'i;!! 
 
 He is a young fellow studying with him ; a rising 
 genius, too, tliey say. His name is Frank Warehara. 
 I gave Fred permission to bring him here. I am 
 naturally anxious to see his bosom friend ; but it 
 seems he is a shy youth, who would feel himself 
 out of sorts here. I believe he is of no family, you 
 know — quite a common young man ; but one can't 
 control sons in the choice of companions, and I am 
 thankful he has no vices, for Fred would be very 
 easily led away.' 
 
 At that moment there was the sound of footsteps 
 on the stair, and presently Fred himself entered, 
 followed by his friend. It was a curious coin- 
 cidence that they should arrive just then ; one of 
 tiiose things for ..which we cannot account. 
 
 * Here he is, mother; I've caught him at last!' 
 said Fred, in his merry, off-hand fashion. He was 
 very like wliat Clifford had been at his age. ' Ho 
 walked home with nie, you know, and X had him 
 in before he knew where he was. Come in, Frank. 
 It's do or die now. jMother, this is Mr. Frank 
 Wareham, the future Sir Joshua Reynolds.* 
 
 Lady Wcstray stood up, and as her eyes fell upon 
 the face of the young man, who had followed Fred 
 and now stood blushingly, but gracefully and 
 courteously, before her, the room seemed to swim 
 round her. What was it ? What could there be 
 in that refined, pleasant face, in that speaking dark 
 
be 
 ark 
 
 In Piccadilly. 
 
 141 
 
 eyo, to make her feel as if the earth had almost 
 opened before her ? She could not liave put her 
 dread into words. She could not have said that 
 the spirit of the dead seemed to look out upon her 
 from those gentle eyes, she dared not have whispered 
 the mad suspicion which had Hashed across her 
 brain. Even in that strange moment she was 
 absolutely mistre-s of herself. Not one present 
 could have told that anything had ru filed her even 
 for a moment. 
 
 *I am glad to see you, Mr. Wareham/ she said 
 graciously, and with that consummate, indescribable 
 touch of hauteur which marked the distance between 
 them. ' My son has talked so much of you, we 
 have long looked for this pleasure. Permit me to 
 introduce to you my daughters, the Marchioness 
 of Enderby and Miss Westray. Pray find a chair. 
 Fred, touch the bell, and we shall have some more 
 tea brought in.' 
 
 Clara, attracted perhaps by the pleasant face of 
 her brother's friend, made room for him on the 
 setcee beside her, and began to talk to him at once, 
 thereby putting him at his ease. But though he 
 seemed shy, there was none of that awkwardness 
 and painful constraint which might have been 
 expected in a * common young man ' suddenly 
 introduced into the presence of ladies of high 
 degree. He was a gentleman by training evidently, 
 
 I 1- 
 
 nml^i 
 
 
 ^* 
 
 it, i 
 
142 
 
 A Vexed Inhtritance. 
 
 w 
 
 if not by birth. While tho two were talkinj^, Lady 
 Westray watched the young man's face keenly, and 
 was surprised at the peculiar feelings which had 
 overcome her at first sight. Look ut that face as 
 she would, she could see nothing in it which 
 reminded her of any she had ever seen ; the 
 resemblance she had seemed to trace five minutes 
 ago had vanished now. She was surprised, 
 puzzled, but immensely relieved. She could have 
 laughed at the very foolishness of the sudden 
 dread which had swept across her heart, and 
 somehow that relief made her more gracious and 
 afifable than was her wont. Very shortly Lady 
 Enderby took her leave, and then Lady Westray 
 seated herself beside the stranger, and began to 
 talk to him in a way which delighted Fred, who 
 had been rather anxious about his mother's 
 reception of his friend. Ella, as usual, had little 
 to say ; but once or twice, meeting Frank Wareham's 
 earnest look, she had smiled in her own ready, 
 pleasant way, not dreaming what was passing in 
 his mind. We may know. The young artist was 
 thinking, all the time he was answering Lady 
 Westray's questions, that he had never seen a 
 lovelier face than Ella Westray's, and wishing 
 with all his heart that he could have a little talk 
 with her. But that was not to be that day, for 
 Lady Westray kept him skilfully by her side until 
 
In Piccadilly, 
 
 M3 
 
 slie had learned all sho wished to know. Not till 
 tlien was her heart completely at rest. 
 
 ' We'll, what do you think of him ? ' I'rod asked, 
 directly he was away. ' Isn't he a ni(e fellow, 
 mother ? * 
 
 ' Very. I am «,dad for your sake that he is so 
 gentlemaidy. lie must have heen well brought up. 
 His mother is a widow, he tells me. "What sort of 
 a woman is she ? * 
 
 'Very nice, but not at all like Frank. She must 
 have been beautiful once, and she worships him. 
 They have a very nice little house at Highbury, 
 and they live like hermits. There's never a creature 
 inside the door, I believe, except myself.' 
 
 ' His father was in the navy. I wonder what 
 position he occupied. If I knew, I might go and 
 call on Mrs. Wareham. She may be a lady in 
 reduced circumstances.* 
 
 * I don't know. I never asked him particularly 
 what his father was. How awfully particular you 
 are about these things, mother ! ' 
 
 ' It is necessary where there is a young family, 
 Fred,' Lady Westray answered briefly. ' Silent, as 
 usual, Ella. How did Fred's rising genius impress 
 you?* 
 
 'He looks very nice, mamma,' Ella answered. 
 * I don't wonder you like him, Fred.' 
 
 ' By the time you are a duchess, Pussy, you will 
 
 »♦ 
 
 
 ! (1 ' 
 
 
 I 
 
144 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 pay a ransom to have your portrait painted by 
 Wareiiam,' laughed Fred teasingly. 
 
 * By that time no doubt I shall/ Ella answered, 
 laughing too. 
 
 * Doesn't he remind you of some one you have 
 seen ? * asked Lady Westray presently, just finally 
 to reassure herself, for that strange shock was even 
 yet a most unplensant memory. 
 
 ' I did not notiuo any resemblance,* Ella answered. 
 
 * Nor I ; but we are often taken for brothers,' 
 Fred said, and somehow these few words destroyed 
 for a time his mother's peace of mind. For Fred 
 was a true Westray in his personal appearance, 
 being slenderly built, and of fair, pale complexion. 
 It was said he bore a startling resemblance to his 
 late uncle, Sir Hubert 
 
CHAPTER XIL 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 jN the small drawing-room of a comfortably 
 furnished house at Highbury a lady was 
 sitting alone. A cheerful fire burned in 
 the well-kept grate,and cast its ruddy glow pleasantly 
 on the solitary dreamer; for her attitude and ex- 
 pression were those of one whose thoughts were either 
 busy among the records of memory, or the possibilities 
 and promises of the future. She was a woman yet 
 in her prime, for her face was smooth and un- 
 wrinkled, but her hair was quite grey. She had it 
 confined under a small cap of delicate lace, with a 
 bow of lavender-coloured ribbon at the side. Her 
 dress was black, gracefully made, but without 
 trimming of any kind. Her hands were white and 
 well-made, and on the left one she wore a wedding 
 ring. She had in some respects a striking face — 
 
 K 
 
 m 
 
 rnkt. 
 
 I 
 
 'm 
 
 
 I ■' 
 
 I 
 
>!!: 
 
 I 
 
 ililiHI 
 
 I 
 
 ' I 
 
 ! I 
 
 146 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 resolute, full of power, giving evidence that she was 
 not quite of the ordinary standard of women. The 
 eyes were perhaps the least agreeable feature— not 
 that they were in themselves unlovely, but their 
 expression was restless, shifting, and keen ; then tlie 
 eyelids had a peculiar way of drooping, which is apt 
 to convey an idea of insincerity, or at least of a 
 disposition to make and keep secrets. Well might 
 her eyes tell their tale as best they could ; she had 
 kept a life's secret as the grave keeps its — buried 
 for evermore. That fact alone indicated that she 
 was not an ordinary woman, for to most of her sex 
 such a burden would have been absolutely intoler- 
 able. But it had cost her something too, and 
 would yet cost her more. 
 
 The hour was five o'clock, but the days were 
 lengthening, and the sun had but newly set. There 
 was a fine promise of spring in the air and in the 
 sweet fulness of bud and leaf. There was a profu- 
 sion of lovely spring bloom in the little flower- stand 
 in the window recess of the drawing-room — hyacintli, 
 primula, crocus, and snowdrops — as sturdy and 
 perfectly formed as if they had grown in their 
 native woods. These and other little touches about 
 the room gave evidence of taste and love for the 
 beautiful in its inmates. 
 
 The hour had passed before the click of a latch- 
 key in the outer door roused the lady from her 
 
was 
 The 
 -not 
 Llieir 
 1 the 
 s ai)t 
 of a 
 night 
 e had 
 mrieil 
 
 it sbe 
 er sex 
 ;itoler- 
 D, and 
 
 J were 
 There 
 in the 
 prcfu- 
 - stand 
 acintli, 
 ly and 
 11 their 
 about 
 tor the 
 
 latch- 
 lom her 
 
 Nemesis, 
 
 H7 
 
 reverie. She rose at once, and was bending over tlie 
 flower-stand, when a young man entered the room. 
 
 * You are late, Frank,* she said ; then, ' What 
 has kept you ? * 
 
 * What do you think, mother ? * he asked gaily, as 
 he stepped to her side and gave her the kiss witli( iit 
 which he had never left or returned to her. 'Guess.' 
 
 * How could I ? ' 
 
 It was wonderful to see the exquisite and soften- 
 ing tenderness which stole away all the harsher out- 
 line from her face, as her eyes looked upon her boy. 
 
 ' Shall I tell you ? Westray actually inveigled 
 me into his house, and I had tea in Lady AVestray's 
 drawing-room.' 
 
 * I am very much displeased, Frank. You know 
 my wishes very well.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but, mother, you see I couldn't help 
 myself exactly. I walked down with him, and 
 somehow he had me in before I knew where I was. 
 They were very nice, I assure you — not in the 
 least patronising ; at least I didn't feel it.' 
 
 Mrs. Wareham made no reply. A strange, cliill 
 hand seemed to have been suddenly laid upon her 
 heart. She returned to her chair, and, sitting down, 
 folded her hands in her lap. 
 
 ' Tell me about it,* was all she said. 
 
 Frank leaned against the low marble mantel and 
 ran his fingers through his sunny curls, his face 
 
 4n 
 m 
 
 
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 m 
 
 '■'■I 
 
 % it 
 
 
148 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 II 
 
 II 
 
 ! i 
 
 (J:!. 
 
 Ill 
 
 i' ! 
 
 ■i i 
 
 ■\ 
 
 meanwhile wearing a pleased expression, which his 
 mother was quick to notice, and perhaps to resent. 
 
 ' I saw Lady Westray and her two daughters, 
 the Marchioness of Enderby and Miss Ella Westray. 
 She is lovely, mother. I was curious to see her, 
 Fred talked so incessantly about her ; but his 
 descriptions were all far short of the reality. I 
 really never saw a lovelier creature.* 
 
 * Is she like her mother ? * 
 
 ' No, she is a Westray, like Fred. I saw their 
 father's portrait. You couldn't imagine a more 
 striking family resemblance than there is between 
 them. Sir Clifford is very like his mother.* 
 
 * Ah, did you see him ? * 
 
 ' Not to-day. I have met him before, you know. 
 IMother, if anybody asked me to name my Sir 
 Bayard, I should point to Sir Clifford Westray. He 
 is my ideal of all that is noblest and best in man.' 
 
 * You are quite eloquent, Frank. Take care your 
 contact with the Westrays does not make you a 
 rank-worshipper and a time-sci ver. I have tried to 
 rear you to carry a proud and independent spirit. 
 I hope all my efforts are not to be thrown away.' 
 
 She spoke dryly, with bitterness even, and her 
 eyes had darkly clouded. He could not know that 
 the very name of Westray, when uttered by him, 
 went like a poisoned arrow to her heart. 
 
 * I am sorry if I have vexed you, mother,' Frank 
 

 '\,iB 
 
 d to 
 spirit. 
 
 ay/ 
 d her 
 
 V that 
 
 him, 
 
 Franli 
 
 Nemesis. 
 
 149 
 
 said quickly. * I shall not go back unless you like 
 it/ 
 
 ' No doubt mine is a foolish prejudice, but T have 
 never seen any good result from people consorting 
 with those so far above them in social rank/ she said 
 more gently. 'Did you enjoy your visit, then ? Did 
 you feel at home in Lady Westray's drawing-room ? ' 
 
 * Perfectly. She was very kind. I do not know 
 that I was particularly drawn to her, but she was 
 very kind. Do you know, mother, these old families 
 have many romantic and even tragic stories con- 
 nected with them ? Fred told me only to-day that 
 his father only came into possession of the title 
 and estates through the extraordinary disappearance 
 of the elder brother's only child. May I tell you the 
 story, mother ? It reads like a thrilling romance/ 
 
 ' Not just now ; some other time,' she answered, 
 in a quiet, still voice, which betrayed no emotion or 
 excitement. But her hands no longer lay lightly 
 folded on her lap, but were tightly clenched in each 
 other, so that the nails made marks upon the skin. 
 
 'His mother — the Dowager Lady Westray, of 
 course, though she is younger than Fred's mother 
 — is still alive. Fred pointed her out to me this 
 very day driving with a young lady. You have no 
 idea with what interest I looked at her. She has a 
 sad expression, which would tell any one she had 
 had some great sorrow.* 
 
 i-r 
 
 i7 
 
I50 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 \\. 
 
 , 
 
 i :; 
 
 1 1 
 
 I 
 
 ' Is Lady Adelaide Westray in London ? ' asked 
 Mrs. Wareham, with such a sharp accent of 
 surprise in her voice that Frank looked at her in a 
 bewildered way. 
 
 ' She has come to town for the season/ he said. 
 * Do you know her ? Is her name Adelaide ? Fred 
 did not mention it.' 
 
 ' Know her, boy ! How could I know her, except 
 by name ? Noble families and their affairs are in 
 general more or less of public property. I have 
 heard of the Westrays of West Court before now.' 
 
 * Perhaps you know about the lost heir, then. 
 Have you heard the story ? ' 
 
 * I must have heard it, I suppose, many years 
 ago,' she answered, with visible abruptness. * Now 
 don't you think we have had enough of the 
 Westrays for one night ? The subject is not one 
 of engrossing interest.' 
 
 ' You are vexed still, mother. I am very sorry if 
 I have unwittingly hurt you,' said Frank Wareham 
 quickly. * I would not do so for worlds.' 
 
 ' I know, I know ! ' Her voice faltered, despite 
 her effort to steady it. * I do not wish to lay any 
 commands upon you, Frank, but it would make me 
 easier of mind were you to hold aloof from these 
 fine people. Believe me, they wiU only play with 
 you until they tire of you. They have not your 
 real and abiding interests at heart.' 
 
Nevtesis. 
 
 15' 
 
 ' That is hard on Fred, mother, and on Sir Clif- 
 ford Westray. He has helped me in a thousand 
 ways, and will in the future, with his influence and 
 advice. It is only by accepting such kindness that I 
 may be able some day to repay all your love and 
 self-sacrifice for me. In these days it is hardly 
 possible for unaided effort to come to the front.' 
 
 * Is there nothing in you, Frank, which rebels 
 at the thought of being aided by Sir Clifford 
 Westray ? ' 
 
 * Nothing. His generous kindness is offered wiili 
 that delicacy peculiar to his noble nature. I know 
 not how it is, but I feel drawn to Sir Clifibrd 
 Westray in no ordinary wa}^ Wlien I see him, I 
 feel happy, I hardly know why.' 
 
 Mrs. Wareham sat silent, her eyes down-bent 
 upon the fire. The twilight had now grown very 
 dun in the room, and she wa.3 glad of the darkening 
 shadows which so kindly hid her face. Oh, could 
 Frank but have seen into that riven and tortured 
 soul, what a revelation would have met his gaze ! 
 
 * I just rushed home to tell you I had an engage- 
 ment to-night at Kensington. The master invited 
 us to his studio to-niglit to give us some practical 
 illustrations of tlie lessons he has been giving us of 
 late. You will excuse me, mother, if I leave you ? ' 
 
 * Certainly,' she answered. * Will young Westray 
 be there also ?' 
 
 'Hi 
 
 1l i j 
 
 I 
 
 '^k 
 
 I'M 
 
 I I 
 
152 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 >' i 
 
 n 
 
 ' No, his mother has a dinner to-night. Sir 
 ClifiTord speaks afterwards in the House on the 
 Bulgarian business. I should like to hear him, 
 mother. Fred offered to get me admission.' 
 
 ' Go by all means. You seem bound up in the 
 Westrays,* she answered, with a quiet bitterness it 
 was impossible for her to repress ; then suddenly 
 she lifted her heavy eyes to the lad's face, and a 
 strange passion stirred them. * Frank, you will not 
 let them wean you away utterly from me ? I liave 
 tried to do my duty. I have done for you what 
 lay in my power, and, God help me, I have loved 
 you too well.* 
 
 It was a strange speech for a mother to make ; 
 a strange speech for a son to hear. He may be 
 forgiven if he wholly misunderstood it. 
 
 * I will not go, mother,' he said impulsively ; for 
 he truly loved her, the one being in the world who 
 so faithfully loved him. * I will come straight 
 home from the master to you. I will have no more 
 to do with the Westrays. I will even cut Fred if 
 it will make you happier, or more at rest.' 
 
 'My son,' she said — and with what mournful 
 tenderness did she linger on the name ! — * I would 
 not ask such a sacrifice from you. I have no right 
 to expect it. My fears are wholly ' selfish, and 
 perhaps unfounded. Think no more of them. Keep 
 your friends, and may ^h*».v always be to you what 
 
for 
 who 
 
 Nemesis, 
 
 153 
 
 you would wish. Destiny must work its way. Wo 
 cannot control or keep it back.' 
 
 Frank Warcham left his home that night with 
 some misgivings in his heart. He feared that his 
 mother was not well in health. He had never seen 
 her in so strange a mood but once, on the first 
 occasion upon which he had brought Frank Westray 
 home with him. But though he remembered that 
 night very well, he attached no importance to it in 
 connection with the announcement of his visit to 
 the house in Piccadilly. It was a curious coincidence, 
 only it did not strike him. 
 
 Mrs. Wareham saw him go with relief. She was 
 glad wh(?n the outer door shut behind him, and she 
 heard the echo of his footsteps gTow fainter and 
 fainter in the quiet street. She rose to her feet, and 
 with clasped hands walked to and fro the room 
 possessed by an agony of unrest. With her own 
 hand she had heaped up mountains of sorrow for 
 herself. Not very long could she hope to elude the 
 Nemesis that was following in her train. 
 
 She had risked much, borne much, conquered 
 much, but her hands were not strong enough to 
 force back the resistless force of destiny, which was 
 slowly but surely working out its own revenge. 
 The weary day, which had shed only fitful gleams 
 of brightness across her way of life, was now far 
 spent, and the night was coming on. She left the 
 
 fi' 
 
 'I I.' 
 
 \' 
 
 
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 w 
 
 ''"i 
 
 I \ 
 
 M 
 
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 Bb^ 
 
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 \ ^'iBI 
 
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 it 
 
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 154 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 drawing-room when the maid entered to light the 
 lamps, and crossing the coiridor, entered her own 
 chamber and locked the door. She lit the gas, 
 then closed the blinds, and opening tlie wardrobe, 
 unlocked tlie drawer which was always closed, and 
 where she kept, perhaps, her precious things. It 
 was a small drawer, and it was not full. A soft 
 cambric handkerchief lightly covered the contents, 
 and, when it was removed, there lay revealed — • 
 what ? No precious jewels, no ornaments which it 
 were wise to keep under lock and key, but only a 
 few tiny articles of a cliild's apparel. But these 
 were of the finest cambric, trimmed with lace which, 
 though now yellow witli age, was of priceless vahie. 
 It was such as is handed down from one generation 
 to another as a precious heiiloom. She knelt down 
 beside the drawer, and took cut the articles one by 
 one, to look sttdfastly at the initials and tlie crest 
 exquisitely worked upon each. When they were all 
 lying folded beside her, a little box only remained 
 in the drawer — a cheap cedarwood thing, which 
 could be bought anywhere for a few pence. There 
 was not much in it — a tiny ringlet of hair like 
 livin;i- gold, and so soft and beautiful to the touch 
 that it must have been stolen from its companions 
 on the head of a little child. 
 
 There was also a small golden chain, exquisitely 
 wrought, and having attached to it a cornelian 
 
Ne7nesis, 
 
 155 
 
 heart, with a monogram and a crest cut on it 
 similar to those sewn on the garments. These, then, 
 were her treasures. J)id they b(.'h)ng to some dear, 
 dear child, whose memory was still a living thing in a 
 loving heart ? Did she find a pensive and melan- 
 choly pleasure in looking at them, and moistening 
 them with her tears ? No, no. The sight of them 
 cut her to the heart. They were not hers ; they 
 were sacred to the mother who for twenty years 
 had borne the bitter heart-sickness of hope deferred, 
 and whose life was a barren thing because of the 
 heinous wrong which this kneeling woman bad done 
 her. But during these years Destiny h.ad been at 
 work, and the day of retribution, the day of suffering 
 and bereavement, was at hand now for her. She 
 had escaped the immediate consequences of her sin, 
 only to suffer after many years a more terrible 
 punishment. She had stolen the child of another, 
 only to learn to love it as her own with a love 
 which was to break her heart. Something within 
 told her that she was being carried resistlessly upon 
 some strong tide which would strand her upon the 
 rocks at length. The thought was so overpowering, 
 so engrossing, it would not be set aside at her 
 biddim?. In that silent chamber, with these mute 
 memorials of her long-gone sin around her, Kosa- 
 mond Vane bent her tired head upon her hands and 
 wept. 
 
 ! v't 
 
 1 (■ 
 
CHAPTEK XIII. 
 
 MARKYING AND GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 
 
 Mil 
 
 \t 
 
 'LORENCE COURTNEY was alone in the 
 drawing-room of her sister's house in 
 Prince's Gate. She was sitting at the 
 piano, her elbows resting on the keys, her face 
 hidden in her hands. Of what was she thinking ? 
 Why was her fair face clouded, her sweet eyes 
 shadowed with a bitter pain ? The years had 
 wrought but little outward change in Florence. 
 She was still bright, wilful, lovable, though there 
 was at times many little womanly touches about 
 her which seemed to tell that some pensive 
 influence was at work within. 
 
 The twilight had stolen upon her unawares as 
 she had lingered over her music — still the sweet 
 solace of those darker moments with which she 
 had to battle sometimes, for the impulses of the 
 
 156 
 
 i m 
 
Marrying and Giving in Marriage. 157 
 
 heart will not always obey the dictates of the 
 will. Wherever she went, Florence Courtney won 
 aftectionate regard, and more than one eligible 
 suitor, even during the present season, had sought 
 her love. But tliough kind and fricjndly to all, 
 Florence encouraged none ; and so became an 
 enigma to those v lio thought her very lucky to 
 have such chances laid at her feet. She thought 
 otherwise, evidently, and still preferred her 
 freedom, though the bloom of her youth was 
 undoubtedly past. She was one of those rare 
 women who do good and ditluse heart-sunshine in 
 any sphere, and who would never go solitary down 
 the hill of life so long as there were those in 
 need of sympathy and friendship. But Adelaide 
 Westray may be forgiven if she had many a 
 rebellious thought over Florence, picturing what 
 a life full of the grandest possibilities might have 
 been hers had she not clung with such persistence 
 to an idea of duty, which was probably a mistaken 
 one after all For Eleanor Westray was not 
 exactly the kind of woman for whom a great 
 sacrifice might justly and heroically be made. 
 She would have been incapable of appreciiiting it, 
 or the motives which prompted it ; there being no 
 nobility of heart or unseltishness of soul in her 
 whole nature. 
 
 * Sir Cliiibrd Westray, M'ss Courtney.* 
 
 •A 
 
 ^ 
 
 m 
 
 -''ji! r 
 
 ';!;(;■'! 
 
158 
 
 4 Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 I 
 
 ., 
 
 it 
 
 
 The servant's announcement almost beside her 
 caused her to leap to her feet in sudden surprise. 
 The soft carpet had deadened the footsteps on the 
 stair, and, in truth, Florence had been so absorbed 
 by her own thoughts, sad and sweet, that she would 
 not have noticed .'^ny sound outside the room. 
 
 She held out her hand in the old frank fashion, 
 and said in that natural, pleasant way which no 
 time nor any experience of society could spoil, — • 
 
 * How are you, Clifford ? We have nob seen 
 you for a long time.' 
 
 * No, T have been very busy. Ella told me to- 
 day Aunt Adelaide has not been well for some 
 time, and I came to see for myself what is wrong,' 
 Clifford answered quietly, and with his keen, kind 
 eye fixed — oh, with what deep yearning ! — on the 
 face of the woman before him. Time had not 
 changed him either. Amid all the beauty and 
 fascination of London life he had for ad no second 
 love. ' How are you, Florence ? ' 
 
 ' Quite well,' she answered, and moved a little 
 away, for her colour rose under that earnest gaze. 
 Her heart was beating, too, her pulses thrilling 
 with that stiange, sweet happiness which no other 
 presence could have brought. Ah, love was not 
 dead yet, as both knew loo well. Clifford walked 
 over to the window and drew up the Venetian 
 blinds to admit the last radiance of the dying day. 
 
V 
 
 Marrying and Giving in Marriage, 1 59 
 
 There was a brief silence, constrained a little, as 
 was perhaps natural, considering what had been 
 between them in the past. 
 
 * There is nothing much wrong with Adelaide, 
 Clifford. She feels the heat. We return to Alder- 
 ley next week. The term for which she has taken 
 this house expires on the 24th.' 
 
 * Indeed ! Have yovb enjoyed the season, then ? * 
 ' Not particularly. I am a country girl, Clifford,' 
 
 she said, with that swift, bright smile which gave 
 such sweetness to her face. ' What gieat things 
 you have accomplished ! We are very proud of 
 our Member. He has made his mark.' 
 
 Clifford Wcstray somewhat impatiently shook 
 his head. Ho dared not say, that because one 
 thing was denied him, all else in his eyes was as 
 Dead Sea fruit. He did not choose to tell her 
 of the weariness and lack of interest which held 
 him in thrall even in the very tldckest of the 
 fight. There was not much sweetness in the life 
 of Clifford Westray. Even duty nobly done, 
 victories for what was good and true, failed to 
 satisfy thft innermost yearnings of his soul. His 
 nature was one which needed the sunlit touch of 
 love. 
 
 Sir Clifford Westray's name was synonymous 
 with all that was good and noble ; he was ever to 
 be found on the side of the oppressed, he had aided 
 
 1 I !: 
 
 if. ., 
 
 It 
 
 I ;■ 1 
 
'ii 
 
 1 60 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 
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 1 
 
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 1 
 
 i: 
 
 '; 
 
 1 
 
 ■ i 
 1 
 
 in the redress of many wrongs. But those who 
 knew him and loved him best felt at times that, 
 perhaps, his sympathy with the sorrow of others 
 had been dearly bought. 
 
 * May I tell you, Cliftbrd,* said Florence, lifting 
 her sweet, true eyes to his fine face, with an 
 exquisite look of shyness and trust — * may I tell 
 you how glad we are, who have known you so long, 
 to see you doing such noble work in the world ? ' 
 
 He turned abruptly to her, and looked at her 
 with darkly-shaded eyes. 
 
 * It is not enough from you to me, Florence,' he 
 said curtly, and, turning upon his heel, quitted the 
 room. 
 
 Why ? Because he knew that in another 
 moment he should forget, and clasp her to his 
 heart. 
 
 Meeting a servant on the stairs, he asked if he 
 might see Lady Westray, and was at once ushered 
 up to her own sitting-room, where she was lying 
 on the couch with her eyes closed, and an open 
 book beside her. 
 
 ' Oh, it is you, Clifford ! ' she exclaimed, with a 
 radiant smile of welcome. * I am very glad to see 
 you. This very moment I was thinking of you, 
 my boy.' 
 
 He stooped from his tall height to kiss the pale 
 cheek, noting at the moment how sharply outlined 
 
Marrying and Giving in Marriage. 1 6 1 
 
 It: 
 
 
 le pale 
 Itliiied 
 
 it seemed to be, and how many grey threads were 
 among the golden ones. It flaahed upon him that 
 his aunt was growing old. 
 
 ' When did you come ? * she asked, when he did 
 not speak. * Is there no one in the house ? * 
 
 ' Yes. I saw Florence downstairs,' he answered 
 curtly, and began to pace up and down the room, 
 her eyes following him with marked anxiety. 
 
 * Did you have a little talk with her ? It is not 
 very often you meet,' she said at length. 
 
 ' No, and that is well. It would not be good for 
 me to see Florence often, Aunt Adelaide. The 
 battle is hard enough as it is.' 
 
 ' You have felt it much of late, I think, dear. 
 I have fancied you looked worn and anxious often 
 when I have seen you.' 
 
 * Yes, Aunt Adelaide, I wish T knew where my 
 duty lay. My very soul cleaves to Florence. 
 Something tells me that with her my opportunities 
 for doing good would be enormously increased. 
 She is a noble woman. Tlie question comes to be 
 — Is it right that we should continue apart, loving 
 each other as we do, for I do not think Florence 
 has forgotten any more than I ? ' 
 
 ' No, no. I wish I understood your mother, 
 Clifford. With such a son as you are, she ought 
 to be a humble as well as a proud and thankful 
 woman. The majority of women in her place 
 
 i !'ii 
 
 t 
 
 ' M 
 
 I'll 
 
 ■m 
 
 (! -I 
 
l62 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 \ \ 
 
 \\ 
 
 r I 
 
 1 i 
 
 
 would make any sacrifice for your happiness. 
 And she is not asked to make any sacrifice. Her 
 prejudice against Florence has not abated, Clifford. 
 She has been rude to her on more than one 
 occasion that we have met in London.' 
 
 * / do not understand her, Aunt Adelaide. If it 
 were not for my brothers and sister, who naiurally 
 look to me for an example, I should hav^e no 
 hesitation in choosing my own lot. But I know 
 that, were I to marry Florence, my mother would 
 neither receive her nor forgive me. She sometimes 
 exhibits a vindictive spirit which astonishes and 
 •grieve? me. May I be forgiven if I sin in thus 
 speaking of my mother. But it is an unspeakable 
 relief to have in the world one heart which I can 
 trust to the uttermost. May God bless you. Aunt 
 Adelaide ; you have been more to me than any 
 mother.' 
 
 * How is Ella, Clifford ? I have not seen her 
 much lately,' said Adelaide Westray, thinking it 
 wise to change the subject. 
 
 * She is well, thanks, but wearying, like myself, 
 to be back at West Court. How she loves the 
 place ! Aunt Adelaide, there is no fear of Ella 
 ever becoming an enthusiastic votary of fashion. 
 T am glad of it. I would not have the child 
 spoiled by anything I could be offered. She is 
 an unspeakable source of sweetness in the 
 
Marrying and Giving in Marriage. 163 
 
 ies3. 
 
 Her 
 
 ford. 
 
 one 
 
 If it 
 rally . 
 e no 
 know 
 vould 
 times 
 5 and 
 
 thus 
 
 ikable 
 
 I can 
 
 Aunt 
 any 
 
 m ber 
 [ing it 
 
 nyself, 
 is the 
 If Ella 
 isliion. 
 child 
 I She is 
 in the 
 
 house. Without her, I fear, we would be a sorry 
 family/ 
 
 ' Is there no truth, then, in the rumour I have 
 heard in various quarters, that she is to crown her 
 first season with what the world would call a 
 signal triumph ? She is not the future wife of the 
 Earl of Cluneraven ? * 
 
 Clifford laughed. 
 
 *Eumour is as absurd as she is untrue. Ella 
 laughs at him, and shrinks from him too. No, 
 Aunt Adelaide, it is not to such as Cluneraven I 
 shall ever give my little sister. Clara's marriage 
 has been a solemn lesson to me.* 
 
 * I am glad to hear you speak so decidedly, 
 Clifibrd. I do not like the little I have heard of 
 Cluneraven. Are you going already ? Do you 
 speak to-night ? ' 
 
 ' No, but there is a division on the Zulu 
 Question, from which I must not be absent. It is 
 time I was off. Good-night, Aunt Adelaide ; we 
 shall see more of each other next month, I hope, 
 when you are at Alderley, and I at West Court.' 
 
 So he went his way, followed by the earnest love 
 and blessing of the woman to whose desolate heart 
 he had been a son indeed. 
 
 The division on the Zulu Question was late in 
 being taken, and it was after midnight before he 
 reached home. To his surprise, he found his 
 
1 64 
 
 A Vexed Inheriimice, 
 
 I :l 
 
 5ii 
 I 
 
 
 t • 
 
 I 
 
 
 '' i 
 
 mother waiting up for hiin. He knew she had had 
 no enga[(ement for that evening, and expected the 
 household would have retired to rest. 
 
 * You are very late, or rather early, Clifford ? * 
 she said, quite graciously. * Was there much doing 
 to-ni^ht?* 
 
 ' Not much. Why are you not in bed, mother ? ' 
 
 * Because I wanted to see you before I slept. I 
 have something to tell you.* 
 
 He looked at her in some surprise, and saw that 
 she seemed unusually elated and excited 
 
 * I am at your service, mother,' he said, with a 
 smile. * What weighty secret have you to impart 
 to my private ear ? * 
 
 ' It is a weighty matter indeed, Clifford. No less 
 than a proposal for your sister's hand.* 
 Instantly Clifford was on the alert. 
 
 * Indeed ; by whom was it made ? ' 
 
 ' Is it possible you need to ask the question ? 
 How blind men are I Why, I have expected it for 
 weeks.* 
 
 * Is it from Cluneraven, mother ? * 
 
 ' Yes ; are you not gratified ? To think that our 
 little Ella should have achieved such a triumph ; 
 in her first season, too ! Half the world will be 
 v/ild with envy.* 
 
 Clifford was silent. As we are aware, he differed 
 slightly from his mother regarding this matter. 
 
 I li 
 
Marrying and Giving in Marriage. 165 
 
 tion ? 
 It for 
 
 It our 
 
 lill be 
 
 ired 
 
 * What does Ella say ? That, I presume, is the 
 first point to be considered,* he said, with a sigh. 
 
 "What if, after all, Ella, deceived by the mere- 
 tricious glitter of a coronet, should follow in her 
 sister's footsteps ! It was not easy to account for 
 the wayward caprice of a woman's heart. 
 
 'I regret to say, Clifford, that Ella, like the 
 foolish girl she is, elects to be very indignant about 
 it. She positively says she would not marry Clune- 
 raven though there was not another man in the 
 world. I have had to talk very seriously to her, 
 and I am trusting to you for aid. It would bo 
 very wrong for us to allow her, out of girlish folly 
 to lose such a very advantageous settlement in life.' 
 
 For one other brief interval Clifford was silent. 
 He foresaw that another storm was brewing ; th;>L 
 for the second time his opinion must clash with 
 that of his mother. 
 
 ' Are you perfectly satisfied with Cluneraven as 
 a husband for Ella, mother ? Does his character 
 as a man commend itself to you ? He is well 
 known to you.* 
 
 ' Oh, well, one can't have everything, you know. 
 lie is very easy and good-tempered — and then look 
 at his position, his prospects,' said Lady Westray 
 with emphasis. ' Why, Ella may be Diicliess of 
 Deverou before she is four-and- twenty. Is that to 
 be despised, Clifford ? ' 
 
 
 C, (' 
 
 %k 
 
\r 
 
 1 
 
 \ 
 
 'i 
 
 ' i i it 
 
 1(^6 
 
 j4 Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 'The man is a fcol, niotlier; scarcely possessed of 
 ordinary iiit(3lligcnce, and his character is not blame- 
 less. Unless Ella accepts him of her own accord, I 
 shall be no party to forcing such an alliance upon 
 her; and m •»% '-''' <he asks my advice, I shall 
 certainly advic!: li'-r .^-T^ainst it.* 
 
 Clifford spOi. qn^'^tly and courteously, but 
 with a decision there v/as no mistaking. His 
 mother grew pale. For a moment she was too 
 indignant to speak. 
 
 * You called Cluneraven a fool a moment ago, 
 Clifford. The name might be more applicable to 
 yourself/ she said, bitterly, at length. ' It is hard 
 that, in my efforts to advance the interests of my 
 family, you should be the chief hindrance ; and yet 
 you are supposed to be filling your father's place.' 
 
 * It is because I am conscientiously trying to 
 follow the example he left that I must be firm in 
 this matter, mother,' said Clifford sadly. * I stood 
 aside when Clara's marriage was being arranged, and 
 said nothing, though I did not approve of it. But 
 Clara was a woman who could weigh the matter as 
 calmly and judiciously as I, and she accepted her 
 lot, being quite a\vare of its drawbacks. It is 
 different with Ella. Slie is a mere child, whose 
 innocence and trust appeal very strongly to my 
 heart. It shall be my duty, please God, to shield 
 her from a fate like Clara's.' 
 
 i \ 
 
 . \ 
 

 Marrying and Giving in Alarriage. 167 
 
 lie s])oke with deep emution, but failed to touch 
 his motlier's heart. 
 
 ' You use extraordinary language, Clifford. I am 
 not aware that the rich and popular Marchioness of 
 Endcrby requires your commiseration regarding her 
 fate,' she said with scorn. 
 
 ' She is a discontented and unhappy woman, 
 because she is bound to a man she can 
 respect nor esteem/ said Clifford quietly 
 know that as well as I.' 
 
 * Then Cluneraven is to receive an en.^hatic 
 denial ? ' 
 
 * I shall see Ella, mother ; then you can refer him 
 to me,' Clifford answered. * There is no hurry for 
 Ella marrying, is there ? We cannot afford to lose 
 her.' 
 
 ' She is a romantic, silly girl. If I thought my 
 words would make any impression upon you, I 
 would tell you that I apprehend danger where young 
 Wareham is concerned. He comes far too often 
 here. It was a pity I ever gave him any encourage- 
 ment to come, but I never fancied for a moment he 
 would be tempted to forget his position. I aiii 
 positive he is in love with Ella, and, as I said, she 
 is at the most impressionable age. But I suppose 
 that would not be a calamity in your eyes.' 
 
 Clifford smiled. 
 
 * I certainly think that, other things being equal, 
 
 I' 1; I 
 
 \ ..lliit 
 
 •>•*... 
 
i68 
 
 A Vexed InheritaiKC, 
 
 li*' 
 
 '• i, i 
 
 t '; 
 
 ■ ( 
 
 w 
 
 i 
 
 younf» Wareliam would make a desirable husband 
 for Ella or any other woman. lie is one of the 
 finest, truest natures I have ever met.* 
 
 Lady Westray looked the ineffable scorn she did 
 not utter. 
 
 * I cannot say I am pleased, Clifford. I am 
 bitterly disappointed. I thought you would have 
 been proud to see your sister a duchess.' 
 
 Clifford turned his deep, penetratini,' eyes for 
 an instant with swift, passionate keenness on his 
 mother's face. 
 
 * Mother, you spoiled my happiness. It need not 
 surprise you if I make Ella my first earthly care. 
 But for her sweet love, the past ten years would 
 have been intolerable to me. You do not know 
 how she has helped me to be dutiful to you. The 
 best return I can make is to see that she is not 
 sacrificed on the altar of ambition,' said Clifford 
 curtly, and with a brief good night left the room. 
 
 He may be forgiven the first recriminating words 
 which had ever passed his lips since his own man- 
 hood's hopes had withered ere they had come to 
 bloom. 
 
 ! i 
 
for 
 his 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 PRIDKS REVENGE. 
 
 'ADY ELEANOR WESTRAY was right. 
 Fred's you .g artist friend had found his 
 visits to the house in Piccadilly wonder- 
 fully sweet, and Ella was the magnet which drew 
 him to it. Had he been less absorbed by his 
 growing attachment to her, he must have felt 
 keenly Lady Westray's treatment of him. Her 
 manner was invariably distant, haughty, and 
 repellent. She seldom, indeed, vouchsafed to 
 notice him at all ; but what did it matter to him 
 when Ella was there with her sweet, bright smile, 
 her ready interest and sympathy with all his work 
 and aims ? Ella was fond of art herself, and painted 
 well for an amateur, and she had been always 
 enthusiastic over Fred's progress. 
 
 It seemed the most natural thing in the world 
 
 i^Hi 
 
 Hi 
 
 
 
 11 
 
 St! 
 
 IJriHf 
 
 ^lilH 
 
 
 fm^Mt 
 
 y ■■H 
 
 , vTlH.' 
 
 
:l^ 
 
 III 
 
 170 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 w 
 
 I 
 
 ! 
 
 \\ 
 
 I a 
 
 !l 
 
 -1,1 
 
 that she slioiild extend tliat interest to his friend, 
 and if, as the (hiys went hy, the one grew a little 
 stronger than the other, she was not aware of it yet. 
 But she knew very well tliat she looked forward 
 to and enjoyed his afternoon calls, and the small 
 opportunities for congenial talk which these afforded. 
 
 Young Wareluun was working very hard, and was 
 far ahead of Fred in his study of art. "We may 
 smile hecause liis work was so sweetened hy thoughts 
 and, it may be, hopes of her j but it was all very 
 real, and withal an ennobling incentive to him. He 
 knew, it may be su])posed, that there was a little 
 difference in tlieir stations, but love in its infancy 
 takes no thought for obstacles such as these. 
 
 As may be expected, Lady Westray came down- 
 stairs on the morning after her conversation with 
 Clifford in no amiable frame of mind. She was early, 
 for her disappointment had broken her rest, and she 
 found the breakfast-room still unoccupied. Clifford 
 and Ella on their way down a few minutes later hap- 
 pened to meet on the stairs. In spite of late hours 
 and other fatigues, Ella had lost none of her girlish 
 freshness, and, though still pale, looked as well as when 
 she left West Court in the beginning of February. 
 
 * (lood morning. Pussy,' said Clifford in his kind 
 way. ' The bell hasn't rung, though I think I saw 
 mamma's skirts vanishing a minute ago. Come into 
 the drawinnr-room a moment with me.' 
 
 i i 
 
Pride s Rcvcuge, 
 
 171 
 
 Ella coloured sH^^htly, but slipped her ImTid 
 through his arm, nnd entered with him without a 
 mis^aving. She knew ClilTord too well to be afraid. 
 
 ' I want you to tell me frankly and truly, Elli,' 
 he said, when the door was shut upon them, * what 
 your feelings are about this offer of marriage of 
 which mamma told ni'^ last night.* 
 
 He spoke verj' gravely, for indeed ho felt the 
 matter to bo one of extreme moment to the young 
 girl before him. His love for her liad in it an 
 element of almost fatherly anxiety and care. 
 
 ' What can I say, Clifford ? Yon do not want 
 me to marry him, do you ? * asked Ella, almost in a 
 whisper, and lifting her pleading eyes to his face. 
 
 * My darling, I don't want you to marry anybody, 
 in the meantime,* Clifford hastened to say. ' Tlien 
 you care nothing for Cluneraven, and wish your 
 refusal to be conveyed to him, I suppose, as 
 courteously as possible ? ' 
 
 ' If you please, Clifford. I have been very 
 miserable all night, and could scarcely sleep. 
 Mamma was so very angry. I am so gl^al ycju 
 think I need not accept him just because he will be a 
 duke some d>iy. I know whatever you think is ri,L;lit.' 
 
 Clillbrd was inexpressibly louelied. He put bis 
 strong arm round her slender shoulders, and kis'ed 
 her on the brow. 
 
 ' I hopy you v/ill never marry until you can give 
 
 '>! 
 
172 
 
 A Vixed Inheritance, 
 
 if! 
 
 1 I 
 
 >) 
 
 •\ 
 
 \ 
 
 l'( 1' i 
 
 fi! 
 
 your heart's love with your hand/ he said fondly. 
 * Do not trouble any more about it ; I sliall see 
 Cluneraven myself, and tell him your decision is 
 unalterable.' 
 
 To his surprise, Ella burst into tears. They were 
 tears of unspeakable relief. Had Clifford but 
 known tliat the terror of being forced into marriage 
 with Cluneraven had hung like a sword over her 
 heart since very early in the season, how great 
 would his indii:fnation have been ! But Ella did 
 not tell ; only clung to him sobbing, her heart 
 overcharged with gratitude for such a brother. 
 Their mother noticed traces of recent tears on Ella's 
 cheeks when she appeared at breakfast, but she made 
 no comment thereon, and her whole manner during 
 breakfast was frigid in the extreme. Altogether, the 
 atmosphere of the house was severely unpleasant. 
 
 * I have spoken to Ella, mother,' Clifford said, 
 when they wei'e a moment alone before he went 
 out. ' She feels very strongly on the subject, and 
 has been vexing herself very much about it. That 
 being so, there can only be one answer for Clune- 
 raven, which I shall endeavour to convey to him as 
 soon as possible. I shall make a point of seeing him 
 to-day. I know where he is generally to be found.' 
 
 Lady AVestray had nothing to say. She was 
 completely set aside for the first time in her life, 
 and she found the experience not to her liking. 
 
 I ii \ 
 
 
fondly, 
 lall see 
 isiou is 
 
 3y were 
 rd but 
 larriiige 
 »ver lier 
 N great 
 Llla did 
 r heart 
 brother, 
 in Ella's 
 he made 
 : during 
 her, the 
 isant. 
 rd said, 
 le went 
 ect, and 
 That 
 
 Clune- 
 ) him as 
 ing him 
 
 found.' 
 ihe was 
 her life, 
 
 tmg. 
 
 Pride s Revenge. 
 
 173 
 
 I ■ f ! 
 
 Clifford had acquiesced, or seemed to do so, in 
 her interference with his love affairs, but he waged 
 and won decisive battle for another. It grieved 
 him to be at variance with his mother, but in 
 this instance he had the absolute approval of his 
 conscience. 
 
 It was an unfortunate thing that Fred should 
 bring his friend home to her witli him that after- 
 noon, on their way back from the art classes. Ludy 
 Westray was not in the mood to 1 courteous even 
 to her most intimate friends, anu it must not be 
 wondered at if her greeting of young Wareham was 
 such as even a good-natured man would resent. 
 She merely gave him a distant bow, and in response 
 to his pleasant, * Good afternoon. Lady Westray,' 
 did not open her lips. If he noticed and was hurt 
 by it he made no sign, for was not Ella in her 
 accustomed seat in the window recess, looking ten 
 times more fair than ever ? He made his way to 
 her side, blissfully unconscious ot the frowning 
 glance that followed him. In a moment the two 
 young people were engrossed in their happiness, 
 and it was easy to see by Ella's flushed, animated 
 talk that she at least enjoyed it. Fred, duly sub- 
 dued by his mother's frown, remained near lier, 
 feeling uncomfortable in tlie extreme. Perhaps it 
 dawned upon him that liis sister might be the 
 magnet which drew his friend to the house, and if 
 
 I ' 
 
 
I 
 
 l> 
 
 I I 
 
 174 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 liis mother feared that, he did not marrel that she 
 looked so much displeased. He knew to what 
 heights her ambition for Ella had soared. 
 
 * This cannot go on, Fred,' she said, with a 
 significant glance at the pair in the window. * It 
 must come to an end at once.* 
 
 * What ? ' a?ked Fred rather bluntly, his good- 
 natured face more serious than usual But he 
 knew very well to what she referred. 
 
 * This absurd flirtation — for I suppose I must 
 call it that — between your friend and Ella. It is 
 a pity he has so soon forgotten his place,' she said, 
 with that peculiar compression of the lips which 
 had been his hite noir in his childish days. She 
 rose as she spoke, and shook out her skirts with an 
 ominous rustle. 'Ella, it is time for our drive. 
 Mr. Wareham will excuse us. Come.' 
 
 * I did not know we were going out, mamma,' Ella 
 said, rather confusedly, but rising at the moment, 
 being accustomed to obey her mother's every word. 
 
 * But aren't we to have any tea, mother ? ' asked 
 Fred, his face very red, for he noticed the flush on 
 his friend's. 
 
 * You can have tea, I daresay, by ringing for it,' 
 Lady Wcstray replied, with that matchless calm 
 none could assume so well as she. 
 
 Then for a moment she turned her piercing eyes 
 on the face of the young artist, who had risen also, 
 
lie 
 
 eyes 
 also, 
 
 Prides Revenge. 
 
 175 
 
 and was standing with liis slender figure drawn up 
 and his blue eyes flashing beyond, their wont. He 
 understood the insult, but it could not touch him. 
 
 ' We leave town very soon, Mr. Wareham,' her 
 ladyship continued, * and. regret we shall not be 
 able to have the pleasure of seeing you again. But 
 we wish you well. Good afternoon. Come, Ella.' 
 
 She inclined her head in tlie same distant, haughty 
 manner, laid her hand on her young daughter's arm, 
 as if afraid she might seek to take the edge off her 
 dismissal, and together they left the room. 
 
 For a moment the two young men looked at each 
 other, then Fred's indignation exploded, and I am 
 afraid that, just for a moment, he forgot the respect 
 due to his mother. But she had put him in a most 
 painful position, which he did not know how to 
 excuse or mitigate. 
 
 * Never mind, Frank. My mother is out of sorts 
 to-day. She was as cross as cross-bones at break- 
 fast. Never mind. I'm awfully sorry. Don't let 
 it make any diflerence.* 
 
 A slight smile, which had a couch of sadness in 
 it, flitted across the young artist's face, and he 
 slightly shook his head. 
 
 * I do not blame your mother, Fred. The mistake 
 has been mine. I have spent many happy hours 
 in this room, forgetting the gulf which was Ijetweeu 
 us. She has been cruel onlv to be kind. You will 
 
 i 
 
 p 
 
 m 
 
176 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 . 
 
 let me go now, old boy, and don't think any more 
 of it. You'll see I'll be all right to-morrow.' 
 
 He would not stay, and Fred saw tliat it was 
 best to let him go, and alone. But that youth 
 wandered through the house in no amiable or dutiful 
 frame of mind, relieving his feelings by whistling 
 at intervals and kicking whatever happened to come 
 in his way. In this mood he happened to stumble 
 into the library, where, to his surprise, he found 
 Clilford writing. 
 
 * Hulloa, Cliff ! you here ! I'm jolly glad ; now 
 I'll let of!' the steam,' he said, with a sigh of reliei. 
 ' Do you know what our mother has just done ? ' 
 
 ' No ; what is it ? ' 
 
 ' She has, figuratively speaking, kicked V/'areham 
 downstairs. Fact,' he reiterated, seeing Clifford's 
 astonished face. * She put oiv one of her looks — 
 you know what I mean — and regretted she could 
 not have the pleasure of seeing him any more, and 
 took Ella out of the room, leaving me in a pretty 
 fix. Is a fellow going to stand that, do you suppose ? 
 I'd like to know what I've done, or Wareham, that 
 we should be treated like cads, or worse. It's an 
 awful shame. Frank is cut up, you bet. He's 
 a\7fully proud, you know. You should have seen 
 how he looked when mamma let off her precious 
 little speech at >dm. I wonder she didn't think 
 yhume.' 
 
now 
 eliei". 
 
 )pose ? 
 
 that 
 t's an 
 
 He's 
 3 seen 
 ecious 
 
 thiuk 
 
 Pride s Revenge. 
 
 177 
 
 Clifford made 110 reply, only passed his hand 
 across his troubled brow. 
 
 ' The best of it is, too, that you are the master of 
 the house, and have been so jolly kind to everybody, 
 especially to Frank, who, needless to say, adores 
 you. What do you suppose makes mamma go on 
 so idiotically ? Excuse me, Cliff, but when a fellow's 
 been so awfully taken down as I was to-day, he 
 can't be expected to be very nice in his words.' 
 
 'Try and forget it, Fred,' said the wise, good 
 elder brother. ' Mamma has been annoyed all day. 
 Possibly she did not mean the insult her words 
 conveyed. I shall see Wareham to-day myself. I 
 like your friend very much, Fred. I hope you'll 
 stick to him. He is worth keeping.' 
 
 'You're a trump and a brick, Cliff,' said Fred 
 impulsively. * If it weren't for you, we'd all be at 
 pretty sixes and sevens. I wouldn't stay here, I 
 tell you ; I'd go into digs. You've liberty ere, 
 anyway, to have a friend drop in to see you w -hout 
 fear of insult. If things don't suit, you can q^uit.' 
 
 There was no moj-e said on the subject, and 
 presently Fred, considerably relieved in 1 iS mind, 
 retired, leaving Clifford to his own thoughts. These 
 were gloomy enough ; things seemed to be coming 
 to a climax in the house. 
 
 The carriage was ordered by Lady Westr y im- 
 mediately after breakfast next morning, and she 
 
 
 
 
 M 
 
.78 
 
 A Vexed Inhej'itaiice. 
 
 I 
 
 M 
 
 drove out alr»no, without communicating to any one 
 her destination or the object slie had in view. About 
 eleven o'clock tlie imposing equipage, bearing tlie 
 Westray arms, and drawn by a handsome pair of 
 bays, was driven up a certain quiet street out at 
 Highbury, and drawn up at the door of the house 
 in which Frank Wareham had his home. A neat 
 maid -servant answered the footman's imperious 
 summons, and intimated to him, in rather an awe- 
 stricken voice, that her mistress was at home. Lady 
 Westray then aliglited, and was ushered into the 
 small drawing-room, with which we have made 
 acquaintance before. During the few minutes the 
 was kept waiting, Lady Westray did not fail to take 
 due note of the furnishings of the room. They were 
 just what she expected — simple, inexpensive, yet in 
 good taste. SJie was standing by the Howers still 
 in bloom in the corner window, when the door opened 
 to admit Mrs. Wareham. She was deadly pale, and 
 had not Lady Westray been preoccupied by the 
 errand on which she had come, her keen vision 
 mufct have taken note of a strange, wild dread 
 which h)oi:od o ib of Mrs. Wareham's eyes. Both 
 ladies bo'vi :a, anci Lady Westray was the first to speak. 
 
 ' I am L; ly Westray. I did not send in my u. .ne, 
 but possibl} yon may have heard it from your sun.* 
 
 ' Lady Eleanor or Lady Adelaide \ ' asked Mrs. 
 Wareham in a very low voice. 
 
Pride's Revenge, 
 
 179 
 
 i one 
 
 ibout 
 
 I tlie 
 
 lir of 
 
 ut at 
 
 house 
 
 L neat 
 
 erioiis 
 
 I awe- 
 Lady 
 
 to the 
 made 
 
 .es the 
 
 ,0 take 
 were 
 yet in 
 still 
 
 opened 
 e, and 
 by the 
 vision 
 dread 
 Both 
 ) speak. 
 ^ \j. aie, 
 ur son.' 
 d Mrs. 
 
 .■s 
 
 'Lady Eleanor.' The cold, clear voice rang out 
 sharply, and involuntarily ]\lrs. Wareha'n drew a 
 quick breath of relief. 
 
 ' Doubtless you will be astonished at receiving a 
 visit from me, and will naturally wonder what can 
 be its object,' continued Lady Westray glildy, for 
 this pale, spiritless-looking woman would no doubt 
 be a very easy person to deal with. 
 
 *I have no idea, Lady Westray,' was the quiet re})ly. 
 
 ' I only wislied to explain to you the motives 
 which actuat(*d me yesterday. I feared your son 
 might have misunderstood my meaning. I have no 
 personal objection to him. On the contrary, 1 think 
 him a most estimable and painstaking young man,' 
 her ladyship said, with gracious condescension. 
 
 * I do not know what you are talking about. Lady 
 Westray,' said Mrs. Wareham ; and a little colour 
 stole into her pale cheeks, as the dread which had 
 held her in thrall was slowly dispelled. 
 
 ' Your son told you nothing of what transpired 
 in my drawing-room yesterday, then ? ' said Lady 
 Westray, beginning to feel that she was in rather 
 an awkward position, from which it would be ditlicult 
 to emerge gracefully. 
 
 'Nothing. I did not even know he had called 
 at your house yesterday.' 
 
 * Ah ! Well, Mrs. Wareham, I have rather a 
 difficult task, but I shall go through with it, trusting 
 
 I 
 
 ii 
 
 ;< ' « 
 
 'i«t 
 
i8o 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 \ 
 
 '\ I 
 
 to your kindness and common sense to assist me. 
 You are aware that your son, as an acquaintance of 
 my son, has been in tlie habit of visiting at my house?' 
 
 ' I am. aware of it. These visits were made with my 
 consijnt, but not with my approval, Lady Westray.' 
 
 Lady Westray looked keenly into the placid, 
 un readable face of the woman before lier. She 
 did not understand her ; she was a different being 
 from the one she had expected to find. 
 
 'As my son's friend I was giad to see him 
 occasionally, so long as he remained only my son's 
 friend. I have a young daughter, Mrs. Wareham, 
 whom, perhaps, it was natural that he should 
 admire ; but when I saw that he was going beyond 
 the bounds of distant admiration, I deemed it only 
 wise i' give him a hint that he was in error.' 
 
 * And you did so yesterday ? ' 
 
 * I did.' 
 
 ' My son did not mention the matter to me. 
 Possibly he thought it too trivial to be repeated.' 
 
 Perhaps the words were not courteous, but they 
 could bear comparison with those to which she had 
 been forced to listen. 
 
 * I thought I should like to see you, Mrs. Ware- 
 ham, to explain the matter to you. I would not 
 w^illingly hurt or distress any one,' said Lady 
 Westray, with dignity. * We shall always take an 
 interest in your son's career. I am sure he is both 
 
Pride s Revenge, 
 
 i8i 
 
 ; me. 
 Lce of 
 >use?' 
 ihmy 
 tray.' 
 )lacid, 
 She 
 being 
 
 \ him 
 J son's 
 -eham, 
 should 
 i^eyoiid 
 t only 
 
 to me. 
 ed.' 
 
 it they 
 ne had 
 
 Ware- 
 ild not 
 Lady 
 ake an 
 is both 
 
 clever and painstaking, and my son, Sir Clifford 
 Westray, will, I am convinced, do all in his power 
 to further his interests in any way.* 
 
 Mrs. Wareham bowed, but made no remark. 
 Possibly she was a woman of few words. 
 
 'Well, I suppose I may wish you good-morning. 
 Your husband was in the navy, I understand ? ' 
 continued Lady Westray, as she took a step towards 
 the door. 
 
 Mrs. Wareham took no notice of her question, 
 but rang the bell for the servant to show her out. 
 When that maid appeared, Mrs. Wareham slightly, 
 and with some haughtiness, inclined her head, and 
 spoke in her quiet voice. 
 
 * Good morning. Lady Westray. I am deeply 
 indebted for the kindness of your visit.' 
 
 Lady Westray, feeling somewhat humiliated, 
 retired to her carriage. She had not performed 
 her philanthropic errand so successfully as she 
 could have wished. 
 
 Mrs. Wareham watched from behind the lace 
 curtain, and, as the carriage drove away from the 
 door, a strange, fleeting smile replaced the calm, 
 unreadable expression on her face. 
 
 * I have a surprise in store for you, my lady, 
 very soon,* she said to herself. ' Unless I am 
 mistaken in you, you will eat your own proud words 
 before you are many months older.* 
 
 !| 
 
 % 
 
 
 .!1it;i^ 
 
 l.i.i I: 
 
'I , 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 AEEOWS IN THE HEART. 
 
 I' 
 
 J' 
 
 
 ;RANK AVAREHAM felt keenly the insult 
 Lady Westray had offered him in her 
 own house, but it did him good. He 
 had begun to be something more of a dreamer, 
 perhaps, than a worker in these sumL er days, but 
 this roused him, and awakened within him all tlu3 
 pride and high spirit of his manhood. He said to 
 himself, as he journeyed towards his home tliat 
 sunny afternoon, that Lady Westray should yet 
 repent her of her proud, haughty words ; that she 
 should yet account it an honour to receive him a't 
 her house. 
 
 Youth is sanguine and aspiring. At a certain 
 period in every life there is nothing unattainable, no 
 heights to which imagination and ambition may not 
 reach. It is well if in these hopes and strivings 
 
 182 
 
*' V 
 
 Arrozos in the Heart. 
 
 183 
 
 ri 
 
 liil 
 
 there is nothing ignohlo or nnworthy. As we 
 know, he liad sai(^ nothing to his niotlior concern- 
 ing his afternoon's experiences in Piccadilly, little 
 dreaming from what source she was to learn th 
 particulars he had kept from her. He was not 
 surprised that Fred was absent from the class next 
 day, and he was rather glad than otherwise, feeling 
 as if he did not care to look upon the face of a 
 Westray again. 
 
 He reached home on the second afternoon about 
 four o'clock ; and the eagerness and enthusiasm with 
 which he had devoted himself to his studi(\s that 
 day had blunted all memory of yesterday's sting. 
 He was the artist to-day ; the feelings and hopes 
 of the man were laid aside. He had resolutely put 
 away every thought of Ella Westray from his heart, 
 and had succeeded — but only for one day. 
 
 His mother looked at him keenly wlien he came 
 in, perhaps to divine what effect the treatment of 
 the high-born dame had had upon him, but out- 
 wardly there was no change. 
 
 His smile was ready, his happy word of greeting, 
 his loving kiss, were all for her as usual. She 
 hesitated a moment whether to tell him of the call 
 she had had to endure that morning. 
 
 ' I've been working " like a hatter," as Fred 
 would say, all day,' he said gaily. ' Old Woodburn 
 actually complimented me on my progress. He 
 
 

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 184 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 says if only I apply myself, I shall be able to 
 command good prices for my pictures in no time. 
 Heigh-ho ! I wish the day were here. I've l.^een 
 seriously thinking, motlier, of sending some of my 
 things to Hooker, in Bond Street, to exhibit in his 
 window. Who knows, they might find a purchaser ? * 
 
 * You have been too long about it, I fear. The 
 season is nearly at an end ; but it could certainly 
 do no harm. You seem in good spirits to-day.* 
 
 * Yes, why not ? There is no use making 
 troubles, is there, mother mine ? * 
 
 * No, there are too many real ones, God knows, in 
 this weary world,* she said, with unwonted passion. 
 * I had a visitor this morning, Frank. Lady 
 Eleanor Westray did me the honour to call upon 
 me.* 
 
 Up rose the bright colour to the artist's brow. 
 
 * What did she want ? How dared she come 
 here ? How I wish I had been in the house ! She 
 should have had a taste of what she gave me 
 yesterday,* he cried indignantly. 
 
 ' It was about that she came. But the apology 
 was worse than the insult. I was very glad you 
 had not told me anything, Frank. It enabled me 
 to meet her so much more coolly. I think my 
 lady found her match in me.* 
 
 * I think I see you, mother. You would draw 
 yoursolf lip, and your eyes would flash, and you 
 
 t'i 
 
 •1 
 
 ;f 
 
Arrozvs in the Heart, 
 
 you 
 me 
 my 
 
 •85 
 
 would say just all that was noccssary, and no more. 
 I hope you sent her away feeling something smaller 
 than when she came.* 
 
 ' She got little satisfaction. Is it not just what 
 I told you, Frank ? Titled people may step down 
 and deign to notice plain people to amuse them, 
 but whenever it suits them they stand upon no 
 ceremony.* 
 
 * All are not like Lady Eleanor, mother/ said 
 Frank evasively. * I wish you could meet Sir 
 ClifTord Westray.' 
 
 * I have no desire to meet \\h\\. or to look on the 
 face of any Westray save one/ said Mrs. Wareliam 
 passionately. 
 
 ' Oh, hut I am sure you would like him, mother,' 
 said Frank, not noticing the latter part of her 
 speech. ' And his sister ! You would find it hard 
 to believe her the daughter of Lady Eleanor.* 
 
 * Frank, will you tell me truly, have you learned 
 to care for this Ella Westray ? Your voice sciLeiis, 
 your face changes, when you speak of her. What 
 is she to you ? * 
 
 * I will tell you. If I were her equal, mother, I 
 should ask her to be my wife to-morrow. I love 
 her, but I have no hope of winning her. Her 
 mother will marry her to some great personage, and 
 she will wear her chains until they weigh her down 
 to the grave.* 
 
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 Ul^ 
 
 
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 1 86 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
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 P 
 
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 III 
 
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 ' Do you think she cares for you ? * 
 
 It was almost pitiful to see the painful eagerness 
 with which the question was asked. 
 
 ' T have no right to say. I cannot tell ; only 
 T know she is the one woman for me, and that, 
 since I may not have her for my wife, I will have 
 no other/ 
 
 'You are very certain, Frank. Circumstances 
 might arise which would make you eligible even for 
 the hand of Miss Westray of West Court.' 
 
 Frank Wareham smiled, but shook his head. 
 
 *In the realms of romance some improbable 
 circumstances might conveniently arise, but not in 
 the prosaic routine of common life. No, no. Ella 
 Westray's way and mine must lie apart. But who 
 knows, some day I may be commissioned to paint 
 the portrait of a noble duchess who will be able to 
 smile with me over an acquaintance begun and 
 ended in a certain drawing-room in Piccadilly.' 
 
 Mrs. Wareham made no reply. She was glad to 
 steal out of the room, glad to be alone for a little, 
 for events were crowding thick and fast upon her — 
 link by link the chain was growing complete ; the 
 hour was at hand when she must restore the lost 
 heir to his own. She would do so at an awful 
 sacrifice to herself ; but it would be the just punish- 
 ment for her sin. If any thought of public disgrace 
 and conviction, of having to expiate her crime in 
 

 Arroivs in the Heart. 
 
 187 
 
 \\ 
 
 prison, occurred to her, it had no significance in 
 comparison with the fearful wrench it would be to 
 part from the boy she had reared nnd loved as her 
 son. When that sacrifice was made, when the final 
 parting was over, what remained for her but death ? 
 Ivosamond Vane had had within her the possibilities 
 of great good, but her upbringing and her way of 
 life had not been calculated to foster it. But until 
 tlie promptings of a heart burning for revenge for 
 its slighted love had goaded her to the committal of 
 the wrong which had blighted the lives of otliers, 
 she had been guilty of no sin. She had lived a 
 frivolous life, without one serious or noble aim, but 
 even amid much temptation had never lost hold of 
 the good. She had honestly and fervently loved 
 handsome Hubert Westray, and when she learned 
 that what had been such sad earnest to her had 
 only been pastime to him, she vowed that she would 
 have her revenge. So she had taken away the 
 innocent little child, without dreaming that through 
 him her own heaviest punishment was to fall. She 
 took him, and having hid herself and him, proceeded 
 to labour for him, and, so strange and contradictory 
 is the nature of a woman, to deny herself in order 
 that he might have and to spare. She was neither 
 bad nor cruel at heart, and thoiigli she had punished 
 the parents, she cherished and cared for the child until 
 he grew into her heart, and became the idol of her life. 
 
 
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 !!•■ '.'. 
 
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 1 88 
 
 A l\xcd liilur'itance* 
 
 The inducnce of the little one made her a 
 humbler, gentler, better woman, and it was only 
 known to herself how often she luid felt moved to 
 make full restitution, to give back the child to his 
 sorrcnving mother. I>ut the years had passed, each 
 one making that hard task yet harder, until it seemed 
 an altogether impossible thing for her to do. In so 
 far as lay in her power, she had done her duty by 
 the child. She had laboured both with head and 
 hands, early and late, that he might have an educa- 
 tion whi3h, though not what his station required, 
 still would render him fitted for any society. And 
 now he was grown to manhood, and she, worn out 
 by the struggle, and feeling in her exhausted frame 
 the precursors of the end, had only to make a final 
 sacrifice — the greatest of her life. There was some- 
 thing indescribably pathetic in the long silent battle 
 without and wiihin, in the woman's whole sad, 
 mistaken life. It had not been one of ease, but far 
 otherwise ; had she loved Hubert Westray's boy 
 less, she had given herself up long ago. In these 
 later years, and with failing health, a more unselfish 
 element had crept into her love, and now her desire 
 was only and wholly for his good. But do we 
 wonder that she hesitated, letting each day go by 
 and still keeping her boy with her, her hungry 
 heart miserly over his love ? 
 
 Absorbed in these sad thoughts, she was uncon- 
 
Arrows in the Heart. 
 
 189 
 
 scions of time pn^siiii^. inuMMiscioiis too of the arrival 
 of a strnn^^'cr at tlie liousc, until Frank, eiiger and 
 excited, hurst into the room. 
 
 'Mother, will you come down ? "Whom do you 
 think is here ? Sir Clin'ord Westr.iy. He is so 
 good and kind. Come down and speak to him. 
 He will n(jt leave until he sees you.' 
 
 She rose like one in ri dream. AVas nothing hut 
 the name of Westray to fall upon her ears ? 
 Would they come one hy one, until tin; wronged 
 mother herself stood hcjfore her to confront her 
 witli her sin ? 
 
 Even in his glad excitement Frank noticed the 
 tottering step, the pallid face, the tremlding hiinds. 
 
 'You are ill, mother,' he said, with earnest 
 solicitude. * What is it ? I never saw you look so 
 before.' 
 
 * Tt is nothing more than usual,' she made answer 
 quickly. * Where is Sir Clill'ord Westray ? * 
 
 ' He is in the drawing-room. He has been in 
 quite an hour. I would have come for you sooner, 
 but I always expected you to come in.' 
 
 She made no reply for a moment, then bade 
 him go down, and she would follow him in a few 
 minutes. She must have a brief interval wherein 
 to compose her unstrung nerves. Once more she 
 must trample upon her heart's weakness, and a})pear 
 unmoved, calm, and self-possessed before a stranger. 
 
 ■i 
 

 J 
 
 i 
 
 ! 
 
 .1 . 
 
 190 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 i!H 
 
 When she entered the drawinjjf-room the two 
 were standing on the hearth, talkinij earnestly, but 
 directly the door opened Sir Clifford Westray to(jk 
 a step forward. "Would she ever for^^et that sweet, 
 kind smile, that earnest eye, that noble grace of 
 mien ? She scarcely heard his words of courteous 
 greeting, she scarcely saw the chair he placed for 
 her; the room swam round her, her whole soul was 
 absorbed by but one thought. There they stood — 
 cousins, but unknown to each other — the possessor 
 of West Court, and its rightful but unconscious 
 heir. Now that she looked upon the face of 
 ClifTord Westray, reading there what manner of 
 man he was, her task seemed ten times more hard. 
 The restoration of the one would be the downfall 
 of the other — which would be the greater evil ? 
 
 ' I trust you will forgive my intrusion, Mrs. 
 Wareham,* said Clifford Westray, with his sunny 
 smile. ' I expected to have seen your son in town, 
 but unfortunately missed him, so I just came 
 straight on, sure of finding him here. Melnotte, 
 the famous French painter, is in town, and I have 
 some slight acquaintance with him. I know where 
 he is to-night, and, as his movements are uncertain, 
 I came down to see if Mr. Wareham would return 
 with me to be introduced to him. He is dining 
 to-night with my aunt, at her house in Prince's 
 Gate.' 
 
 1 \ 
 
Arroivs in the Heart, 
 
 191 
 
 iniiig 
 
 * You are very kind, Sir Clifford,' was all she 
 could coinnmiid herself to say. 
 
 ' Not at all That is a very little thinj*, and it 
 may be of use to your boy by and by when he j^oes 
 to study the French school. Melnotte is a very 
 good fellow, and devoted to his art. "Well, Mr. 
 \Varehani, we must go now, if we are going. You 
 will excuse me running off with him so uncere- 
 moniously, Mrs. Wareham ? * 
 
 'Surely. Go and dress quickly, Frank, and do 
 not keep Sir Clifford waiting. I am deeply in- 
 debted to you for your interest in him,' she added, 
 lifting her deep, sad eyes to Clifford Westray's 
 noble face. ' Some day he may be able to repay 
 you.' 
 
 * Some day, when times are hard, he will paint 
 my portrait for nothing,' laughed Clifford Weslray. 
 ' I am deeply interested in your son, not only on 
 account of his undoubted talent, but I have a 
 personal liking for him as well.* 
 
 * Have you ? * 
 
 * I have indeed,' he answered sincerely. 
 
 ' He loves you. Sir Clifford Westray. I have 
 often heard him say so. Will your aunt be quite 
 pleased to see him ? ' 
 
 * I can pledge my word for it, ^Irs. Warthani. 
 Lady Adelaide will at once make him thoroughly 
 welcome and at home.* 
 
 IN 
 
 IM« 
 
 iisiJml 
 
 
192 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 I 
 
 ' ' I 
 
 1 1 
 
 ! \ 
 
 * Is it Lady A(l<'l;ii(U» ?— Lady Adelaide "Westray V 
 she asked, lier puli' face growing paler* 
 
 ' Lady Adelaide Westray. Possibly you may 
 have heard Fred spe.ik of her. Slie is a great 
 favourite with us all.' 
 
 Mrs. Warehani rose, and widking over to the 
 window, looked out upon the narrow street with 
 eyes wliich saw nothing. Was the responsibility 
 about to be lifted from her shoulders ? — the whole 
 matter taken out of her hands ? Mcjther and son 
 were about to meet without any planning or 
 action of hers. What then ? She turned her 
 head presently, and looked into the face of Clifford 
 Westray. He never forgot that look. It haunted 
 him for days. But, if she were about to speak, 
 opportunity was denied, for Frank, cap in hand, and 
 with an ulster over his evening dress, reappeared, 
 Baying he was quite ready. She looked at him with 
 a long, keen, penetrating look, wondering, perhaps, 
 if he was going forth from her for the last time. 
 
 'You look well, Frank,' slie said; then, turning 
 to Sir Clifford Westray, she added, with a faint 
 smile, * we need not be ashamed of him to-night. 
 He will pass muster where he is going.* 
 
 *No fear of that, Mrs. Wareham. We shall all 
 be yet prouder of him some day, I prophesy. Good 
 evening, then. I hope to have the pleasure of 
 seeing you again.* 
 
 m 
 
Arrows in the Heart, 
 
 J 93 
 
 faint 
 
 *I fear not. Good-bye, Sir ClilTord Westray. 
 God bles3 you.' 
 
 He looked surprised at the unusual words of 
 farewell, but made no reply, only wannly clasped 
 her hand. Then the twain left the house. 
 
 * Your mother does not look well, my boy,' said 
 ClifTord Westray, as they walked together up the 
 street. * I hope you intend taking her out of town 
 one of tliese days. I wish I had it in my power to 
 ask you both to West Court.* 
 
 ' She is not well. I have noticed a great change 
 for a few months back. She seems unhappy. I 
 wish I knew what to do/ said the young artist, 
 with real anxiety. 
 
 * You must be very good to her, Frank,' said Sir 
 Clifford, calling him by name for the first time. 
 
 * Am I right in thinking that she has sacrificed and 
 borne a great deal for you ? * 
 
 * She has,' returned Frank, and his voice shook. 
 
 * I am only beginning to realize now all she must 
 have sacrificed and suffered. For nearly twenty 
 years. Sir Clifford, she supported herself and me 
 by her own exertions. It was only two years ago, 
 before we came to London, that an old lady, whom 
 we knew in the place where we lived before, left a 
 portion of her means to my mother, thus relieving 
 her of some anxiety. But for that happy bequest, 
 I should never have been able to follow my art.* 
 
 N 
 
1 I ' 
 
 194 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance,' 
 
 s 
 
 . 
 
 \M 
 
 'Ah, never mind. One day it will bo your 
 proud and happy privilege to do honour to the dear 
 woman who has done so much to you. May God 
 spare you to each other until that day,' said Sir 
 ClifTord ; and then their talk drifted to other 
 subjects, and the time passed quickly until they 
 reached Triiice's Gate. 
 
 llosamond Vane's thoughts followed them there. 
 As she sat by her lonely hearth, she tried to 
 picture the scene in Lady Adelaide's drawing-room. 
 Would mother and son meet as stiangers, she 
 wondered, or would the mysterious bond of relation- 
 ship between them prove stronger than all, and 
 reveal each to the other in a moment ? 
 
 These thoughts occupied her whole heart and 
 soul during the hours her boy was absent from 
 her. When midnight ajjproached, hope had almost 
 died in her breast, and she was sitting with bent 
 head and hidden face, when suddenly the familiar 
 grating of a latch-key told that he had come 
 back. 
 
 ' Not in bed yet, mother ? ' cried the young, 
 cheery voice. * I am sorry I am so late ; but I 
 have had such a splendid evening. Oh, mother, 
 I wish you had been there ! I wish you could see 
 Lady Adelaide Westray ! you would change your 
 opinion of the aristocracy. She is just like an 
 angel' 
 
 |:ii 
 
Arrows in the Heart, 
 
 195 
 
 
 roung, 
 
 )Ut I 
 
 ' And the j^reat painter ? Did he take much 
 notice of you ? ' she asked feverislily. 
 
 * Yes, he was kinchiess itself. Sir Clifford intro- 
 duced me to him as if I had been his own brother ; 
 and Mehiotte made me feel as if I could do some- 
 thing great some day. He talked so encouragingly. 
 Fred was not there, but his sister was,* 
 
 She saw the slight shadow gather on his brow, 
 and divined its cause. The sight of Ella AVestray 
 had once more awakened in his heart the pain of 
 an unavailing regret. 
 
 'Did you speak much to Lady Adelaide, Frank?' 
 
 ' Not very mucli. You see 1 was occupied with 
 !Melnotte a great part of the time, and her other 
 guests claimed her attention. But she looked at 
 me very kindly, and once when I met her eyes I 
 saw them fill with tears. Sir Clitrord spoke of it 
 afterwards when we were walking outside. He 
 noticed it too, and told me that he thought she 
 must have been thinking of her lost cliild. Had 
 he lived. Sir Clifford says, he would just have been 
 my age.' 
 
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 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 AT ALDERLEY. 
 
 HAVE not heard you speak of the 
 Westrays for a few days, Frank. Have 
 you not seen any of them ? ' 
 
 * No ; they are all out of town. Did I not tell 
 you that Lady Adelaide and her sisters were going to 
 Alderley — that is Lady Adelaide's father's place — 
 the day following the dinner ? And the household 
 at Piccadilly returned to West Court the day before 
 yesterday. I have never seen Fred since that day 
 in his mother's house.' 
 
 They were p j breakfast in the little dining-roora 
 at Highbury. Not yet had Rosamond Vane parted 
 with the secret which was eating into her heart. 
 
 'You miss them, I think, Frank. It would 
 griev^ you very much not to see any of them again/ 
 
 * Oh, well, I miss Sir Clififord awfully. I used 
 
 m 
 
At Alderley. 
 
 197 
 
 of the 
 Have 
 
 \o^, tell 
 oing to 
 lace — 
 sehold 
 jefore 
 at day 
 
 room 
 Darted 
 irt. 
 
 would 
 again.' 
 '. used 
 
 to meet him so often, and he had always a kind 
 word ; and — I don't know why, mother — but I 
 should like to see Lady Adelaide again.* 
 
 * What would you say, then, to taking lodgings 
 or a house near them, at Westray, perhaps, for a 
 few weeks ? ' 
 
 The young artist's eye brightened momentarily, 
 but almost immediately he shook his head. 
 
 * It would never do. It would be like following 
 them up, like seeking further favours from them. 
 And, mother, io is not a good thing for me to 
 see much of Miss Westray. It is better for me 
 to grind on, and keep away all thoughts of her. 
 Nothing but work can help a fellow over a dis- 
 appointment, and yet I can hardly call it that, 
 because I knew from the first that I dare not so 
 presume.* ' 
 
 * Why not ? You are as good a Westray as ever 
 lived,' she said hotlv. 
 
 * We have talked this over before, mothev,* said 
 Frank mildly, * and I think we agreed that, as I 
 was only a "landscape painter," 1 couldn't expect 
 a lady of hicrh degree to stoop to share my lot. 
 Don't look so vexed and sad, mother mine. I 
 assure you I take it very philosophically.' 
 
 * You do care for me then, my son ? You believe 
 I have your truest interests at heart ? ' 
 
 ' What a question, mother ! ' he said lightly, and 
 
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 I 1 
 
 I 
 
 {)1 
 
 1 ! 
 
 I . 
 
 J 
 
 I 
 
 r . 
 
 t 
 
 ■■ I 
 
 198 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 yet with an affectionate glance. * Haven't the long 
 years you have toiled foi me proved it ? If 1 ever 
 forget, or grow ungrateful for it, I deserve to be 
 bitterly punished, and I hope I shall.' 
 
 She rose with a sudden, swift gesture, and laid 
 her arm about his neck 
 
 'Then promise me, my boy, my darling, that, 
 come what may, you will not turn quite away from 
 me. You will keep a little corner in your heart 
 foi me, whose love for yoa has been the greatest 
 joy and yet the keenest torture of my life. Had 
 I loved you le.3s, my darling, I had been juster to 
 you ; but you will forgive me, and love me what- 
 ever betide ? ' 
 
 She spoke passionately, almost incoherently, and 
 the young artist could but look at her in bewilder- 
 ment and dismay. Had feeble health and deep 
 anxiety unhinged her mind ? Her words were like 
 the raving of a disordered intellect, not like the 
 calm, quiet utterances to which he had been 
 accustomed. 
 
 * I think you are very ill, mother — you are so 
 nervous and excited,' he said soothingly, and yet 
 with visible anxiety * Let me send a skilled 
 physician to you to-day ; then we will go away at 
 once to some health resort. That is how tlie money 
 Sir Clifford Westray gave me for my pictures is to 
 be spent.' 
 
 i* f s 
 
At Alder ley. 
 
 199 
 
 laid 
 
 and 
 rilder- 
 
 deep 
 e like 
 the 
 
 been 
 
 ' Sir Clifford Westray ! Did lie, buy pictures 
 from you ? ' 
 
 * Yea, three. That little sketch of Easthaven and 
 the two sea-pieces. He gave nie fifty pounds for 
 them. I was not going to tell you till my lessons 
 were ended : then we were going down to Cornwall 
 together to have a really jolly holiday, and I was 
 to be very proud of the first treat I was able to 
 give my mother.* 
 
 She turned away, and resumed her seat with a 
 sad, sweet smile. 
 
 * I think we shall not go into Cornwall together 
 this year, Frank,' was all she said. * Are you 
 going out to-day ? * 
 
 ' Yes, presently. ^Iny I send in a doctor, 
 mother, or will you promise to see one to-day ? ' he 
 said, as he rose from the table. ' I am really 
 anxious.' 
 
 * "VVe will see when you come in,' she answered, 
 and with that he was obliged to be satisfied. He 
 remembered afterwards how she had followed him 
 about that morning, watching his every movement, 
 until he came to kiss her as usual. Then her arms 
 were folded closely about his neck, and she kissed 
 him, without a word spokon, almost as she might 
 have kissed the dead. He knew in a few hours 
 that in her heart she had bidden him a last farewell. 
 He was gone the greater part of the day, and in 
 
 r! 
 
I !lf 
 
 [ . ) 
 
 200 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 r ■ 
 
 the interests and demands of his work had forgotten 
 the anxieties of the morning. But they returned to 
 him as he walked once more up the street which 
 led to his home. Involuntarily he quickened 
 his footsteps, and a sense of dread stole upon 
 him — a great fear, lest all should not be right 
 within. 
 
 But the little maid met him with imperturbable 
 face in the hall, looking rather important, indeed, 
 having been left in charge for the first time. 
 
 ' The missis has gone away out of town, Mr. 
 Frank, but your dinner is quite ready, and she left 
 a note for you.* 
 
 * Where ? When did she leave ? * 
 
 ' Quite early, sir ; about eleven ; soon after you 
 went out.' 
 
 * Did any message or telegram come to summon 
 her away ? * 
 
 * No, sir, there wasn't a creature at the door but 
 the greengrocer and the butcher,' answered the 
 little maid confidently. 
 
 He strode past her into the dining-room, and 
 snatched the sealed envelope standing before the 
 clock on the mantelshelf. Its contents were brief 
 and unsatisfactory enough, — 
 
 ' My dear Boy, — I have been obliged to go into 
 the country on important business. I may be 
 
At Alderley, 
 
 20I 
 
 home to-night, but if not, to-morrow without fail. 
 Try not to worry. I am all right. — Yours, 
 
 ' R W.' 
 
 Mr. 
 
 but 
 the 
 
 Shortly after noon, on a bright, cool August day, 
 Ella Westray drove her cream - coloured ponies 
 leisurely along the Westborough Road, and turned 
 in at the entrance gates of Alderlcy. 
 
 She was alone, but she did not mind that in the 
 least ; sometimes one's thoughts are preferable to 
 uncongenial companionship. Lady Adelaide was 
 standing by the breakfast-room window when the 
 ponies trotted nimbly round the curve in the 
 avenue, and were drawn up at the door. The next 
 minute Ella was in the room, leaving Coleman to 
 take her equipage round to the stables. 
 
 ' I was dreadfully dull at home this morning, 
 Aunt Adelaide,* she said, in explanation of her 
 unusually early visit. * Mamma went away to 
 Enderby by the 10.40. Clara telegraphed for her. 
 Her husband is very ill.' 
 
 * Whose husband ? ' asked Tom, who had just 
 sauntered into the room, and heard her closing words. 
 
 * Clara's. How are you, Tom ? Have you been 
 on the moors ? ' asked Ella, glancing at his shooting 
 garb, as she shook hands with iiim. 
 
 ' No ; just going, though. Must be off now, in 
 fact,* he answered, but still lingered, perhaps to 
 
 
 i1 
 
 Hs 
 
 
 ' ! 
 
 I'rN 
 
 
202 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 i ! 
 
 t 
 
 m 
 
 
 i^ i 
 
 hear some further particulars regarding the indis- 
 position of the Marquis of Enderby. He had not 
 forgotten Clara yet, though he had forgiven her for 
 her calm refusal of the offer he had made to her a 
 few years ago. She had told him frankly that she 
 intended to aim higher, and that had he had some- 
 thing more to offer her, she would have given him a 
 different answer. It cost her more to send him 
 away than her answer cost him. He was dis- 
 appointed, hut the young Squire of Alderley 
 possessed the happy gift of being able to resign 
 himself to the inevitable. Only he knew that no 
 other woman should ever have the chance to make 
 him feel so small. 
 
 ' I am sorry to hear that,* said Lady Adelaide, in 
 her gentle, sympathetic way. * Are the doctors 
 anxious ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. They think him dangerously ill,' Ella 
 answered ; and then, as Tom had sauntered from 
 the room again, and was out of hearing, she added, 
 somewhat hesitatingly, * I wonder. Aunt Adelaide, 
 whether Clara will be really sorry. I think she 
 does not care for him very much.* 
 
 ' Perhaps illness may draw them more closely 
 together, dear,' said Lady Adelaide. 'Will you 
 let me tell you, Ella, what a relief it was to me to 
 hear from Clifford that the rumour concerning you 
 and Lord Cluneraven had no foundation in fact ? ' 
 
At Aldcrley, 
 
 203 
 
 Ella crimsoned as she answered, — 
 
 ' Oh, Aunt Adelaide, I could never care for him ! 
 How good Clifford has been to me about this ! I 
 do think no girl could have so kind and devoted a 
 brother. I feel that I can never love him enoui^h.' 
 
 *We have all reason to love and honour Cliirord ! 
 and his reward is sure. He lives a noble life, CJod 
 bless him ! ' said Adelaide Westray, in tones of deep 
 emotion. 
 
 * Is that Ella Westray at this hour of the day ? ' 
 cried Florence's clear, happy voice, and presently 
 she dashed into the room. * You morsel ! did you 
 know I wanted you for a stroll to Pine Edge ? 
 You should see the autumn leaves and the ash 
 berries there. They'd make you leap for joy. I'm 
 going to have the drawing- 00m decorated, I tell 
 you. Will you come with me and help me to bring 
 home the spoils ? ' 
 
 ' Y^es. Is Aunt Adelaide going ? * 
 
 ' Aunt Adelaide is hardly able for such an 
 expedition now, my love,' she said, with her gentle, 
 happy smile. * You forget that I am growing 
 old.' 
 
 * Oh, no ; you're not, Adelaide. You mustn't, 
 you know, so long as I remain a spinster of 
 uncertain age,' said Florence gaily. 
 
 * You don't look one bit older than you did years 
 and years ago, Flossie,' said Ella. 
 
• 
 
 
 I 
 
 ll 
 
 1 1 
 
 li 
 
 )l 
 
 i,. 
 
 !■ 
 
 'r 
 
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 ly 
 
 ^ 
 
 204 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 ' No older than when I first saw you, a fat baby 
 rolling over Dandie on the lawn of Kathmere. Do 
 you remember that day, Adelaide ? ' 
 
 Ay, Adelaide remembered it well. It had not 
 been without its touch of pain. 
 
 ' Go uway, then, children, and, to give you time, 
 I shall order luncheon for half-past two. I expect 
 you will both want something substantial then if 
 you are at work at Pine Edge for two hours.* 
 
 So, with sunny jest and laughter, they parted, 
 little dreaming what momentous issues were to be 
 involved in the next two hours. 
 
 As the girls, arm-in-arm, sauntered across the 
 park, there entered at the lodge-gates a closed 
 conveyance from the County Hotel at Westborough. 
 They looked back carelessly as tlie sound of wheels 
 arrested their talk, but didn't give it a second 
 thought. That conveyance held a solitary occupant, 
 a lady, who alighted a little way from the house, 
 and bade the man wait till she returned. Then she 
 walked steadily up to the hall door, and rang the bell. 
 
 • Can I see Lady Adelaide Westray ? * she asked 
 quietly, when the servant answered her summons. 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am ; please to come in,' the girl 
 answered respectfully, and at once ushered her up 
 to the drawing-room. 
 
 ' What name shall I say, please ? ' 
 
 ' No name. Simply say a lady wishes to see 
 
At Alderley. 
 
 20: 
 
 girl 
 
 
 Lady Westray on a matter of important business,' 
 returned the stranger; and when the servant left 
 her, she sat down on an ottoman, took off her 
 glov(is, and put back her veil. Her face, though 
 pale and deeply lined, either with anxiety or 
 physical pain, still bore traces of exceptional beauty. 
 It was, undeniably, the face of a woman with a 
 history, and there was a pathetic and hopekss 
 expression in her eyes which seemed to say tliat 
 she had found life exceedingly hard. She was 
 sitting in an easy attitude, with her bare hands 
 crossed in her lap, when the door opened and Lady 
 Westray, in a sweeping black gown, with a Slietland 
 shawl about her shoulders, entered the room. Then 
 the stranger rose and fixed her deep eyes with a 
 wild yearning on the fair face of the childless widow. 
 It was a sweet face, and that of a truly good 
 woman. She was yet in her prime, but the 
 abundant hair coiled under the little lace cap was 
 quite grey, and had been for years ; one of the 
 traces left by the deep sorrows of her youth. 
 
 * I am Lady Wostray,' she said kindly. ' You 
 wished to see me ? ' 
 
 She was surprised to see her visitor with un- 
 gloved hands — indeed, her whole appearance 
 puzzled her. What could be her errand ? 
 
 ' Yes, I wish to see you. Can you spare me a 
 little time ? My business is urgent.' 
 
 11 
 
 
206 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 % 
 
 i 
 
 It 
 
 !T 
 
 ' T can/ returned Lady Westray, still more 
 surprised. * But if you have a great deal to say, I 
 fear we shall find this room cold. There is r. fire 
 in the lil)rary. Will you come down ? ' 
 
 * No, thank you, unless you will feel the cold. 
 Neither of us will think of it in a few minutes,* 
 said the stranger, in a sharp, eager way. * You do 
 not know me, Lady Westray ? ' 
 
 *No, I do not. The maid brought no name. 
 What can I do for you ? ' 
 
 * You are sure you have never seen me before ? ' 
 
 * Quite sure. I remember faces well,' 
 
 ' So do I, but I have never seen yours, except in 
 my dreams. You have visited me there often 
 enough. I have never seen a lovelier face than 
 yours is now. You look like a saint.' 
 
 Lady Westray coloured at this extraordinary 
 speech, and looked rather nervously round. She 
 had heard of mad people escaping from their 
 restraint, and cunningly gaining admission to 
 houses. Could it be that this was one ? The 
 stranger saw the nervous look, and at once divined 
 the unspoken dread. 
 
 ' I know what you are thinking, what you fear, 
 Lady Westray, and I will relieve your mind,* she 
 said sadly. ' I will tell you my name ; though, 
 unless you have heard it before, it will convey no 
 explanation of my visit. It is Rosamond Vane.' 
 
more 
 say, I 
 
 .-» fire 
 
 3 cold, 
 nutes/ 
 iTou do 
 
 name. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 lOTQ ? • 
 
 cept in 
 ) often 
 ;e than 
 
 'dinary 
 She 
 their 
 on to 
 The 
 ivined 
 
 u fear, 
 id,* she 
 hough, 
 vey no 
 ne.' 
 
 A STRANGE STORY. 
 
 ;0R a moment these two women, between 
 whom there was such a strange tie, 
 looked at each other in deep silence. 
 Then a cry broke from tlie lips of Atlelaide 
 "Westray, and she laid her hand almost fiercely on 
 the other's arm. 
 
 The gentle eyes flashed; the pale, worn face 
 became grand in the dignity of motherhood ; 
 the sweet, gracious repose was broken as if by a 
 whirlwind of passion. 
 
 * You are the woman who stole my darling from 
 me, who made me a childless widow in the very 
 spring-time of my days. What have you done with 
 him ? ' 
 
 * I have kept him for you, Lady Westray. He is 
 safe and well, a son of whom even you will be proud.' 
 
 iJ07 
 
1 I 
 
 208 
 
 j4 Vexed Inhe) iiance. 
 
 i! 
 
 r; 
 
 !" 
 
 Her voice snnk almost to a wliisper ; it was a 
 very rendin",' of the heartstrings for her to utter 
 these words. 
 
 ' AVhere is he ? Have you brought him ? — my 
 beautiful child, my Bertie, my lost darlin<»?* cri(;d 
 Adelaide "Westray, all the passionate mother-love 
 and yearning awaking in her soul. 
 
 ' He is not here, but he will come/ said Ilosamond 
 Vane soothingly, as she would have spoken to a 
 child. * Will you be calm for a little ? Will you 
 let me tell you my story ? I will spare you, and be 
 brief. I will not burden you with prayers for 
 jiardon or mercy. The wrong I did you is one 
 which cannot be forgiven ; only let me tell you all, 
 let me give him up, and then creep away into some 
 corner, alone with my broken heart, to die.' 
 
 * I will listen, I will be calm : but, pray sit 
 down, you look very white and ill,' said Adeliiide 
 Westray, trembling in every limb, but with some- 
 thing of her usual kind thought for others. Even 
 in this supreme moment her thoughts were not 
 wholly selfish ; she had pity for the woman before 
 her. 
 
 ' I could not sit. I am in a fever of unrest, 
 though I thought I had schooled myself to be calm,' 
 said Itosamond Vane. ' First tell me, if you please, 
 have you ever heard my name or aught about me 
 before to-day ? ' 
 
 I' i 
 
A Strange Stoty. 
 
 209 
 
 wa3 a 
 utter 
 
 ? — my 
 ' crii'xl 
 er-love 
 
 mmond 
 n to a 
 ill you 
 and be 
 'era for 
 is one 
 you all, 
 to some 
 
 )ray sit 
 Vdeliiide 
 .1 some- 
 Even 
 ere not 
 n before 
 
 unrest, 
 je calm,* 
 a please, 
 bout me 
 
 *I know sonietliinj^ of you. My husband told 
 me of the acciuaintance he liad with you at Oxford. 
 I was very sorry for you wIkmi lie told me. You 
 liad a great grief, if you loved him, but it was very 
 cruel to steal away my little child. Tell me only 
 from that night, and make haste. I cannot wait 
 until you weigh your words.' 
 
 * I will obey you to the letter,' Ro.samond Vane 
 answered, and so began : ' AVhen I came to Westray 
 that night, Lady Westray, I had no fixed idea in 
 my mind. I was a wild, passionate woman, full 
 of indignation and anger against you — the wife of 
 Hubert Westray, the woman who had stolen my 
 love from me. They told me in the village where 
 I had some refreshment, what a beautiful and good 
 mistress of West Court you made, and how Sir 
 Hubert worshipped you and feared to let the wind 
 blow too rudely upon you. They spoke, too, of 
 your child, the little heir to West Court, what a 
 pride and joy he was to you, and what a crown of 
 happiness to West Court. These things. Lady 
 Westray, falling upon the heart of a desolate, 
 embittered woman, made her thirst yet anew for 
 revenge. I went up to West Court without any 
 fixed idea in my mind. Perhaps I wanted to see 
 the place where I had once foolishly dreamed I 
 might find a home ; perhaps I thought I might see 
 Hubert Westray, and that my presence might cast 
 
fp 
 
 '■' ' ••"■ Jd 
 
 If 
 
 'l 
 
 I 1 
 
 
 
 '' ii:;: 
 
 2IO 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
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 if 
 
 If 
 
 [ 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
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 i 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 a shadow on his happiness ; porhaps, too, T had a 
 vague desire to see you, the woman wlio liad 
 supplanted me. It was a briglit, moonlight night, 
 as perhaps you can remember. Lady "Westray: 
 objects could be seen at a great distance. But 1 was 
 standing behind a tree in the avenue when the car- 
 riage passed. Perhaps you will remember wlicre you 
 went that night — I have never heard. I saw his 
 face as you whirled past, but you were not visible ; 
 yet I could picture you nestling in your corner in 
 your costly wraps. I was disappointed tliat you 
 should both be absent, and I thought of going back 
 to the village, when the desire came upon me to 
 have a closer view of your grand home, perhaps to 
 photograph it on my memory, and so I walked up 
 to the house. The hall door was wide open, and I 
 could see right into the hall. I stood so long on the 
 steps that I took note of everything it contained — 
 the oak furniture, the quaint settle supported by 
 carved figures, the brass grate, the carved mantelpiece 
 with the armour above it, the wide, richly p'rpeted 
 staircase, with the painted window. I remember the 
 figures on the window, for a light from without was 
 shining through it. The centre-piece is a battle 
 scene, with a dying soldier beside his steed, a priest 
 and a lady kneeling by his side. You see I re- 
 member all these. I stood under the portico of the 
 entrance hall for half an hour or more, and not a 
 
A Strange Story, 
 
 21 I 
 
 had a 
 lio had 
 t night, 
 k^estrny : 
 lit 1 was 
 the car- 
 he re you 
 saw his 
 , visible ; 
 orner in 
 that you 
 )ing hack 
 m me to 
 Brhaps to 
 talked up 
 en, and I 
 ns on the 
 itained — 
 Dorted by 
 mtelpiece 
 
 p'rpeted 
 emher the 
 thout was 
 
 a hattle 
 
 \, a priest 
 
 see I re- 
 
 ico of the 
 
 and not a 
 
 
 living soul came to disturb me. The house might 
 have been deserted, for any sign or sound of life 
 there was about it. I do not know what mad 
 impulse tempted me to enter, but after I had stood 
 for a long time I stole into the hall, and, almost 
 before I knew what I was doing, found myself 
 speeding up the staircase. I do not know how far 
 I went and what f^uiiled me, but I came straight as 
 an arrow to the room where the heir of ^.Vest Court 
 lay sleeping alone. In a moment I had him in my 
 arms. I caught up a shawl from ihe nurse's chair, 
 a common woollen thine: which must have belori'^ed 
 to her, for it did not match with the things the 
 baby wore. I had a cloak about me, a wide, warm, 
 fur-lined wrap, in whose ample folds I hid the chilJ, 
 and stole forth unmolested into the night. Be 
 calm, my lady. Ay, it was a cruel, cruel thing, but 
 I took no time to think. I knew the loss of the 
 child could not remain undiscovered, but from the 
 ease with which I got away, surely some time must 
 have passed before the nurse returned to her charge. 
 I made straight for the station at Westray, and 
 caught the ten o'clock express for London. I 
 stayed there at an hotel all night, and travelled 
 next day by the morning train to Scotland.* 
 
 * To Scotland ! ' echoed Adelaide Westray, faintly 
 recalling the days and weeks which had been spent in 
 a fruitless search through London and its environs. 
 
 m. 
 
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 If I I 
 
 l«- 
 
 II 
 
 l\: 
 
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 212 
 
 ^ Vexed Inhe^'itance. 
 
 'Yes, to Scotland. I surmised that you had 
 come home late, and that in the wild confusion 
 and consternation of the hf»ur you had not taken 
 thought to telegraph directly to Scotland Yard. 
 Had tliat been done, of course it would have been 
 impossible for me to have left London next morning 
 undiscovered. I was very wary, Lady Westray, 
 for, instead of going straight to Edinburgh that day, 
 I alighted at a little unknown station several miles 
 from it, and there remained two days. From 
 'hence I travelled by various routes to Gla.-gow, 
 which was my destination. I had a living to make 
 for myself and the child, and I knew that only in 
 a city could I succeed. 
 
 * Perhaps I should tell you that my mother had 
 died, and that I was utterly alone in the world, 
 therefore no one could be at the trouble to seek me 
 out ; not a living soul in the wide world cared 
 whether I lived or died. You see I had everything 
 to favour me in hiding my identity, in keeping 
 myself out of the reach of punishment. It would 
 have been better for me had I been discovered 
 then. No punishment could have been so heavy 
 as that which I have brought upon myself. I have 
 reared an idol for m.yself; to part from it now 
 means for me death in life. I had only one 
 resource in my power, one way of earning a 
 livelihood — by my voice, and my powers as an 
 
on bad 
 nfusion 
 it taken 
 I Yard, 
 ve been 
 norning 
 Yestray, 
 hat day, 
 al miles 
 From 
 211a.-gow, 
 to make 
 only in 
 
 tber bad 
 world, 
 seek me 
 cared 
 erytbing 
 keeping 
 It would 
 iscovered 
 so beavy 
 I bave 
 it now 
 )nly one 
 
 ,rning 
 
 a 
 
 •s as an 
 
 A Strange Story. 
 
 213 
 
 actress These were fairly good, though un- 
 trained, but they served me in good stead. I 
 easily obtained a situation at one of the best 
 theatres, where I gave myself out as a widow. 
 Needless to say, I changed my name. I put the 
 child to board with a good, kind woman, whose 
 house was a home to me while I remained in 
 Glasgow, and then I entered on my life - work. 
 I had an aim in life. Lady Westray — something 
 to love and work for ; and, more precious than all, 
 some one to love me. For the child did love me, 
 and I loved him. I was happy in those days, with 
 a strange, fearful, precarious happiness, such as I 
 had never experienced before. As time went on, 
 and I felt how unspeakably precious the child was 
 to me, I knew how great was the wrong I had 
 done to you. But I tried to banish all thoughts 
 of it. I never looked at a newspaper lest I should 
 see some reference to the mysterious disappearance, 
 and I told myself that you would have other 
 children, and that you would never miss the one 
 who had become so much to me. 
 
 'As time wore on, I grew more secure in my 
 sense of possession, and the child grew and 
 prospered with me — ay, and loved me — poor 
 Eosamond Vane, the only mother he had ever 
 known. For him I worked and toiled and slaved 
 — I shall not linger over it — self-denial was no 
 
, I 
 
 ■ ! ' 
 
 i .1 
 
 214 
 
 A Vexed Inheriiance. 
 
 hardship, but a sweet joy, of wliich I can scarcely 
 speak. As lie grew older he was sent to school, 
 and I, grown proud in and for him, saw that it 
 would be a good thing that he did not know how 
 I earned my l^read. There was no disgrace in 
 singing in public, but I fancied my high-spirited, 
 sensitive boy would feel it. He had many strange 
 fancies ; one was to make me a great lady some 
 day, to give me horses and carriages and servants, all 
 out of his love for me. Lady Westray, I believe I 
 speak truly when I say your boy never felt the 
 want of a mother's love, for I loved him more than 
 ten mothers. I sent him away — at what cost to 
 myself I will not say — and he had his education 
 at the best boarding-school I could afford, and I 
 worked harder than ever ; I denied myself almost 
 the necessaries of life, and laid apart everything for 
 him. In the street where we lived there was an 
 eccentric, little, old maiden lady, who took a deep 
 interest in the child and me. I had deceived her 
 with a pretty story of my married life and my 
 widowhood, and she was full of interest and 
 sympathy for us. She had means, they said, 
 though she lived in a plain, quiet way, and she 
 would have helped me if I had allowed her, but 
 that I could not do. No hand but mine must toil 
 for the child I had so dearly bought. One thing 
 was accepted from her, however, a rest in the 
 
A Strange Story, 
 
 215 
 
 carcely 
 school, 
 that it 
 )W how 
 race in 
 ipirited, 
 strange 
 y some 
 ants, all 
 elieve I 
 Felt the 
 )re than 
 cost to 
 lucation 
 
 and I 
 F almost 
 hing for 
 
 was an 
 
 a deep 
 Lved her 
 a,nd my 
 est and 
 2y said, 
 and she 
 her, but 
 nust toil 
 le thing 
 
 in the 
 
 holiday time at her beautiful house on the river, 
 far from the smoky town, where the waters of the 
 Clyde are as clear as crystal, rellecting every 
 changing aspect of the summer sky. We went 
 there often, Frank and I, and were glad to go ; 
 glad to find such a sweet retreat — he from his 
 books, and I from my weary toil — and to enjoy 
 each other's company. Our kind hostess, knowing 
 what a happiness it was for us to be together, did 
 not intrude on our 'valks, and we loved her the 
 more for her gentle thought. So the time wore 
 on. I might tell you, Lady Westray, how, as my 
 boy grew, and high ideas of duty and of goodness 
 took possession of him, I felt bowed to the earth 
 before him with a sense of my own un worthiness 
 and dishonour. I might tell you of the awful 
 struggles I had to fight out alone — how all that 
 was good in me, touched by contact with his young, 
 pure soul, cried out against the long deception of 
 my life. But I shall forbear. That can have no 
 interest for you. In time, when my boy was 
 nearing manhood, our kind friend died, and left to 
 me all her means, as a token of her admiration for 
 the noble way in which I had striven alone in the 
 battle of life, and of gratitude for the pleasure and 
 good she had received from her friendsliip with me. 
 So the will read. How these words cut deep into 
 my heart ! They were sharper than a two-edged 
 
 m 
 
mf 
 
 ' ' 
 
 Nil 
 
 I' 
 
 o 
 
 if. 
 
 ■ 
 
 I E 
 
 'H 
 
 It' . 
 
 •f I 
 
 2l6 
 
 ^ Vexed Inheritance^ 
 
 sword. It was a timely bequest, for my voice was 
 almost gone, and I had been nearly at ray wits' 
 end. I could not think with calmness of my boy 
 entering upon any common occupation. I never 
 for a moment forgot, all these years, that he was 
 a Westray of West Court, and rather than that 
 he should be lowered, I had determined upon 
 restoring him to his friends. I meant to do it 
 some day. Can you understand, Lady Westray, 
 that it was my selfish love which kept me back ? 
 When the legacy was paid, we came to London, in 
 order that Frank might follow his desire after 
 art. I am coming very near the end now, Lady 
 Westray.* 
 
 It was a striking picture— the two women, both 
 labouring under the most intense mental excitement, 
 the one hanging, white and breathless, on every 
 word which fell from the other's lips. 
 
 * I took a house at Highbury,' she continued, after 
 a brief pause. ' Frank went to the art classes at 
 Kensington, and also, by some strange chance, to 
 Woodburn, the artist, and there he met his cousin, 
 Fred Westray, and by him was taken to his mother's 
 house in Piccadilly. Can you follow out the rest. 
 Lady Westray ? ' 
 
 Adelaide Westray covered her face with her 
 hands. 
 
 ' I had no hand in it. It was as if the whole 
 
''m^' \\ 
 
 A Strange Story, 
 
 217 
 
 ce was 
 
 J wits' 
 Qy boy 
 
 never 
 le was 
 n that 
 upon 
 • do it 
 "estray, 
 
 back ? 
 don, in 
 3 after 
 i^, Lady 
 
 n, both 
 Cement, 
 every 
 
 d, after 
 sses at 
 lice, to 
 cousin, 
 lother'a 
 le rest, 
 
 th her 
 
 3 whole 
 
 matter was being taken out of my hands, as if 
 Destiny was working in her own way. A week 
 ago Cliflbrd Westray came to my house at Highbury, 
 and took the boy away from me to you. Perhaps 
 you can recall that night. Lady "Westray, wh.^n you 
 looked upon the face and touched the hand of your 
 own son, and did not know it.* 
 
 * Is he my son ? Thank God.' 
 
 These words only fell from the lips of Adelaide 
 Westray, then there was a long, sobbing silence in 
 the room. Slowly Eosamond Vane drew on her 
 left-hand glove, and rose to her feet. Her eyes, 
 worn and weary, but filled with a pathetic sadness, 
 were bent upon the bowed head of the woman she 
 had wronged. 
 
 * I am about to go, Lady "Westray ; my task is 
 done. \i you will look up a moment, I shall tell 
 you where I am to be found. You may be sure 
 that no thought of escaping justice a second time 
 has presented itself to my mind.* 
 
 Then Adelaide "Westray also very slowly rose to 
 her feet, and once more these two looked at each 
 other. Then the light of a divine compassion 
 dawned upon her face, she stretched out a gentle 
 hand, and laid it on the arm of Eosamond Vane. 
 
 ' God forgive and pity you, as I do, Eosamond 
 "Vane,* she said. * You did me a great wrong — the 
 greatest in your power. But you have suffered 
 
i ll 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 \i 
 
 ' 
 
 i 
 
 I - 
 
 i 
 I 
 
 I » 
 
 1 
 'i' 
 
 i I 
 
 
 i^^ 
 
 ' (I 
 <| i. . 
 
 218 
 
 -^ Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 too, and now that I know who and what my son is, 
 I can forL,Mve. Stay hore ; you need have no fear. 
 She who has so loved my boy, and is loved by him, 
 cannot be quite repulsive to me. I want to think 
 over this strange story. There is much to be done. 
 It involves more than you can think of. It must 
 not be hurried ; so stay, if you please, for a little 
 while.' 
 
 Eosamond Vane took the white, thin hand, and, 
 raising it to her lips, left it wet with her penitential 
 tears. 
 
y son IS, 
 no fear, 
 by him, 
 io think 
 be done. 
 It mnst 
 a little 
 
 nd, and, 
 aitential 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 KENUNCIATION. 
 
 [HERE is a message from Alderley, Sir 
 Clifford. It is very urgent. Lady 
 Adelaide asks that you will come over 
 without a moment's delay.* 
 
 Such was the announcement Sir Clifford Westray 
 received on his return from the county meeting at 
 Westborougli. He looked much surprised ; what 
 could have liappened there to require his presence 
 so urgently ? 
 
 *Take Magnum round to the stables, then, 
 Bennett, and saddle Windfall for me at once. There 
 is no word from Lady Westray yet, I suppose ? ' 
 
 *Not yet. Sir Clifford,' Bennett answered, and 
 hastened to do liis master's bidding. Within an 
 hour Clifford Westray drew rein before the hall 
 door at Alderley, and was at once shown into the 
 
 a 19 
 
 
'.I ^ 
 
 I:. 
 
 t 
 
 I 
 
 I i 
 
 1.. 
 
 i't 
 
 in 
 
 !:! 
 
 liin 
 
 
 220 
 
 ^ Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 library. lie ihouglit the house quiet, and knowing 
 Ella had intended to spend the day there, ho 
 wondered where tliey had all gone. It was sctarcely 
 two hours since they had left for Pine Edge, and at 
 that moment they were saun^^ering gaily through 
 the woods on their homeward way, laden with their 
 spoils of autumn fruits and foliage, little dreaming 
 of what had happened during their absence. Scarcely 
 had Clifford entered the library when the door was 
 Imrricdly opened, and his aunt er*-(Ted his presence. 
 He saw at once that she was unusually excited ; 
 her pale face was much flushed, her eyes shining, 
 her hands trembling, as she clasped them upon his 
 arm. 
 
 * Pear Aunt Adelaide,* he said tenderly, ' I am 
 here. What has happened ? What can I do for 
 you?' 
 
 *0h, Clifford! Clifford!' she said falteringly, 
 and suddenly burst into tears. 
 
 Not till then did she realize what her joy must 
 involve for him; how, for her sake, he would be 
 called upon to give up all. In the first ecstasy" 
 over the restoration of her child, her heart had 
 turned tc Clifford, yearning for his sympathy and 
 love, forgetting that her joy could not be without 
 its keen pain for him. He was both mystified and 
 concerned to see her grief ; but he endeavoured to 
 soothe it, and at length succeeded. 
 
 1':! 
 
Renunciation, 
 
 221 
 
 *I do not ?'Mow tliat it was tlie best thing to 
 send for you, ClilTord. I did it on tlic impulse of 
 the moment/ she said at length. ' A strange, almost 
 incredible revelation has been made to me to-day. 
 My son is yet alive.' 
 
 Clifford Westray gave a gi-eat start. 
 
 * Impossible, Aunt Adelaide ! ' 
 
 * It is true ; oh, I know ; I am sure it is ! Do 
 you remember, Clifford, that niglit you brou^lit the 
 young artist to my house to meet Melnotle ? You 
 remember how moved I was at the sight of him. 
 Oh, Clifford, he was my own son, and I did not 
 know it.* 
 
 * Young Wareham your son. Aunt Adelaide ? ' 
 repeated Clifford Westray, and in a moment a 
 thousand things which had long puzzled him were 
 made plain. He had often wondered what was 
 familiar in the young artist's face : why certain 
 intonations of his voice should seem like the echo 
 of some far-off memory, why his heart had so often 
 and so unspeakably yearned over him. The un- 
 known tie of kinship ex[ lained it all, and even in 
 that moment there was no shadow of doubt concern- 
 ing the identity. If any thought of what this 
 meant for him intruded itself, even then he hid it 
 well. He clasped his aunt's hand in his. his true 
 eyes looked with gladness into hers, and he said 
 from his honest heart, — 
 
 PI 
 
t< 
 
 nil 
 
 II 
 
 222 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 |i 
 
 I 
 
 t , 
 
 h 
 
 1.. 
 
 ' God be tli.'inked, Aunt Adelaide. This is 
 glorious news indeed ! ' 
 
 ' She, JiosaiHond Vane, who stole him twenty 
 years ago, is here in this house. Oh, Cliflord, such 
 a sad, strange story she had to tell. My heart bled 
 for her; I could not but pity her, though I have 
 been desolate so long. You will hear it all, by and 
 by. But wliat am 1 to do ! I sent for you in my 
 selfishness, knowing none could help me as you 
 would. You have taught me to depend upon you 
 in every time of need.* 
 
 * That is a compliment, Aunt Adelaide,' he said, 
 smiling — ay, even in what was a moment of 
 keenest pain. ' Wluit would you like me to do ? 
 Perhaps the best thing would be for me to see 
 the woman whom I have met as Mrs. Wareham. 
 She did not bring — r ^' cousin down with 
 her?' 
 
 ' Ko, he knows nothing yet. Should I go to 
 London, Clifford, or what will be best ? I leave it 
 all with you.* » 
 
 * I will go to London, Aunt Adelaide, and bring 
 him down,* said Clifford, without a moment's hesita- 
 tion. ' I shall enjoy the surprise I can give him. 
 We are great friends. Aunt Adelaide. "What a 
 mercy that he should be restored as he is ! It 
 might have been so different.* 
 
 * Ah, yes ; and for that I owe Rosamond Vane 
 
Renunciation. 
 
 223 
 
 This is 
 
 twenty 
 jrd, biR'h 
 3art bled 
 1 I have 
 1, by nnd 
 ,1 in my 
 
 as you 
 pon you 
 
 be said, 
 nieiit of 
 3 to do ? 
 e to see 
 ^^ arc bam. 
 
 n witb 
 
 I go to 
 leave it 
 
 id bring 
 s hesita- 
 ive bim. 
 "VVbat a 
 is! It 
 
 lid Vane 
 
 my ^Tatiliide. Sbe lias toiliMl and sufTcrcd nobly, 
 lbonL,'li her bfo lias been so sadly mislakcm.* 
 ' Then you do not mean to punisb her ? ' 
 ' No, no. Would tbat give me back my lost 
 years, Clifford ? Sbe bas been punished ; she will 
 be punished yet more in giving him up. My heart 
 is sad for her ; I will help her if she will allow 
 me.' 
 
 * Aunt Adelaide, T do believe you are an angel.* 
 
 ' No, no, Clitl'ord, only an ordinary woman, whose 
 heart, perhaps, sorrow has a little softened ; and 
 we have all need to be forgiven.' 
 
 * I suppose she will have some proofs of his iden- 
 tity, Aunt Adi'laide,' he said presently. 'Theie 
 will be some legid questions to be satisfied before 
 he can be restored to his own.* 
 
 ' Yes, she bas the clothing he wore when she 
 took him, and the little charms he had about his 
 neck, and the nurse's shawl, and, of course, she is 
 prepared to give her statement on oath,' Lady 
 Adelaide answered, and then a silence fell upon 
 them which neither could break. Clifford Westny 
 walked over to the window, and looked across the 
 barren stubble-fields to the mass of gorgeous colour- 
 ing in the West Court woods. The leaves had 
 begun to fall during the last few days, and through 
 a gap in the trees he caught a glimpse of an ivied 
 turret of his home. His home — now his no more ! 
 
 
 
 1 IV 
 
ill 
 
 V 
 
 1 
 
 ,' i r , 
 
 1 
 
 Hi 
 
 :1|: 
 
 l.i i 
 
 !;! 
 
 224 
 
 -/^ Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 That was a sharp moment, indeed, for tlie master of 
 West Court. 
 
 * Clifford ! * His aunt's gentle hand touched his 
 arm. * I know what you are thinking. Do not let 
 it trouble you, my darling. Though my boy is 
 coming back to me, it will make no difference. 
 You will still be master of West Court. Who 
 could fill the place half so nobly or so well ? I am 
 a rich woman, Clifford ; I can buy another home for 
 myself and my son. We will never, never seek to 
 supplant you at West Court.* 
 
 Clifford Westray's firm under-lip quivered, and 
 he passed his hand just once across his brow. The 
 struggle, though sharp, had been brief. It was over 
 now. He turned his eyes, honest and true, on the 
 sweet face of the woman he had long loved more 
 than a mother, and, bending from his tall height, 
 pressed his lips to her brow. In that kiss he gave 
 up all, even as she, in her kiss, had once given up 
 all to him. 
 
 ' Hush, Aunt Adelaide, you speak of what could 
 never be. Bertie is West Court's rightful heir; 
 even you could not keep it from him. You need 
 not be sad or sorry for me. I am not helpless. 
 I)o I look as if I could do nothing for myself ? ' he 
 said, with a touch of his old gaiety. 'The sooner 
 all this is cleared up and settled the better. Now 
 take me upstairs to see Eosamond Vane.' 
 
Rifiunciation. 
 
 225 
 
 laster of 
 
 }hed his 
 ) not let 
 boy is 
 ifference. 
 ■>. Who 
 ? I am 
 [lome for 
 • seek to 
 
 red, and 
 w. The 
 was over 
 i, on the 
 ed more 
 height, 
 he gave 
 ;iven up 
 
 at could 
 ul heir; 
 ou need 
 helpless, 
 elf?' he 
 e sooner 
 Now 
 
 * Florence, there is the fly we saw as we went 
 away/ said Ella Westray, as the twain once more 
 stepped across the park to the avenue. 
 
 ' So it is — and isn't that your brother looking 
 out, and waving; his hat to us ? What do you 
 suppose it means ? * 
 
 * It is Clifford. I am just as mystified as can be,' 
 said Ella in a puzzled voice. ' Let us make haste, 
 and see whether Aunt Adelaide can enlighten us.' 
 
 But when they reached the house, no Aunt 
 Adelaide was to be found. She was in her own 
 room, with the door shut upon her, and for a time 
 would give admission to none. 
 
 * Has anything happened, mamma ? ' Florence 
 inquired breathlessly, bursting into the room where 
 Mrs. Courtney, now almost a confirmed invalid, was 
 lying dozing in the drowsy afternoon sunshine. 
 
 * Happened, my child ? Nothing that I am 
 aware of,' she answered. 'Why do you ask the 
 question ? ' 
 
 'Well, mother, a fly from Westborough stands 
 two hours before the door, and Clifford Westray 
 rides away in it, and Adelaide shuts herself in her 
 own room ; it is natural ^or one to suppose some- 
 thing has happened, is it not ? * 
 
 'All these might be easily explained, dear, no 
 doubt,' answered Mrs. Courtney placidly. 'What 
 have you done with Ella ? ' 
 
 ri! '■' 
 
>*w* 
 
 i > 
 
 II 
 
 ill: 8f 
 
 IN' 
 
 I 
 
 H 
 
 111 
 
 11 
 111 
 
 i'i: 
 
 i'l 
 
 I 
 
 Is. 
 
 '1 '[- 
 
 i r\ 
 
 226 
 
 A Vexed hiheriiance. 
 
 * She is in my room taking off her hat. I sup- 
 pose we may have luncheon alone, then ? "We are 
 famished.' 
 
 ' I suppose so. Tom is out shooting, I think/ 
 answered Mrs. Courtney ; and, closing her eyes, she 
 turned her head upon her pillow, as if slie had no 
 further interest in what Florence was saying. 
 
 She had, indeed, given up the work of life into 
 the hands of others, and lived only quiet, restful 
 days, ministered unto by devoted children, to whom 
 she was unutterably dear. The eventide of her life 
 was like the close of a calm and beautiful day. 
 
 Florence bent down, kissed her mother, and 
 went back to Ella. 
 
 * No explanation is forthcoming, so in the mean- 
 time we had better go and appease our hunger. I 
 hope you are not tired of my company, because 
 tliere seems to be no other available.' 
 
 Ella laughed as she smoothed her tangled hair 
 before the mirror. 
 
 * Where is Anna to-day ? I have not seen her,' 
 she said. 
 
 ' Anna is away at Torquay, to visit the ^Main- 
 warings and to meet some literary people. Did 
 you not know ? ' 
 
 * No ; when did she go ? * 
 
 ' Only yesterday, to be sure ; and it was only the 
 day before she apprised us of her intention. We 
 
 1: I 
 
I sup- 
 AYe are 
 
 tliiuk/ 
 
 yes, she 
 
 had no 
 
 ife into 
 , restful 
 ;o whom 
 her life 
 lay. 
 ler, and 
 
 e mean- 
 
 nger. I 
 
 because 
 
 ;led hair 
 
 3en her,' 
 
 e I^Iain- 
 le. Did 
 
 only the 
 ■on. We 
 
 Renunciation, 
 
 227 
 
 are living in the midst of surprises. I wonder 
 what could be the meaning of that fly ? * 
 
 * How curious you are, Florence ! * 
 
 'Yes, I am surprised at myself; but do you 
 know, I feel as if something had happened or was 
 about to happen,' said Florence soberly. Then 
 together they went down to the dining-room, and 
 had their luncheon. Somehow conversation flagged, 
 and a kind of soberness settled down upon them — 
 perhaps a prevision of the eventful issues of the 
 day. 
 
 * Would you mind going to mamma's room for a 
 few minutes, Ella, while I run and see what is the 
 matter with Adelaide,' said Florence, when they 
 had finished. *I cannot imagine why she should 
 shut herself up. She was so jolly when we went 
 away.* 
 
 Ella blithely assented, and ran upstairs, singing, 
 to Mrs. Courtney's room. The sweet old lady was 
 a great favourite with all young people, and Ella 
 Westray was one of her especial favourites. 
 
 Florence parted from Ella on the landing with a 
 nod and a smile, and ran upstairs to Adelaide's 
 room. The door was still locked, but, in answer to 
 her knock and request that she might be admitted, 
 the key was immediately turned. 
 
 * Come in, Flossie.* 
 
 ' What has happened, Addie ? How flushed and 
 
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 I 
 
 
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1 1 
 
 n' 
 
 
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 '111 
 
 I '■'! 
 
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 t' 
 
 iil' 
 
 228 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 excited you look ! Are you quite well ? Why is 
 your door locked, and why is Clifford Westray 
 riding away in a Westborough fly ? ' exclaimed 
 Florence, with something of the breathless haste 
 and impetuosit}- she used to exhibit so often in her 
 girlhood. 
 
 * Come in, Florence, and shut the door. Is Ella 
 away ? * 
 
 'No; she is with mamma. Something has 
 happened, Adelaide. How your eyes shine — how 
 strangely you look ! What is it ? * 
 
 'Something has happened, Flossie. Think of 
 the most impossible thing, and you will be 
 right.' 
 
 * No ; I should be wrong, Adelaide. I am afraid 
 to say it.* 
 
 * You need not be. I believe you will be right.' 
 
 ' The most impossible thing I can or could ever 
 think of is, that Bertie has been found.* 
 
 ' Florence, you are a witch ! ' cried Adelaide 
 Westray tremulously. * You are quite right. My 
 son is still alive.* 
 
 ' Oh, Adelaide, impossible ! How can it be ? * 
 
 * It is. Fred's friend, whom you will remember 
 as Frank Wareham, is my own boy, Florence. Has 
 not God been very good ? * 
 
 * Did he come in that fly, or what ? ' 
 
 *No, the woman who took him from me came 
 
Renunciaiion. 
 
 227 
 
 and went away in it Clifford is gone to London 
 to bring him back.' 
 
 * Clifford ! Does he know, Adelaide ? * 
 
 'Yes/ Adelaide Westiay answered, and a deep 
 shadow gathered in her eyes. 'There is no joy 
 without it sting. You understand what changes 
 this will make.' 
 
 * Yes,' answered Florence quickly. ' Bertie will 
 be heir to West Court.' She said no more, but 
 walked over to the window and looked out. It 
 was well, perhaps, that Adelaide could not see her 
 face, could not read her eyes. If ever true and 
 honest love was reflected in any eyes, it was in hers 
 at that moment, and she was thinking of Clifford, 
 of him alone. In a moment, however, she came 
 back and put her arms round her sister's neck. 
 
 ' God bless you, Adelaide. You will be happy 
 now.' 
 
 Then she stole away out of the room, and 
 I think Adelaide Westray understood. Perhaps 
 Clifford, in giving up so much, might win 
 something which would be more precious in his eyes 
 than all he had lost. 
 
 ■ , 
 
 I- 
 
 
 1,5 
 
 came 
 
 
i'j 
 
 II 
 
 . 
 
 i:lH 
 
 ' III 
 
 n 
 
 1 
 I 
 
 Il:'i 
 
 ii 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 REDEEMINQ AN OLD PROMISE. 
 
 •O'R the first time in his remembrance, 
 Frank Wareham sat down to eat a 
 solitary meal in his own home. It was 
 so extraordinary an occurrence to find his mother 
 absent, that he could scarcely realize it. Then this 
 sudden journey * into the country,' as her message 
 had vaguely stated, was wholly inexplicable and 
 mysterious. What important business could she 
 possibly have to attend to ? Her affairs, in so far 
 as he knew them, were simple and ordinary, need- 
 ing but little attention. He was still pondering 
 over the mystery, and only drifting further from a 
 solution of it, when he was disturbed by the quick, 
 sharp rattle of wheels in the quiet street, and then 
 by the stoppage of some vehicle at the door. In a 
 moment he was on his feet and at the window. 
 
 280 
 
Redeeming an Old Promise. 
 
 231 
 
 Imngiiie his astonishment when he belield Sir 
 Cliirord Westray aliglit, and then carefully and 
 courteously assist his own mother to the ground. 
 This was mystery upon mystery indeed. Almost 
 immediately the door was opened, and they entered 
 the house. Both cpme straight to the dining-room, 
 and as Mrs. Wareham crossed the threshold she 
 lifted her heavy veil and revealed her face. It was 
 so absolutely colourless, that involuntarily Frank 
 started back in affright. 
 
 * Mother ! mother ! what has happened to you ? ' 
 he cried anxiously. 
 
 The only answer that she made was to lift her 
 heavy eyes to the grave face of Sir Clifford "VVestray 
 and say, with a sad smile, — 
 
 * See, he calls me '* mother " still. Does that not 
 break my heart ? ' Then she took a step towards 
 her boy, and, lifting her trembling hands to his 
 shoulders, looked into his face with mingled love 
 and anguish in her gaze. 
 
 * Sir Clifford Westray has something to say to 
 you, Frank. I will leave you alone together. Kiss 
 me, my boy, for the last time.* 
 
 * I cannot understand all this ; what does it mean ? 
 What is the matter wiih my mother, Sir Clifford ? ' 
 cried the young artist impetuously, and iiiiniediately 
 liis mother left the room, and as the door closed 
 upon her they heard the sound of a stifled sob. 
 
 I! 
 
 t 
 
 ' 
 
 ill 
 
"2PW 
 
 1 i 
 
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 I - 
 
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 ii 
 
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 : 
 
 232 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 ' I do not know whether I am here with glad or 
 sorry news, my boy/ said Cliflbrd Westray. ' I 
 confess I do not like my task. God pity her ! I 
 fear her heart is broken. AVliat will you say, I 
 wonder, when I tell you that she is not your 
 mother — that there is no bond of relationship 
 whatsoever between you and her ? ' 
 
 The artist only gazed on tlie grave, noble face 
 with bewildered and startled eyes. 
 
 * I must to the point at once,* continued Clifford 
 Westray, fixing his clear eyes keenly on the flushed 
 face of his cousin. ' You have heard the story of 
 the lost heir of West Court. Your mother — I mean 
 the lady upstairs, told me to-day you have heard it 
 from my brother. I need not beat about the bush. 
 Give me your hand, my boy ; you and I are cousins!' 
 
 * Cousins ? * repeated the artist stupidly. ' How 
 cousins ? ' 
 
 'You are the lost heir of West Court, Bertie. 
 It is not my intention to tell you the story here 
 and now ; if necessary, it can be told at a more 
 fitting time and place. Let me congratulate you ; 
 you are Sir Hubert Westray of West Court.* 
 ' And who are you, then, if I am that ? * 
 ' Plain Clifford Westray, of nowliere in particular/ 
 he answered, with a slight smile, which was not 
 without its touch of sadness. 
 
 * And who is she upstairs ** 
 
Redeeming an Old Promise. 
 
 233 
 
 glad or 
 ay. 'I 
 ler ! I 
 say, I 
 it your 
 donship 
 
 )le face 
 
 Clifford 
 flushed 
 story of 
 -I mean 
 leard it 
 6 bush. 
 Dusins!' 
 'How 
 
 Bertie, 
 ry here 
 a more 
 te you ; 
 
 :icular/ 
 ras not 
 
 Clifford Westray scarcely ki.. w what to answer, 
 but his cousin went on immediately, — 
 
 ' If she is not my mother, wlio is ? Have I a 
 mother ? * 
 
 ' Yes, one whom any man might envy you. Don't 
 you understand, Bertie ? — you are Lady Adelaide 
 Westray's son, who was stolen from West Court 
 twenty years ago.' 
 
 * Lady Adelaide's son ! ' repeated the artist very 
 slowly, his thoughts going back to tliat happy night 
 he had spent at the house in Prince's Gate. Was 
 that sweet, gracious, noble lady indeed his mother ? 
 Well might the thought take away his breath. 
 
 *Who stole me away, then, and what was the 
 object ? * he asked, in the same dazed, bewildered 
 manner. Clifford Westray's task was painful indeed, 
 and he could have wished the boy to accept his 
 possession without such minute questioning. 
 
 * I would rather not enter into the history just 
 now, Bertie/ he said quietly. * My mission iiere is 
 only to break the news, and take you back with me 
 to Aunt Adelaide.' 
 
 * Am I to go back with you ? Am I to leavo 
 her ? I cannot do that, Sir Clifford.' 
 
 * It will be painful, but it must be done. She 
 knows it, and is prepared for it. That was her 
 errand into the country to-day, Bertie. She has 
 been at Westray. She has seen your mother. She 
 
 v. \ 
 
If 
 
 I 
 
 ]il 
 
 
 ill) 
 
 .l!i' 
 
 rl 
 
 H 
 
 i'. 
 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 234 
 
 y^ Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 has given you up, and so has paid a fearful price 
 
 for the terrible mistake of her life.' 
 
 ' Did she steal me away from "West Court ? * 
 CMfTord Weslray bowed his head. There was no 
 
 use evading the lad's eager questioning. He must, 
 
 for his own satisfaction, sift the matter to its very 
 
 foundation. 
 
 * And so she, who has been more than a mother 
 to me all these years, must be nothing now. I must 
 leave her and go with you ? ' he said questioningly. 
 
 Once more Clifford Westray bowed his head. 
 Then the young artist turned aside and burst into 
 tears. Clifford Westray honoured him for these 
 tears : loved him because his first and all-absorbing 
 thought was sorrow for the breaking heart upstairs. 
 It showed what was in the lad : that his heart was 
 tender and true. 
 
 * I will go to her. Sir Clifford,' he said at length. 
 * Whatever she may have done wrong, she has ever 
 been the best of mothers to me.' 
 
 So the heir of West Court, in the very first hour 
 of his restored identity, took no thought of all it 
 involved for him, but stole away to comfort the 
 woman to whom his exaltation would prove a death- 
 blow. Clifford Westray stood a long, long time in 
 the little window looking out upon the narrow 
 street, but seeing nothing. His mind and hearfe 
 were wholly occupied with one absorbing theme. 
 
li 
 
 Redeeming an Old Proviise. 
 
 235 
 
 :ful price 
 
 't?' 
 
 e was no 
 He must, 
 ) its very 
 
 a mother 
 I must 
 iioningly. 
 lis head, 
 lurst into 
 'or these 
 ibsorbing 
 upstairs, 
 leart was 
 
 it length, 
 has ever 
 
 irst hour 
 of all it 
 ifort the 
 a death- 
 \ time in 
 ! narrow 
 nd hearfe 
 
 5 theme. 
 
 He was pondering somewliat sadly wliat terrible 
 consequences may arise from the committal of one 
 sin, when the door was softly opened, and his 
 cousin once more entered his presence. 
 
 * I am ready to go with you now, Sir ClifTorJ,* 
 he said, and his voice was wrung with pain. ' My 
 future would need to be bright indeed to atone for 
 this one hour of anguish. It has unmanned me.* 
 
 In one sense it had, in another it had made a 
 man of him. The lightness and gaiety of hear*; 
 which had characterized Frank Wareham the artist 
 would never be attributes of Sir Hubert AVestray. 
 From that day a shadow of regret and pain would 
 dwell for ever on his heart. 
 
 'You must not call me Sir Clifford, Bertie,' said 
 the elder man kindly. ' The title is yours now ; 
 besides, I am your cousin. Give me a cousinly 
 hand-clasp before we go.' 
 
 * Whatever is to be mine will be too dearly 
 bought, Clifford,' said Hubert Westray ; and when 
 their hands met, he bent his head and touched his 
 cousin's with his lips. * You will help me, cousin ? 
 I feel as if I were setting out on some uncertain, 
 perilous path. I fear I must leave too much behind.' 
 
 * I love and honour you for your devotion to her, 
 Bertie,' said Clifford Westray, kindly but gravely. 
 * But I must remind you of what your own mother 
 has suffered through that sad mistake. Think of 
 
236 
 
 4 Vexed Inhcrilance, 
 
 IP 
 
 \ • 
 
 :Ml 
 
 ^\ 
 
 I 
 
 it 
 
 in 
 
 
 twenty years of childless widowhood — twenty years 
 which might have been so full of hope and gladness. 
 You will not disappoint her ? You will not turn 
 away from her, liertie ? Strange, is it not, that I 
 should now plead for your love to go out to your 
 own mother ? * 
 
 * Do not fear. I love her already — the beautiful 
 mother to whom I am going, but only ' — 
 
 As they drove away, a half sob checked his 
 utterance, and his head was once more down-bent 
 upon his hands. He had bidden her farewell, and 
 now, when he was being rapidly whirled to where 
 love and honour and high estate awaited him, what 
 was left to her ? She was tasting something of the 
 bitterness she had with careless, unthinking hands 
 poured upon the inoffensive head of Adelaide We. tray. 
 
 They reached Westborough shortly after sundown, 
 so rapidly had the events of that day succeeded 
 each other. Between seven and eii^ht o'clock that 
 evening, a hired fly for the second time was 
 driven rapidly up the short approach to Alderley. 
 
 Many ears were strained for that sound, for 
 during the interval Mrs. Courtney and Tom had 
 been made acquainted with the whole extraordinary 
 story. Before they reached the house, the door 
 was opened, and Tom, hands in pocket, sauntered 
 out to the terrace. Of course he had been duly 
 surprised with the announcement that his sister's 
 
Redeem I j:o; an Old Proviise, 
 
 237 
 
 ty years 
 ,'ladness. 
 lot turn 
 t, that I 
 to your 
 
 3eautiful 
 
 :ked his 
 
 wn-bent 
 
 veil, and 
 
 :o where 
 
 ra, what 
 
 lEj of the 
 
 ^ hands 
 
 tVe. tray. 
 
 undown, 
 
 icceeded 
 
 »ck that 
 
 lie was 
 
 erley. 
 
 ind, for 
 
 oni had 
 
 )rdinary 
 
 le door 
 
 untered 
 
 n duly 
 
 sister's 
 
 cliild still survived, but it was not his custom to 
 permit anything to disturb seriously the even tenor 
 of his way. 
 
 'Is that you, ClifTord?* he asked, when the 
 vehicle stopped. It was pitch dark, though there 
 was a soft, bright light above the trees, indicating 
 the rising of the harvest moon. In half an hour 
 the moonlight would be as clear as day. 
 
 'Yes, good evening, Tom,' Clifford answered 
 cheerily, and leaped out almost before the horse 
 was stopped. *I suppose you know what has 
 happened — wl re I have been, and who is with 
 me ? ' he added hurriedly, and in low tones. 
 
 ' All right, I know,' Tom answered. * Where's 
 the youngster ? ' 
 
 Clifford stepped back to the fl}, and his cousin 
 alighted. Then Tom advanced, and the broad light 
 from the hall lamp fell full upon the face of Hubert 
 Westray. 
 
 ' HuUoa ! is this the little chap I used to dandle 
 on my knee half a century ago ? * said Tom jocosely. 
 ' Glad to see you back, sir. Hope you've enjoyed 
 your protracted trip. I'm your Uncle Tom.* 
 
 So saying, he gripped his nephew's slender hand 
 firm and fast, and gave it a hearty shake. Tom's 
 off-hand greeting was opportune. Clifford blessed 
 him for it in his heart, because it took the edge off 
 the strange home-coming, and made Hubert feel at 
 
 I 
 
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 i 
 
 I 
 
 it 
 
 > 
 
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 1: :f|. 
 
 ^iii 
 
 J^ * 
 
 238 
 
 /^ Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 ease. There was no one in the hall, and as they 
 entered Tom slipped to Clifford's side. 
 
 ' Adelaide is in the drawing-room. I think she's 
 alone. You'd better take him up.' 
 
 Clifford drew back just a step. 
 
 *He will go with you, Tom. I shall see 
 Aunt Adelaide to-morrow. I am anxious to be 
 home.' 
 
 * All right, old chap ; you've had a toughish day. 
 You and I have some things to talk over b) and 
 by,* said Tom, his honest face aglow with admiration. 
 ' Wait at least till I come down. They'll want to 
 be alone, you know.' 
 
 Clifford nodded, and turned his kind eyes on 
 9!ubert's face. 
 
 * Courage, my boy. You are at home and among 
 friends,' he said, noting certain unmistakable signs 
 jf nervousness in the lad. * Will you go upstairs 
 •Fith your uncle now ? ' 
 
 * Y(yw will not leave me ? ' said Hubert, with 
 strange wistfulness. 
 
 ' My boy, it is time I was back at West Court. 
 I shall see you early to-morrow. Is Ella away 
 home, Tom ? ' 
 
 * Oh, hours ago. Come then, Bertie ; you and I 
 to the rescue.' 
 
 He tucked his nephew's arm in his and marched 
 him off upstairs, with a broad and comical smile, 
 
Redeeming an Old Promise. 239 
 
 id as they 
 hink she's 
 
 shall see 
 ous to be 
 
 ghish day. 
 rer b) and 
 ,d miration. 
 '11 want to 
 
 i eyes on 
 
 md among 
 :able signs 
 JO upstairs 
 
 3ert, with 
 
 est Court. 
 11a away 
 
 you and I 
 
 d marched 
 ical smile, 
 
 which certainly betrayed nothing of the real emotion 
 he was feeling at the moment. 
 
 Directly the pair had turned the corner of the 
 stair, Clifford, without waiting even to hear the 
 opening of the drawing-room door, quietly slipped 
 out of the house. His horse was standiuL? in the 
 stable, and he was worn out body and mind, and 
 anxious to be at home. 
 
 But he was not to escape so easily. As he 
 passed round by the shrubbery he heard a light foot- 
 fall behind him, and the rustle of a woman's di'ess. 
 
 'Who is that?' he asked, standing still, fo. it was 
 still dark, though a faint glimmer seemed to be 
 breaking through the gloom. 
 
 * It is I — FlorencG. May I speak to you for a 
 moment, Clifford ? * 
 
 * Surely.' in a moment he was at her side. 
 * What is it ? But have you a wrap about you ? 
 The air is sharp to-night.' 
 
 ' Never mind,' she answered, and there was a sob 
 in her voice. * May I tell you, Clifford, how I feel 
 about this ? I am glad for Adelaide's sake, but 
 when I think about jou my heart is like to break.* 
 
 ' Don't fret about me, Florence,* he said cheerily. 
 ' I shall be all right, never fear.' 
 
 ' So you say ; you are so unselfish and noble, and 
 everything. I never knew such a man as you, 
 Clifford Westray ; you are too good for this world.' 
 
 
 ! 
 
 ;i' 
 

 i i 
 
 :1': 
 
 I 
 
 r: 
 
 ! i 
 
 i 
 
 
 J- • 
 
 m 
 
 t; 
 
 240 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 ' Am I, Florence ? * 
 
 * Yes, and I am a wretch. "Will you forgive me, 
 Clifford ? ' 
 
 ' What for, Florence ? ' 
 
 * For everything.* She came near to him, her 
 dress touched him, and just then a sudden gleam 
 of light shone out and revealed the sweet, dear 
 face uplifted to his own. * I don't suppose you 
 care anything for me now. I am old and horrid, 
 and have ill-used you so. But if you do care any- 
 thing, and will let me, I'll be your wife. I will, 
 Clifford Westray, and count myself a blessed woman 
 even if I have to share a crust with you.* 
 
 ' Florence, Florence, are you in earnest ? * he asked 
 hoarsely, but with the dawn of a great joy on his 
 face. 
 
 ' If I weren't, Clifford Westray, how do you 
 suppose I could ever do such a thing ? Don't you 
 know I'm proposing to you, and it isn't leap year 
 either ? ' she said, with flushing cheek. * And I 
 haven't even the excuse that I am a young and 
 foolish girl, because, you know, I am about as old 
 as Alethusaleh.' 
 
 The last words w^ere whispered, with her head — 
 where it ought to have been long ago — on Clifitbrd 
 Westray's broad breast. He was silent ; the deepest 
 happiness does not find its chief satisfaction in a 
 multitude of words. But the close clasp of his arin. 
 
Redeeming an Old Promise, 24 1 
 
 rgive me, 
 
 him, her 
 en gleam 
 reet, dear 
 >pose you 
 tid horrid, 
 care any- 
 . I will, 
 ed womaa 
 
 * he asked 
 oy on his 
 
 7 do you 
 Don't you 
 
 leap year 
 'And I 
 
 oung and 
 3ut as old 
 
 er head — 
 )n Clifford 
 he deepest 
 ,ction in a 
 )f his ariT). 
 
 the touch of yearning love on the dear head, told 
 something of what was passing in his heart. 
 
 'I've redeemed my promise, Clifford,* Florence 
 whispered after a while. * You are quite sure you 
 don't despise me ? I couldn't help it.* 
 
 * Oh, my darling, husli. It was like your good, 
 true, womanly heart. I shall never forget, Florence, 
 that you were the first to come to me in my hour 
 of need,' said Clifford in tones of deep emotion. 
 
 * I would rather come to you now than when you 
 were rich and great,' laughed Florence softly. *I do 
 not suppose there will be any objection to it now. We 
 are at least old enough to know our own minds.* 
 
 Clifford smiled. 
 
 * Nothing on earth shall part us now, my darling,' 
 he said quietly, but with unmistakable decision. 
 * Florence, you are sure it is not pity ; you do 
 care for me a little still ? * 
 
 * Haven't I just told you I think you too good 
 for this world ? ' said Florence, with a little comical 
 smile. * Nevei i-heless, I hope you will stay in it 
 a little while, for my sake. Of course we'll fall 
 out dreadfully, just as we used, but it will be 
 Elysium compared with the icy reserve we have 
 maintained towards each other for years.' 
 
 She shivered slightly then, and I think Clifford 
 understood something of what she had borne and 
 suffered too. 
 
Ii' 
 
 242 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 But they had still the best years of life before 
 them, and in spite of many adverse circumstances, 
 in spite of the anxiety and uncertainty of their 
 worldly prospects, they were unspeakably happy. 
 Each knew the other's worth, and a love which 
 had stood the test of years and estrangement 
 would suffice to make for them the very sunshine 
 of the life they hoped to share together. 
 
 i \ 
 
 \' \ 
 
 i, 
 
 1: 
 
 
 ; I 
 
fe before 
 nistances, 
 of their 
 Y happy, 
 '^e which 
 mgement 
 sunshine 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 DIFFERENCES OP OPINION. 
 
 JlSTD do you mean to say, Clifford Westray, 
 that you believe this trumped up 
 story? — that you will actually give 
 up West Court to an impostor, whose story would 
 not bear the light of day ? ' 
 
 The face of Lady Eleanor Westray, as she uttered 
 these words, was a sight to see. It was absolutely 
 white with passion; her lips quivered, her eyes 
 gleamed ominously, her figure seemed to tremble 
 with the excitement of her wrath. 
 
 She had returned from Enderby very late on the 
 previous night, bringing with her the newly widowed 
 Marchioness of Enderby. Yes, Death had severed 
 the unhappy bond between the ill-matched pair, 
 and Clara was once more free. Only in one sense,' 
 however, for the Marquis had left a strangely-' 
 
 I 
 
\V\ 
 
 II! 
 
 { 
 
 (H 
 
 
 244 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 worded will, which, in the event of her second 
 marriage, deprived his widow of all the wealth 
 which had been his. It was the deed of a selfish 
 and jealous-minded man, feeling bitterly against his 
 indifferent wife to the last. 
 
 The reading of that will had seriously annoyed 
 Lady Westray, for Clara, with her distinguished 
 appearance, might have made a second alliance 
 even more desirable than the first. But unless it 
 was such that she could afford to dispense with, 
 and despise the effects left by her late husband, 
 she must remain in perpetual widowhood ! Lady 
 Westray took it more to heart than Clara, who 
 exhibited little feeling over it, good or bad. She 
 seemed glad to be free, and glad to come back to 
 rest in her old home. Seeing both were worn and 
 fatigued, Clifford had refrained till morning from 
 breaking the news which he knew would give his 
 mother such a shock His task had just been 
 accomplished in the library directly after breakfast, 
 and pen could not adequately describe the incredu- 
 lity, scorn, and indignation with which his com- 
 munication was received. 
 
 * He is no impostor, mother ; and the proofs are 
 undeniable,' he answered quietly. *You have only 
 to see Bertie beside Aunt Adelaide to have your 
 strongest doubts swept away. The wonder to us 
 all is that we should never have observed in Frank 
 
 !H 
 
Differences of Opinion, 
 
 245 
 
 second 
 
 wealth 
 
 a selfish 
 
 linsc his 
 
 annoyed 
 Qguished 
 
 alliance 
 unless it 
 ise with, 
 husband, 
 ! Lady 
 ara, who 
 ad. She 
 1 back to 
 tvorn and 
 ing from 
 
 give his 
 ust been 
 breakfast, 
 
 incredu- 
 tiis com- 
 
 3roofs are 
 lave only 
 ave your 
 ier to us 
 in Frank 
 
 Wareham the likeness he so unmistakably bears to 
 Uncle Hubert/ 
 
 Lady Westray clenched her hands. She felt for 
 the moment helpless, perfectly feeble, and incompe- 
 tent even to speak. 
 
 ' Then you will not contest his succession ? You 
 will simply walk out of West Court beggared, to let 
 this impostor, who has palmed himself off on your 
 poor, weak Aunt Adelaide, step into your shoes ? ' 
 
 * As soon as all necessary arrangements are made, 
 all legal claims satisfied, I shall certainly resign 
 West Court to its rightful owner,* Clifford answered 
 quietly, though his cheeks burned. There were 
 times when his mother tried him almost beyond the 
 limits of endurance. 
 
 * You are a fool, Clifford,* was the bitter retoi t. 
 • Were you to contest this in a court of law, the 
 issue would certainly be in your favour. But 
 probably such an issue would only disappoint you. 
 You are never happier than when disappointing and 
 bringing trouble and annoyance upon me.' 
 
 Clifford bit his lip, but his eyes grew dim. 
 
 * These are hard words, mother. 1 do not 
 deserve them. When you have thought over this 
 matter calmly, and faced the inevitable, it will be 
 time enough to discuss the future. There is no 
 good to be got in talk of this kind.* 
 
 * You are singularly respectful to me, Clifford,' she 
 

 246 
 
 j4 Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 I ! 
 
 W' ' 
 
 I 
 
 it! 
 
 i' 
 
 i 
 
 said icily. *Pray tell me what plans yon have for 
 the future of which you speak. What is to become 
 of me, of Ella, of your young brothers, who have 
 been trained to look to you for support and aid ? ' 
 
 'They must just stand on their own legs now, 
 tlien; they are old enough,* answered Clifford. *I am 
 not at all anxious about them. For you and Ella, 
 there is llathmere and the income we had when we 
 were there. Surely what sufficed for a large family 
 will keep you and Ella in comfort. I do not anti- 
 cipate that she will be long away from West Court.' 
 
 ' And what are you going to do ? How will Sir 
 Clifford Westray of West Court and Combermere, 
 M.P. for Barsetshire and Lord-Lieutenant of the 
 County, enjoy sinking into nameless and unknown 
 obscurity, perhaps to feel the sting of poverty ? ' 
 she continued, in the same cold, contemptuous voice. 
 
 Clifford turned his eyes in wonder on her face. 
 She felt that look, though she made no sign. 
 
 * You need have no anxiety concerning me, 
 mother. Be very sure that I shall at least be able 
 to earn bread for myself and my wife, and that, 
 whatever straits I may be in, they shall never be 
 allowed to trouble you.* 
 
 ' Your wife ! * 
 
 ' Yes. I have found in one woman, thank God, 
 the sympathy I have ever looked for in vain from 
 you,' he said sadly. * I think it right to tell you 
 
Differences of Opinion. 
 
 247 
 
 have for 
 become 
 ho have 
 aid?' 
 ;gs now, 
 I. *I am 
 nd Ella, 
 vheii we 
 e family 
 lot anti- 
 , Court; 
 will Sir 
 bermere, 
 of the 
 iiknown 
 )verty ? * 
 LIS voice, 
 ler face. 
 
 • 
 
 ng me, 
 \ be able 
 ad that, 
 lever be 
 
 ,nk God, 
 tin from 
 tell you 
 
 that, directly matters are wound up, and all chtmgos 
 made, Florence Courtney becomes my wife, and we 
 go to make our home in London/ 
 
 Eleanor Westray had not a word to say. Per- 
 haps, had ClifTord been broken down and distressed 
 over his troubles, she might have felt more drawn 
 to him, might have been kinder than she was. 
 But to see him so self - reliant and calm, and 
 independent of every calamity which had overtaken 
 him, was more than she could bear. The tone of 
 his voice, the deep, unmistakable light in his eye 
 when he spoke of his wife was the bitterest draught 
 in her cup of humiliation and pain. Who shall say 
 that she did not richly deserve it all ? 
 
 * If I seem lacking in duty to you, mother, I have 
 the past to offer as my excuse. But I do not feel 
 that any is needed. Looking back, I fear that, in 
 strictly adhering to every wish and desire expressed 
 by you, I may have wronged others. You required 
 and exacted from me a great sacrifice once. It is 
 time now that I took some thought for my own 
 happiness — that happiness which only Florence, 
 God bless her ! can give me now. To have won 
 her anew, I would give up West Court, ay, twenty 
 times over. The things you speak of — wealth, 
 honour, position — are as notliing in comparison 
 with that of which my life has hitherto been barren 
 — a true and honest lo\'e.' 
 
248 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance. 
 
 'I 
 
 
 li 
 
 i|l 
 
 l!i 
 
 So saying, Clifford walked out of llie room. ITe 
 felt no misgiving' for his plain speakinfjf, his eyes 
 being finally and clearly opened to his mother's nn- 
 governahle ambition and pride, which would sacrifice 
 all, even honour and truth, to its own gratification. 
 
 Eleanor Wostray was, as we know, unaccustomed 
 to have such unpalatable truths plainl}' set before 
 her, but they did her good. I'efore she had been 
 five minutes alone with her thoughts, she had 
 resigned herself to the inevitable, and her an)bition 
 began to soar in new directions. Henceforth, to 
 marry Ella to her cousin would be the main object 
 of her days. When she had somewhat recovered, 
 she retired upstairs to acquaint Clara with the 
 whole circumstances, and to ask her to drive over 
 that very morning to Aldcrley. 
 
 * Because, you know, since it has to be done, we 
 may as well do it gracefully,' she said, with a pecu- 
 liar pressure of her lips. ' If I'm to abdicate my 
 throne,! shall do it like a queen. If Adelaide Westray 
 thinks she has crushed me at last, she is mistaken.' 
 
 ' I don't believe Aunt Adelaide would ever think of 
 such a thing. She is too good and sweet. She will 
 be heartily sorry, I am sure,' said Clara listlessly. 
 
 ' Nonsense. But there is another thing, Clnra. 
 Ella must marry her cousin. There is nothing else 
 for her. She is a beggar, you know — and her 
 beauty is not so striking as to command the 
 
 
Differences of Opinion. 
 
 249 
 
 m. ITe 
 
 his eyes 
 lor's nn- 
 sucrifice 
 ication. 
 ustonic'd 
 > before 
 ad been 
 he liad 
 n)bition 
 )rth, to 
 1 ol'ject 
 covered, 
 ith the 
 ve over 
 
 one, we 
 a pecu- 
 ate my 
 Vestray 
 staken.' 
 ;biiikof 
 >ho will 
 jssly. 
 
 Clara, 
 ng else 
 lid her 
 id the 
 
 homage of some King Cophetua. If she can't win 
 Hubert Westray, her life is praetieally over.' 
 
 * ]Mamina, don't you grow tired of your endless 
 planning? Leave the child alone. She will never 
 be happy if you choose for her,' said Clara with 
 some bitterness. 
 
 'Don't you fail me in this crisis, Clara,' said her 
 mother. * Besides, I don't anticipate I shall have 
 to do much. They were attached to eacli other in 
 Tendon, thou<^h with Cluneiciven's od'er in l"'nd 1 
 had to nip that in the bud. Ihit an old thiiiie is 
 easily fanned, and if Ella becomes mistress of West 
 Court, I shall be content to live in obscurity at 
 Eathniere all my days.' 
 
 Clara incredulously shook her head. She knew 
 her mother too well. 
 
 * What is Clifibrd going to do ? ' 
 
 * Don't ask me,' retorted Lady Westray passion- 
 ately. * Clifford has never been anything but a 
 thorn in my flesh. His Aunt Adelaide ruined him 
 with her soft, sentimental views of life when he 
 was a boy, and he has never got the better of that 
 early training. He is going to marry that girl at 
 once. I don't know which of them is the greater fool.' 
 
 ' Florence Courtney ? ' 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Oh, I'm glad of it. Yes, I'll go over with you 
 just now — ^just to kiss her for it. Dear Clifibrd ! I 
 
250 
 
 A J'cx cd In hcriiame. 
 
 
 X: 
 
 li.'ivG always been sorry for liiin. But I am n(»t sur- 
 prised. Tli.it is just the kind of tlilu^' a girl like 
 Floience would do. She is, in vulgar parlance,a brick.' 
 
 Lady West ray looked disgusted, and retired to 
 make her toilet. Everything was against herthatday ; 
 even Clara's thouglits were not in unison with hers. 
 
 Despite the drizzling rain falling from a leaden- 
 hued sky, the carriage was ordered and the ladies 
 drove to Alderley. For reasous of lier own, Lady 
 "VVestray did not ask Ella to accompany them. 
 There was a pleasant little family party gathered 
 in the homely morning - room at Alderley. Lady 
 Adelaide, with a quiet, blithe contentment on her 
 face, which made it look years younger ; Florence 
 and Anna, busy over a pile of winter stuff for their 
 poor ; Tom, deep in Bdl's Life, from which he read 
 an occasional paragraph for the delectation of the 
 (others ; and, last of all, young Hubert Westray, 
 wlio, it was observed, did not care to be far away 
 from his mother's chair. 
 
 Into this room the ladies from West Court were 
 ushered, without warning, and for a moment a 
 slight confusion was visible on the faces of the 
 occupants. Eleanor Westray, however, was mis- 
 truss of the occasion. She walked straight up to 
 Lady Adelaide, and, for the first time for many 
 vears, kissed her cheek. 
 
 * Clifford only told me the happy tidings -his 
 
Differences of Opinion. 
 
 251 
 
 not sur- 
 ,nii liko 
 ii brick.* 
 iied to 
 hatiliiy; 
 \\ hers, 
 leadcn- 
 e ladies 
 n, Lady 
 ' tlieni. 
 ;athei'(.'d 
 Lady 
 on her 
 norence 
 or their 
 he read 
 1 of the 
 Vestray, 
 ir away 
 
 irt were 
 ment a 
 of the 
 as mis- 
 t up to 
 T many 
 
 igs -his 
 
 morninpf, Adelaide,' she said, with gracious efTusivc- 
 ness, 'and I liave lost no time in hastening to oM'er 
 my congratulations. AVill Sir Hubert Westray 
 permit his Aunt Eleanor to wish him joy ? * 
 
 As she uttered tiiese words, she turned her 
 smiling eyes on the pale, grave fac^ of Hubert 
 Westray, where he stood close beside his mother's 
 chair. He could not help the slight curl of his lip, 
 nor the somewhat scorn fid glance of his eye, as he 
 answered quietly and courteously, but with un- 
 mistakable coldness, — 
 
 * I thank you, Lady Westray.' 
 
 He read her through and through, and his soul 
 shrank from her. He could not meet her on equal 
 ground. At that moment Clara came to the rescue. 
 She, too, kissed her aunt, and her few words wer<' 
 at least earnest and sincere. She shook hands 
 with her cousin, and with a frank, happy touch 
 referred to their former meeting ; then she went 
 away into the corner window where Florence stood 
 — Florence who had turned away, colouring pain- 
 fully, when she met the haughty, unaltered coldness 
 of Lady Eleanor's eyes. 
 
 ' Florence, if there weren't so many people in the 
 room, I would hug you for Cliftbrd's sake,' Clara 
 whispered softly. * Nothing has ever made me 
 half so glad as this has done.' 
 
 * Thank you.' Florence raised her true eyes 
 
2^2 
 
 A Vexed In/ter.'lanee. 
 
 '! 
 
 i1 
 
 gratefully to Clara's pale, fair face, and closed her 
 fingers firm and last over the slender band. 
 
 ' I am very sorry,' she whispered, glancing at her 
 sombre attire. Clara only nodded, and then offered 
 her hand to Tom. Her colour heightened as she 
 did so, and his big hand actually trembled as he 
 felt once more the thrill of her slender fingers. 
 Ah, foolish Tom ! the old infatuation was yet alive. 
 It was curious to listen to the polite commonplace 
 talk which went round the room, knowing what a 
 variety of conflicting feelings were dominant. Lady 
 Eleanor played her part matchlessly, and none 
 could have detected beneath that bland exterior 
 the tumult of anger and chagrin which surged in 
 her soul. Her reign was over. She read the 
 coldness, aversion even in Hubert's eyes, and saw 
 that the proud spirit would not readily forget the 
 past. But that did not hurt her as did the quiet, 
 sweet, ineffable satisfaction and contentment in the 
 eyes of the woman against whom she had borne a 
 causeless anger all her life. She saw her the 
 centre of honour, and care, and tenderest solicitude ; 
 towards whom eveiy heart, ay, even Clara's, natur- 
 ally and instinctively turned with a fond and 
 trustful love. Eleanor Westray was to be pitied, 
 for she had not even the devoted love of her own 
 children to solace her in her hour of need. 
 
Differences of Opinion. 
 
 253 
 
 sed her 
 
 \ at her 
 offered 
 
 as she 
 . as he 
 fingers. 
 !t alive, 
 onplace 
 what a 
 Lady 
 i none 
 exterior 
 rged in 
 !ad the 
 nd saw 
 ■get the 
 e quiet, 
 ; in the 
 borne a 
 ler the 
 citude ; 
 , natur- 
 id and 
 
 pitied, 
 er own 
 
 The bells were ringing out a merry, merry peal. 
 It was a gala day in Westray, as well it might be, 
 for it was the wedding morning of the master of 
 West Court. 
 
 Let ue peep into the old Parish Cliurch of 
 Westray, this sunny June morning, and witness 
 for ourselves this happy marriage. It is twenty 
 minutes past eleven, and everything is in readiness 
 for the coming of the bride. While they wait for 
 her, we may take a peep at the assembled throng ; 
 it may be that we may see some familiar face. 
 Ay, more than one. There, first of all, is Clara, 
 Marchioness of Enderby, in somewhat sober attire, 
 but whose face wears the bloom of long ago. 
 Surely she has found rest at least in her cliild- 
 hood's home. Her mother, plain Mrs. Uobert 
 Westray now, as of yore, is beside her, very 
 magnificently attired, and looking as benign as it 
 is possible for her to look. She may be glad and 
 proud to-day, since her last ambition is on the eve 
 of fulfilment. A bitter drop has mingled even 
 with that cup, and it is Clara's hand that has 
 placed it there. 
 
 For Clara has of her own free will, nay, gladly 
 and joyfully, intimated her intention of renouncing 
 all the privileges accorded to her as the widowed 
 Marchioness, and in a month's tinje, when the 
 young couple come home, is to give her hand, and 
 
254 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 m 
 
 'I 
 
 }\ 
 
 
 \^ 
 
 \\ 
 
 her heart with it, to Tom Courtney. Ah, Tom, the 
 rough and ready, has won the love he sought in 
 vain so long ago, and it is a very precious thing in 
 his honest eyes. But not so precious, perhaps, as 
 his true devotion is to the tired heart of the woman 
 who, years ago, made such a bitter mistake. 
 
 There ha stands, a goodly presence, towering 
 above his sisters at the other side of the altar. 
 Lady Adelaide, upon whose happy face there dwells 
 a serene and exr^uisite peace, has her hand through 
 the arm of her boy, who is looliing his noblest and 
 best, as well he may, on his wedding morn. At 
 her other side there is a graceful figure in rich grey 
 silk — a bright face framed by a dainty lace bonnet 
 — a face so sweet and dear and true that it can 
 belong to none but Florence ; but we must be 
 deferential now to our old happy friend, the wife of 
 His Excellency the Governor-General of Madras. 
 
 Clifford Westray's services had not been for- 
 gotten by his party ; his honest, self-denying labour 
 had its reward. No need to ask if Florence is 
 happy ; we have never seen her look lovelier than 
 now. Presently her cheek flushes, and her eyes 
 fill as they fall upon the noble face and figure of 
 her husband, entering the church with the bride, 
 his young, fair sister, on his arm. A little stir 
 and excitement, as the bride moves to her place, 
 then the service begins, and in a few minutes all is 
 
Differences of Opinion. 
 
 255 
 
 om, the 
 igiAt in 
 hing in 
 laps, as 
 woman 
 
 )wering 
 
 3 altar. 
 
 \ dwells 
 
 :hrough 
 
 est and 
 
 •n. At 
 
 ch grey 
 
 bonnet 
 
 it can 
 
 mst be 
 
 wife of 
 
 dras. 
 
 en for- 
 
 labour 
 
 ence is 
 
 er than 
 
 er eyes 
 
 igure of 
 
 bride, 
 ;tle stir 
 
 place, 
 :;s all is 
 
 over, and there is a new Lady Westray of AVest 
 Court. It is the bridegroom's mother who has the 
 first kiss, and who in accents full of love says, — 
 
 * God bless my daughter and my son ! * 
 
 There is a guest in the church wiiO, though she 
 has no place of honour, and is unknown to the 
 majority of those present, is not quite overlooked. 
 She is there at her own request, and she watches 
 the proceedings with an interest almost wild in its 
 intensity. When the congratulations are being 
 offered, Clifford lightly touches his wife's arm. 
 
 *Do you see the lady in mourning behind the 
 pillar, my darling ? * 
 
 Florence looks and nods her head, but before 
 Clifford can say more he is in request to sign the 
 register. While that is being done. Lady Adelaide 
 slips back to the emptying church, and approach- 
 ing the kneeling figure, lightly touches her arm. 
 
 * Come with me just a moment,* she wliispers 
 kindly, and leads her into the verger's room, which 
 is quite empty. For a moment she is left alone, 
 and then it is as if a burst of sunshine had filled 
 the room, when Sir Hubert Westray, with his 
 young wife upon his arm, enters. He takes the 
 woman's thin hands in his warm, kindly clasp, 
 and, bending from his tall height, kisses lier, and 
 then turns to the radiant figure at his side. 
 
 * This is my wife,' he says simply. * My mother 
 
; I 
 
 •I ! 
 
 256 
 
 A Vexed Inheritance, 
 
 W 
 
 ■ 
 
 in 
 
 M 
 
 Ml 
 
 bids me bring lier to you liere and now. We are 
 glad you came down to-day.' 
 
 His voice trembles in spite of himself. He 
 cannot look on that sorrow - lined face without 
 emotion. He can never forgot the love that was. 
 There has been no final parting ; he has paid 
 re^-ular visits to the desolate woman abidincj alone 
 in London, and he has never gone but with his 
 mother's blessing and approval. 
 
 The worn, hollow eyes are fixed with wistful 
 earnestness on the sweet face of the young bride, and 
 an unutterable satisfaction gathers in their depths. 
 
 ' If I may be allowed, let me touch your hand,' she 
 says, in a low voice. * May God bles? you. You 
 hr.ve the smile and the eyes of the Lady Adelaide.' 
 
 Ella Westray puts aside the offered hand, and, 
 laying her own on the drooping shoulders, kisses 
 the face of llosamond Vane. 
 
 THir, END. 
 
 II 
 
 / 
 
 I 
 
We are 
 
 self. He 
 B without 
 I that was. 
 
 has paid 
 ling alone 
 
 with his 
 
 th wistful 
 bride, and 
 r depths, 
 hand/ she 
 'ou. You 
 Adelaide.' 
 land, and, 
 3rs, kisses 
 
 /