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SUNDEKED HEAET8.

'Very soberly Gertrude, wiilked liy tlic familiar field juiths. '— Pngrc lo.

SUNDEEED HEABTS

-ANNTK S. SWAN,

AyXMuM Uif 'Al^^vi/Jt,' •CAHl.u^Vui^' 4TC.

ilrbi EDitioiu

TORONTO, CANADA

WILLIAM BRIGGS

KDINJ{UK(;H and LONDON
OLIPHANT, AXDKKsox & FKURIER

1889

: i^4w S- st<

20jr,

Entcrcfl acrorfllnpr to Art of (ho Parliamont of Canada, in the yrar
ono thoiiHand oiglit hundred and eiKhty-nino, hy William liKi({(4S,
Jlook Steward of I he Methodist liook and Publishing lluuse,
Toronto, at the Department of AKriculturc.

CONTENTS.

in the yrar

I AM HKI(i(48,

ling lluusc.

PART i.

CHAP. PAOB

THE FRANK MX MA Y.N ES, . ,

II.

A FT I'll NOON TKA, . . ,

. H

III.

THE COUNTY IJAI.I,,

. 23

IV'.

M<>U.\I.V(! ( AI.I.S, ....

. 32

THE STUATIIKAkNS— F.VniKU AND SON

> <

. 39

VI.

FOKTl'.NK SMILKS,

. 47

VII

LOVE,

. 55

VHI.

THE .SHADOW FALLS, . . . .

. 64

IX.

THE \VI.sU«).M (»K IHK WORLD,

. 70

TOO LATE, ......

HIS I'KO.MISEI) WIFT,, . . . .

XII.

LUNDIE HnUSE, I'RCADILLV,

XIII.

THE MAUUIAGE,

PART II.

100

I. HUsnAXD AND WIFE,
n. CASILE LUXDIE,
HI, THK PATH (»F DUTY,

109
117

125

CONTENTS.

IV. DTRCORT), ... *

V. UNAHKKD, UNSOUnilT,
VI. VISIT0118 FOR CANTLK LUNIMR.
VII. BBAUINO TUB CU08H,
VIII. FIRM, ....

IX. LKTIERS, ....
X. FRIKNDS FOR LIFK, . .

XI. JOHN BTRATIIKAKN, M.P.,
XII. A IHVIDKD lloU.sR, .
XIII. TilK HHADOW OF TUB PAST,
XIV. FAREWELL,

XV. WON, ....

XVI. BROTH KR AND SISTER, .

XVII. BEYOND RKCALL, . .

XVIII. AT LAST

CONCLUSION, • •

PAnN
133

142

151

160

167

173

181

189

195

202

208

216

2"J5

232

239

247

"1%^

SUADEREl) HEARTS.

-o-

P A U T I.

niArTKU r.

THE FUAN K LI N-M A YN' KS.

!■

SCNDF.RED HEARTS.

the tnuist iiiHtinctH of luirnan iiatun!, (J(!rtruil«' Mayno hiul
yet prcHorved her pure iiiul ^uil(!leHrt lieurt, and kept herself
unspotted from the world.

The lady whom she addressed aa mother — Mrs. Fraidvlin-
Mayno of Meauowflats — had l»een a Ixjauty in her youth, l)Ut
a long period of feohlo health, coupled with the hard sclnni-
ing and vain striving to keep up the appearance she th(»u;^'ht
becoming to hor station, had stolen the hlooni from her
cheek, the lustre from her eye, atlded a wrinkle here and a
cruel line there, making her old bef(»re her time. She was
that sad spectacle of a woman who is ashamed to grow old —
her morning dress adorned with ribbons and laces, her dainty
little cap perched jauntily on her grey hair, her earrings, and
necklets, and linger-rings, only served to make the faded
beauty more pitiful to see. Had she been attired in a gown
of sober hue, and a comfortable matronly shawl and cap, she
would have been a charming and motherly-looking woman,
but Mra Franklin-Mayne had a horror of anything matronly
or ag(!d. She rose from the table where the remains of the
late breakfast still stood, and, drawing her low basket chair
close to the hearth, she placed her slippered feet on the
fender, and folded her hands in graceful ease upon her knee.
Mrs. Mayne was nothing if not graceful.

* Something must be got to wear ; what would you suggest,
Caroline ? ' she said, looking towards her elder daughter, who
was deep in the pages of the new issue of Vanity Fair. She
tossed the paper aside, and rose with a languid yawn.

' That is not a question which is to be answered in a moment,
mamma,' she said, in a sweet, cool, well-modulated voice.

A handsome and distinguished-looking woman was Caroline
Mayne. I say woman^ for she had passed her twenty-
fifth year, and was six years older than her sister
Gertrude. But, though undeniably handsome, she was not
attractive. Though her face was in the strict sense of the
word beautiful, it lacked the wiusomeness of her sister's. It
was the beauty of a statue, — cold, impassive, — which pleases
the eye, but cannot touch the heart.

" Seeing this is our first ai>pearance among Rumford county
society, it is imperative that we should make a good im-
pression,* said Mrs. Mayne decidedly. ' First impressions are

eve

prn
Wll

d:v
wli;
bail

Cieri

' 'R Fh'A Xh'l. /N AM YXES.

L herself

'ranldin-
nth, hut

1 Sclltlll-

thou^'lit
'om her
ri! and w
Sho was
w old —
r dainty
n^'s, and
10 faded

a gown
cap, she

woman,
natronly
3 of the
;ot chair

on the
er knee.

suggest,
er, who
r. She

nomcnt,
ce.

Caroline
twenty-
sister
was not
of the
ler's. It
pleases

county
ood im-
ious are

fVfTythinu'. ^^' havo so little time at our disposal. Scotcli

j |ile j^'ive such hiirlmrdusly Mlimi invitati(»n>, that I fear it

will he useless to ask Mailaine 1 )uniares(pie for three Jiew
dmsses. Suppose we drive tlown to Ktiiiiford to-tlay and see
what Mr. Macniillan can show us. Mrs. Kills »)f Urierly-
haiik assjires ine he keeps a lirst class mnillstr.*

'Has Mr. Macniillan heeii jiaid tor all the hotisehcld stuff
we g«Tt wIh'Ii we lirst came to Meadowllat.s, niollmr f ' asked
Uc'rtrude tpiickly.

Something approaching to a frown darkened the hrow of
Mrs. Mayne.

*(jertrude, my love, when you can sujjpre.s.s yotir propensity
for saying disagreeahle things you will have actpiired a great
acconiplislunc'nt,' sho said sharply. 'Come, Caroline, tell mo
what ijoii think of wearing. I am diviiled between a pink
witin, with a black lace over-dress, and an entire costume of
terra-cotta silk.'

' Katlier ycmthful, is it not, mamma?' asked Caroline, with
gooddiumoured .sarcasm. She could sound the tlet^pest (h'pths
of her UKJther's shallow heart, wher(!as (Jertrude could only
wt)nder, and yet still love when she couhl not understand.

'/can wear what most women at my ago wou'd look guys
in,' replied Mrs. Mayno, with conscious pride. ' I think you
ought to have ruby velvet. A heavy, rich material always
suits you.*

'I intend to have an amber silk, mamma, if anything.
r>ut really, is it worth one's while to dre.ss up si)ccially for u
thing of this kindl What is a county ball?'

' My dear, it is the place where all tho county people meet
once a year to stare at and critici.se each other, anil also to till
the souls of the lesser lights with envy, for 1 am led to under-
fitand that at the county ball ther- is given to the parrrnu
an opportunity to copy the upper ten. It will 1)? peculiarly so
in Kumford, I believe, on account of its manufacturing wealth,'
said Mrs. Mayne.

'In that case we could wear anything,' said Caroline
indiderently.

'Now, there you are wrong, my love,' said Mrs. Mayne

suavely. 'The county families in shire are not to be

despised. Consider, there will be Lord and Lady Hamilton,

SUN D EKED HEARTS.

' I

tho Earl P.nrl Countoss of Dovniili.i, Colonel and ^frs. Oraliam,
and man} otlicrs. Uesides, if r(.'|M»rt sjicaks truly, our iKiigld^uiir,
Sir William Luiidie, may ^M-acu the assembly with his j)resenee.
I hear that he is on his way home from India, and th;it there
are extensive preparations being made at Castle Lundie for
his return.'

'How on earth do you find out everythin;:^, mamma?*
asked Caroliiit;, with a smile. ' I mi^'ht live twenty years in
Meaduwliats, and never know who or what the coun'iy people
are.'

' ^ly dear, when you have lived so long as I, you will
learn what is expedi<int, nay, ne(,M;ssary, to know,' said Mrs.
jMayno complacently. ' Gertrude, you are very quiet. Are
you medilatmg on your new gown V

'\No, indeed, mother,' said Gertrude a little sadly, and
when she turned her face from the window it looked very
grave.

'We must got vscmiething sweet and girlish for you, child;
a delicious ctunbination of lace and tulle, if 1 can make our
Kumford moiiide comiu'ehend my meaning. I ' —

* Mother dear, if I must go to this ball, my white
cashmere will do very well,' said Giirtrude a little entreat-
ingly. ' Indeed, mother dear, I don't want a new one. It
will be quite good and nice if Barrett trims it up.'

Caroline's proud lips curled ; jSIrs. Mayne smiled. She
was inwardly annoyed, but she never showed anger, never
allowed herself to feel it if possible, ^^'^cause it was exhaust-
ing to the nerves, and unbecoming to the face.

* ]\ly dear, you are not long out of the schoolroom, and
cannot be expected to have much common sense in these
matters,' she said. * Well, Caroline, sh;.Il we say the ponies
after lunch for Macmillau's ? '

' As you pleas' , mamma. Anything to while away an houi
in this wretched place,' said Caroline.

Gertrude, with slightly flushing; face, rose and walked
slowly out of the room. She was sensitive to a fault, and
even the semblance of reproof cut her to the heart. Poor,
proud, high-souled maiden, that sensitive heart would prove
an in..nite source of pain for her beiure life's litful fever was
past.

THE FPANR'LfA' AfAVXES.

1. OrnhaTn,
ii«!iglil)t)iir,

tliivt there
^uiidie for

maninia?'
y years in
I fry people

, you will

said Mrs.

uict. Are

sadly, and
)oked very

you, child ;
make our

my white
>le entreat-
w oue. It

liled. She

Lrer, never

IS exhuUist-

rooni, and
^e in these
the ponies

ay an houi

id walked
fault, and
art. poor,
ould prove
fever was

She stole out into the hall, took a wrap and a pardon hat
from the stnnd, and went out into the clear, hraciiiL,' conincsa
of the winter morning. It was such a day as would sweep all
cohwehs of sadness or gloom from the heart, a day in which
the hlood flows quicker in the veins, and the pulse heats in
tune with the invigorating pulse of nature. So (i'.'rtrude felt
the moment she set foot on the terrace. The peacocks, lu-aring
her step, flew to meet her, for every living thing ahout
Meadowfiats knev/ and loved her. She spoke caressingly to
the beautiful birds, and, having given them th(!ir morning
portion of bread, turned her steps in the dirc^ction of the
stables. She wa.s in search of her father, to whom she ever
turnea instinctively when she felt out of tune with the
atmosphere indoors. Of late there had come to Gertrude
Mayne a painful sense of humiliation every time the nature
of their li^e came home to her. Only a year a.uo she had ccmio
home from a Yorkshire school, an innoccnit, light-hearted girl,
glad to escape the restraints of school life, eagin- to make the
acquaintance of the new home which her father had but
lately inherited. To her it seemed to be Paradise to be done
■with London lodgings and hotels, where she had been ac-
customed to spend her holidays, and to have a real home of
one's own to feel interested in and to love.

It was the old story. Gilbert Franklin- Mayne, the younger
son of an impoverished family, had been brought up to the idle
life oi a gentleman without the means to su])port it, had con-
tracted an early and imprudent marriage with an extravagant
though penniless beauty, removed to London, and then end i' red
years of miserable, loveless poverty, hanging upon the skirts of
society, eking out slender means by the work of a literary
hack. Such had been the life to which Gertrude Mayne had
been born, such the home in which she had l.een reared.
Then, when the best years of his life were past, the d(!ath of
his elder brother made him ])ossessor of Meadowfiats, a small
but beautifully situated estate in one of the Borvler counties.
It was desirable chiefly as a residence, for the lands jicM-taining
to it were neither extensive nor did they command a large
rental, but it was a home, and very thankfully ditl (rilbert
Mayne turn his back upon the f:'Te it wilderness of London,
which had been a hard task-mist rois to him, and bring his

SUNDERED HEARTS,

fli

wife and daugliters to the land and place of his birth. To
Mrs. Mayne the change was not altogether pleasant. She had
a certain position, it is true, above the raanulacturers and
retired tradespeople, but she was still among the smaller
county gentry whom the magnates only recognised from afiir.
To a woman of her character such a position was galling in
the extreme, and her days were spent in scheming how vshe
could better her position and force her way into the front rank
of society. Her hope centred in her daughters, or, properly
rpeaking, in her elder daughter, for it had not as yet occurred
to her that it might be Gertrude — whom she regarded as a
plain-looking, uninteresting school-girl — who would elevate
the dignity of the house of Mayne. By slow degrees certain
truths had been revealed to Gertrude, and to her sensitive
heart they seemed fraught with humiliation and pain. She
was thinking of these things as she slowly walked through the
shrubbery and up the stone courts to the stables. Her father,
however, was not tuere, and his horse was gone from its stall.

* Can you tell me v.'Lere father has gone, Carmichael ? ' she
asked the groom.

' Yes, miss ; down to Rumford to see about a new bit for
Jerry ; and then I heard him say he was going to Colonel
Graham's,' replied Carmiohael, with ready courtesy. All the
dejiendents at Meadowflats loved their master's second daughter,
and neither Mrs. Mayne nor Caroline knew how very often
Gertrude's gentle word or entreating look had taken the sting
from their haughty and overbearing manners, and maae peace
when a storm was brewing in the house.

Somewhat disappointed, Gertrude turned away., and, unfas-
tening the chain which bound the big watch-dog to its kennel,
went away across the park, the huge animal bonnding gleefully
by her side. When she reached the further side of the park,
she stood still beside the low hedge which separated it from
the road, and looked for a few minutes upon the surrounding
scene. It was a picture of v^hich the eye never tired, and yet
taere was nothing grand or imposing, only a peaceful and
pleasant country landscape, a breadth of flat green meadow
land, then the silver windings of a stream, and b'^yond that
the clustering roof-trens of the town, from whonre numy tall
smoke-begrimed chimney -.xtnlks reared their heads to the

h?l

THE FF: AN KLIN- MA YNES.

«3

birth. To
She liad
:urers and
le smallur
from aftir.
galling in
J how she
front rank
r, properly
it occurred
irded as a
Id elevate
;es certain
r sensitive
lain. She
irough the
ler father,
1 its stall.
Kiel ? ' she

Q\v bit for

^o Colonel

All the

daughter,
'^ery often

the sting
laae peace

wintry sky. There were patches of woodland here and there,
sheltering some cosy homestead ; and upon one gentle etnincnco,
lookiir- down upon the town, the towers and turrets of a lordly
pile, which pertained to the Lundies, of high degree and old
renown. Far beyond its wide-spreading lands there was a
ridge of high hills, capped with snow, and which looked like
the limits of the world. Such was the picture across which
Gertrude's eyes travelled somewhat wistfully that winter day.
Her heart was stirred by vague yearnings of unrest, her soul
rieemed weighted down by a burden of coming trouble. She
could not understand why she should feel as if her girlhood,
her careless, hai)py, light-liearted girlhood, had gone away in a
moment from her for ever. A gleam of sunlight broke
through the grey sky just then, and touched the meandering
stream, until it looked like a thread of gold. It made many
lovely lights and shadows play upon woodland and meadow,
and touched witn lingering tenderness the girl's sweet face.
She saw its beauty through blurring shadows. The mastif!
sympathetically rubbed his head against her dress and pushed
his cold nose into her hand. She turned and let her hand
fall caressingly on his noble head.

'Come, Lion, I am out of sorts to-day. What can it be, I
wonder % — unless the sadness which often comes with the end
of the year. You would explain it oU away, my doggie, with
these wise eyes of yours. Come, you and I will have a scamper
together down to the Running Burn, and then we will go
home.'

nd, unfas-
ts kennel,
\ gleefully
the park,
ed it from
rrounding
1, and yet
ceful and
1 meadow
yond that
n\any tall
! to the

"^^^^

Ill

CHAPTER TI

AFTERNOON TEA.

;UNCHEON was on the taHe at Meadowflats
punctually at half-past one. It had been ordered
half an hour earlier to allow the ladies amjjle time
to drive to and from Rumford before the early
darkness fell. Mr. Mayne was not home in time, and the
mother and daughters partook of it alone.

' Are you coming with us, Gertrude 1 * asked Mrs. !Mayne.

'I think not, mamma; but I will walk across the fields to
Rumford, as I want to see Margaret Dunsyre ; and, if you
could tell me when your business would be concluded at
Macmillan's, I could meet you there and drive home with you,'
replied Gertrude.

Caroline shrugged her shoulders.

' I can't understand what you see to charm you in that ]n'im,
old-maidish sister of Doctor Dunsyre's,' she said slightingly.

*It is most unaccountable tlie penchant Gertrude has for
that kind of people,' said Mrs, Mayne. * Doctor Dunsyre is
a gentleman and a skilful physician, but his sister' — An
expressive griiiiace concluded Mrs. Mayne's speech.

' Well, child, if that is your plan, you can just sit with Miss
Dunsyre till we call for you ; but don't, I implore you, say
anything about us coming, as she will drag us in to afternoon
tea, which I particularly hate, except in ddtshabillS in my own
dressing-room.'

poor
shoul

AfTERNOOX TEA,

«S

iaclow flats
n onlored
ii])lo time
the early
and the

Mayne.
fields to
[, if you
uded at

k^ith you,'

lat ])rim,
tini^'ly.

has for
ins V re is
'— An

ith Miss
you, say

iternoon
my owu

'"Why do you speak of Margaret Dunsyre as that kind of
people, mother V asked (iertrude a little (inicldy. ' lli^r mother
was a Carter of Craigcrouk, and they are as ohl a family as ours.'

'My dear, her mother marrieil a manufacturer, and thus lost
her own i)ositiun for ever. There is nothing worse for a
woman than to marry beneath her; it is a social sin. You
will see that from lience the Dunsyres will degenerate, until
possibly they may bo reduced to the level (tf mechanics. I
have seen it over and over again. It is one of Nature's relent-
less laws.'

^Irs. >rayne delivered her speech with great dignity, but to
poor (Iertrude her logic tlid not seem very clear. And yet she
should be learning her lesson now, for it was repeated in her
ears many times a-day. She held her peace, and went away
(piietly to dress for her walk, pondering certain things in lur
mind. She was unworldly enough still to prize a true friend
wluiresoever she found that j)ri(.-eless jewel, and her heart wjis
knit to Margaret Dunsyre in the bonds of a true and all'ec-
tionate love. She was her confidante, her counsellor, lier
comforter \ into that faithful ear were i)oured all her dillicullies
and doubts, all her soreness of heart and bitter regrets over the
false and miserable life they led at Meadowllats. She breathed
shamefacedly to Margaret about tradespeople coming to
demand their dues, and how some liad refused to supply goods
unless the lady of Meadowllats could come to them with her
numey in her hand. And faithful Margaret sympathized and
tried to console, and did not say that she knew all about it
already, for the poverty and the debt of Meadowllats was the
town talk of Rumford.

Very sol)er]y Gertrude walked by the familiar field paths to
the town, jjausing for a moment, as was her wont, to watch
the rai)id ilow of the Running Burn, and to wonder why, when
it turned the wheels of so many great factories, it yet kei)t its
depths as clear as crystal, and as untroubled as the silent
waters of a lake. That was the secret of the Running Ihiin.
Twenty minutes brought lier to the entrance to the town.
The road took many a winding turn, crossed thf burn twice,
auil entered the town by the 'high end,' as it was called, so
that Clertrude was in the High Street before the ponies crossed
the second bridge.

SUNDERED HEARTS.

ill

*ii;

It was, like other principal streets in a country town, lon^*
and stra^'^'ling, goodly dwelling-houses and poorer tenements
standing side by side, plenty of shops of the strictly provincial
type, the town hall and public buildings, the bank, and tho
three churches, all within sight of each other. The mills were
lower down, nearer the banks of the Running Burn. Tho
high end of Rumford was the well-to-do portion of the town,
and here dwelt those who, from lack of means or inclination,
had not built themselves new and glittering mansions at a
respectable distance from the town. Doctor Dunsyre's hous(!
was a plain, two-storey, unpretending-looking building next door
to the bank. Many wondered that he did not follow the example
of the wealthier manufacturers and retire to the outskirts of
the town, but David Dunsyre held that the iiouse which for
five-and-twenty years had been good enough for his father and
mother was good enough for him. It was endeared to him
and to his sister by many memories which never linger in the
halls and corridors of a r.cw house. They were old-fashioned
people, thoroughly conservative in their home life and sur-
roimdings, and so Number 21 High Street continued to be
known as the Doctor's house. The younger Miss Mayne was
often there. She was, with one exception, the most frequent
visitor to the Dunsyres.

* Is Miss Dunsyre at home, Sarah ? * she inquired pleasantly,
when the housemaid answered her knock.

' Yes, miss ; in the drawing - room, miss,* replied Sarah,
knowing she did not require to escort Miss Mayne there and
formally announce her name.

Tl)e Doctor kept two servants, sober, middle-aged women,
who had served in the house since their girlhood, and who
were friends as well as servants. But Margaret Dunsyre was
the pattern of mistresses, and the wheels of her domestic
machinery moved without a jar or a stoppage from one year's
end to the other. Miss Mayne ran lightly up the oak stair-
case, and, with a quick tap at the door, entered the room. A
pleasant place to look at, or to sit down in, was the Doctor's
drawing-room that winter day. It was an old-fashioned room,
with an exquisitely-carved oak ceiling and panels round the
walls. The space above the panelling was painted a neutral
shade of green, agaiust which the few choice water-colours

AFTERNOON TEA.

jT town, loTif^
ir tenements
ly provincial
nk, and thn
le mills were
Burn. Tho
of the town,

inclination,
ansions at a
[layre's house
injr next door
r the example

outskirts of
ise which for
is father and
jared to him
linger in the
old-fashioned
life and sur-
tinued to be
s Mayne was
Qost frequent

id pleasantly,

[plied Sarah,
ne there and

iged women,
|od, and who

►unsyre was
ler domestic
one year's
le oak stair-
le room. A
I the Doctor's
liioned room.
Is round the
led a neutral

rater-colours

showed to the best advanta.c,'e. I could not doscrihe itn
furnish iii;^'s. The chains ami tables were quaint, and of
variniis (l»!.siL;ns. Tlie prim housewift^ who likes everything to
matcli would liave Ix-en iKU'rilied at the incongruous gatherin.;
of mill nicknacks; yet the wlujle was pleasing to the eye, and
in the ruddy glow of the tircliglit looked a very ideal "f
comfort and quiet luxury. ^largaret Dunsyre rose from tlio
window, where k1i'> was trying to do some delicate fancy-work
by the fatiin.L; light. When she saw who her visitor was she
put it all down, and, advancing to Gertrude, took both Ikt
hands in her warm, kindly clasp. They did not kiss ea»;ii
other. Mar;^Mr('t hunsyrewas not one who could caress, and
fondle, and L-ipeak endearing words to all her feminine ac-
qiiaint.anct's. She liad the reputation of being still", and proud,
and rcscivcd, whi'reas she had only a litile more common sense
and s«'lf-r('s|»e(;t than many others.

' M,v dear, 1 was thinking of you. Come away,' vshe said, in
her clear, pleasant tones. 'Take off your hat and gloves. I
4 believe Sarah will have the kettle boiling now. l)o you know
I it is a week since you were here?'

|. ' is that all ? I thought it a much longer time,' siiid
I Gertrude, and tos.sed oil" her gloves. Standing together in the
|| suhdued lilendingof lirelightand daylight, these two i)resented
^- an (kM contrast to each other. Mar<jaret 1 unsyre was tall,
mk and her fi^nire was perfect in every line and curve. Her faco
^ was rather shaiply featured, her mouth lirm and yet tender,
^ her liyes blue and rather piercing, her hair fair, and coiled in
he.ivy plaits round her head. It was a face full of repose ; not
beautiful, nor very expressive, except when she smiled, and
then it was as if the sun shone upon it, lighting up every
cuive of lip, and cheek, and brow. Her dress was sever(!l;y
simple, a dark blue serge trimmed with braid, a linen collar,
and cull's turned back from her white wrists, and fast«.Mn;d
witli links of gold, which were her only ornament. Her
hat, lis Were very beautiful — long and sluqudy, with tapering
fingers and delicately tinted nails. Altogether Margaret
l)uusyre was a striking-looking woman. Gertrude ^layne
.; looked very girli.'sh beside her, and to the careless observer,
. perhaps, very unintcu'e.sting also.

'Are you very dohiful to-day, Gertrude 1 Shall I stir the

SUNDERED HEARTS.

lire, or toll Sarah to put in a double quantity of tea, or what
shall I do for you 1 ' asked Margaret a little banteringly, for
she saw that her friend was out of sorts.

* Neither of these. Sit down, Margaret, and let me lay my
head on your knee ; it is so comforting. There, that will do
very nicely. Now, I am very cross to-day.'

' So I saw when you came in. What has ruffled my bird's
plumage to-day ? '

* Nothing particular, but I believe it was the county ball.
Are you going?'

•Yes, dear; David and I always go. But what is there in
the thought of a dance to trouble you ? '

* Nothing in that, and I dearly love dancing when one's
partner is not too awkward ; but it is the old thing, Margaret.
Mother and Caroline are at Macmillan's to-day, seeing about
new dresses. They are to call here for me. Why, is that
your brother's voice ? ' said Gertiude, starting up. 'Will he
come here ? How provoking of him to interrupt us just when
I asked you all to myself for a little ! '

' Yes, it is David ; and I think there is some one with him,
for I hear a double footstep on the stair,' replied Margaret,
rising as she spoke. She turned her head a little away from
her friend, perhaps to hide the faint bloom, like the blush of
a pink-lipped shell, which stole unawares to her cheek. It
had faded again, however, when the gentlemen entered the
room.

Doctor Dunsyre came first, and was easily recognisable by
his striking resemblance to his sister. Like her he was tall
and fair, with the same clear-cut features and piercing blue
eyes. He was a handsome and even distinguished-looking
man. His companion was tall also, but of very different
physique. His shoulders were broad and muscular, suggestive
of giant strength. His fine head was firmly set, and made to
look somewhat Irrge by the abundance of his curling brown
hair. It was closely cropped, too, but the curls were visible
still. His face — how shall I describe it? Picture a face
which gives you the impression of strength, and manliness,
and purity, and true-hcartedness, and you have John
Strathearn's before you. His eyes were grey, and as tender
and winning in their expression as a woman's ; his mouth, apt

in r(

nion

ISIai-

my 1

your
but (

said

upon
Gerti

Dunf

'«

well

becor

to M

■i

AFTERNOON TEA.

a, or what
jringly, for

me lay my
lat will do

I my bird's

sounty ball.

is there in

when one's
J, Margaret,
eeing about
hy, is that
'Will he
s just when

e with him,
d Margaret,

away from
the blush of

cheek. It
entered the

gnisable by
he was tall
lercing blue
hed-looking
ry different
r, suggestive
nd made to
rling brown
«rere visible
ture a face
manliness,
have John
I as tender
mouth, apt

in repose to look stem and haughty, was transfigurotl at that
moinoiit hy tl»e sunny smile with which ho advanced to greet
^Margiiret J )unsyre.

' 1 met this brother of yours on my way to the stables for
my horse, and he inveigled me with the promise of a cup o(
your famous Indian. Am I to have it?' he said, in his deep
but clear and pleasant tones.

* Surely, John. Mr. Stratheam — Miss Gertrude Mayne,'
saiil Margaret, turning to her friend. The two thus plactid
upon the footing of acquaintanc 3 bowed to each other ; then
Gertrude, without rising, shook hands with Doctor Dunsyre.

At that moment Sarah brought in the tea-tray, and Miss
Dunsyre took her place at the little gipsy table. She looked
well there, the graceful and womanly occupation was most
becoming to her. Doctor Dunsyre stood by the sofa talking
to Miss Mayne, while John Stratheam came to Margaret's
side to assist her in filling the cups.

' And how has the world being using you, Marguerite ? ' he
asked teasingly.

Tliey were like brother and sister, these two. They had

been as such since very babyhood. Togv".ther they had sat on

the form at Miss Boston's Kindergarten, an institution which

had found much favour in the eyes of Rumford mothers

twenty years before, but which had b(;en superseded by a new

and fashionable boarding-school, conducted by a German lady

and her two plain-looking but accomplished Frauleins.

Together also they had played on half holidays and Saturday

afternoons, either in the High Street garden or the wide park

of John's home at Redlands. They were like brother and

,• sister still, and there was no formality or stitfi.ess between

• thenL To John Stratheam, sisterless and broth^,rless as he

.' was, the friendship of Margaret Dunsyre had been in all

I respects an unspeakable blessing all these years. And she —

I Lut we will see hereafter.

j ' The world has never been anything but kind to me, as it
"has been to you, John,' Margaret made answer. *Is your
father well?'

* Fairly so ; but I know the old man's failing,* said John,
and his face grew grave almost to sadness. Great and wonder-
ful was the bond of love between old John Stratheam and his

•i:

SUNDEFFP fTFARTS.

ono Ron. It had lost noiio of tlio stron^'th anrl hoauty which
had toiiclicd so many ht'arts when Kt'dlands first hccaiiio a
niotherlcfifi homo, and that was whi-n yoiin^,' .lohii went to the
Kind(;rgart('n in a white blouse and witli a band of black
ril)l»on round his liat.

' It is the fall of the year, and you know he always seems
to fail then,' said Margaret softly. For it had been in
November that the gentle mistress of Rediands had gone home.

♦Ay, ay, I wish it was the sj)ring,' said John, and, taking
the cup from Margar'-^'s hand, he carried it to Gertrude.

Then he took his o>vn, and, leaning his ann on the mantel,
pijiped it leisurely, looking keenly and critically at the face of
(u'ltrudo Mayne. He had seen her before, but hitherto he
ha«l had no opportunity of studying her face. And it was
worth studying, chiefly because of its promise for the future.

' I was trying to induce David to give a course of lectures
on sanitary reform in the Town Hall, Margaret,' he said
presently, just as if that had been occupying his thoughts.
'Our Rumford Town Council require a little light on that
subject gently infused into their minds.'

♦ And what did David say to that i ' asked Margaret.

*He advised John to enter the Council himself, and set the
sanitary affairs of the burgh to rights,' said the Doctor drily.
* It is not a lecture which will cause the light to break upou
their rather — ahem — obtuse minds.'

'I should not like to begin my public life in Rumford
Council Chamber,' said John as drily.

♦ You have aspirations, sir. " Shun ambition ; by that sin
fell the angels ! " ' quoted Margaret, with a smile.

♦ You would rather have me try humility, young ambition's
ladder — eh?' said John. 'But I could not stand the vulgar
and i)etty squabbles of a Town Council. What made me plead
for the sanitary lectures was a pilgrimage 1 had to the
Watergate to-day in search of one of our sick hands, and,
unless I had seen it, I could not have believed that such
wretched and disgraceful hovels shelter some of our inhabit-
ants. Even in the clear, cold air to-day there was a feeling
of plague in the atmosphere which almost sickened me. It
is time something was done, or the summer will witness the
outbreak of some pestilential epidemic'

AFTERNOON TEA,

nty which

hecaiiH! a

M'lit to tho

I of black

vaya ecems
I been in
4:one home,
ind, taking
•ude.

he nmntel,
the face of
litherto he
md it was
le future,
of lectures
t/ he said
3 thoughts,
ht on that

iret.

uid set the
octor drily.
3reak mdou

1 Rumford

)y that sin

ambition's
the vulgar
e me plead
ad to the
lands, and,
that such
ur inhabit-
s a feeling
3d me. It
vitness the

•Oh, I know! I have seen it, Mr. Stratlioam ! ' pxrlaimnl
Gertrude, with Hushing cheek and kindling eye. *I go soine-
tinies to see some poor people in tlio Watergate, and I ' avo
oft«!n had a sure heart over it. Do you think anything could
be done to give them better houses to live in, j)urer air to
breatlio ? '

* It could be done, Miss Mayne, if any could bo found
sufliciently interested in their fellow-creatures to b(>gin tlie
gootl work, and urge others to lend a helping hand,' said J<jlm
gravely.

' Hut would they appreciate it?* asked Margaret, m her
common-sense way. *1 believe many of these people are like
the, proverbial pig who preferred to wallow in tho mire.'

* It might 1)6 wortlj tlie trial,' said John.

' 1 think so,' said Gertrude, still with enthusiasm, which
liglited up both her face and her manner. 'How glorious to
have plenty of money, and to be tho one who could sweep
away all tlieao miserable places, and build comfortable and
wholesome dwellings in their stead !'

' You are quite a reformer, Miss Mayne,' said John, with
a smile, and his eyes, as they rested on the girl's flushed, eager
face, had a something in them, a gleam of interest — I had
almost written tenderness — which was not often seen in their
depths.

' Who has a greater, more widespread influence than
Strathearn of the Earn Mills?' asked the ])ootor banteringly.

* And who so fretpiently called upon to make use of both,
my David?* said John. 'But the Watergate scheme deserves
consideration at the hands of the Town Council. I must
lay hands on our Provost, and interest him therein. Well, I
must be off. When it gets dark you know my father begins
to weary for my return.*

' You are a most devoted son, John,* said Margaret, rising
to bid him good-bye.

' I have a most devoted father,' was John's answer. * When
are you and David coming to Redlands ? '

' Some day soon, tell Mr. Strathearn, to see his new
fernery. I am quite curious about it.'

* I'll tell him so ; it will please him,' said John. ' Good-bye,
Miss Mayne, and I would hope that some day you will see

SUNDERED HEARTS,

I i

i:l

the desire of youi heart an acconipliBhod fact in the Water-
gate of Kumford.'

He held the small hand a moment closely in liia own, bent
his earnest eyes on the sweet, girlish face, and carried the
memory of it with him to his homo.

* I have often heard of Mr. Stratheam, Margaret, and of
the good he does,' said Gertnide, when the gentleman loft the
room. * But I never fancied he would bo like that.'

'Do you like him?' Margaret asked, and somehow her
voice sounded cold.

* I don't know ; I have never thought about it. He seems
very good and noble,' answered Gertrude simply. ' I hear
the phaeton at the door. Thank you for all your kindness,
dear Margaret. Will you come down to see mamma and
Caroline?'

* No, dear. Here is Sarah ; she will take you down.
Good-bye. Come again soon,' said Margaret, and they shook
hands again. When she was left alone she stood on the
hearthrug with her beautiful hands lightly clasped before her,
and her eyes fixed on the dancing flames. There was some-
thing in her he rt which had not hitherto found a place there
■^a vague feeling of jealousy, of pain, of deep unrest. She did
not know what hod brought it there. She had never allowed
herself to face the fact that her heart was wholly given to
John Stratheam, in a love which makes the bane oi* blessing
of a woman's life. She could not face it yet, but the day was
coming — oh, very soon 1 — when the truth must come home to
her heart.

The Meadowflats ponies were driven rapidly up the High
Street, for the dusk was changing to darkness now. As they
passed out of the town they met a gentleman on horseback,
who lifted his hat courteously as they passed.

'Who is that, and why does he recognise us?' asked Mrs.
Mayne shari>ly.

' That is Mr. Stratheam of Redlands, mother. I met him
to-day in Margaret's,' answered Gertrude.

'Indeed?' said Mrs. Mayne carelessly, 'He looks wonder-
fully well, and would almost pass for a gentleman.'

[I the Water-
is own, bniit
i carried the

fnrct, and of
;nian loft the
It.'
omehow her

He Beems
ly. 'I hear
ur kindncHs,
niumma and

you down.
i they shook
tood on the
I before her,

was some-

1 place there
St. She did
ever allowed
Ily given to

Ox' blessing
the day was
me home to

p the High
V. As thoy

1 horseback,

asked Mrs.
I met him
Dks wonder-

CHAPTER III.

TUB COUNTY BALL.

[HE night of the county ball was always ono of
interest and unusual stir in Ruinff)rd. T]v\
»^;,, dwellers in the High Street were early on the
^^'^^ look-out from their windows to count and try to
recognise the dillercnt carriages as they rolled up to the doors
of tlie Assembly Kooms. At the entrance itself there was a
barricade erected, and a strip of crimson carpet stretched
across the pavement to the kerb-stone. "Without the bnrri-
(•!i(les was gathered the usual motley throng of loungers from
the lower parts of the town, lured thither by the brilliant
lights and the chance of seeing the gay dresses and si)arkliiig
jewels of the ladies. Their remarks thereon were varied an(l
characteristic ; some of them not very fitted for ears j)olite.
Dancing was announced to commence at nine o'clock, but for
an hour after that carriages continued to set down their fair
burdens at the Rooms. Many of the county people were,
late, and it was twenty minutes past ten when a hired
carriage whirled rapidly up the High Street, and stopped at
the brilliantly-lighted entrance.

From it alighted Mr. and Mrs. Franklin-Mayne of Meadow-
flats and their two daughter. Mrs Mayne had a meaning for
this late arrival ; she had learned by experience that to enter
with the throng means obscurity and oblivion for a part of
the evening, anil she knew that both she and her daughters

■H^il

iii

;

I I

SUNDERED HEARTS,

would attract attention now. She was right. She arrived
most opj)()rt,unely, just after tlie conchision of a valse, fr-un
which the ladies liad gladly sought rest and breatliiug spaco
on tlic v<3lvet-covered seats which lined the walls. ^l^s.
Mayne's sharp eyes travelled round the room until they
reached the charnicfl circle which closed about the Countess
of Devanha, Lady Hamilton, the lion. Mrs. Morcikm, and
other titled and aristocratic dames. Then she sailed up the
long room, followed by her daughters, and intruded herself
with the sweetest smiles upon them.

01)livious of cold looks and expressive shrugs, she elbowed
her way to the Countess's side, elfusively shook hands, an*'
introduced her daughters.

Lady Devanha, whose dark southern beauty was enhanced
by her splendid attire, looked critically at Caroline Mayne's
exquisite loveliness, and with a cold word of greeting turned
her back upon the throe. She was eclipsed by the fair
daughter of Meadowflats, and henceforth there would be war
between them. The Hon. Mrs. JNIoredun — a kindly, garrulous
old lady, who had not yet outlived her passion for gaiety —
took pity on the somewhat chagrined Mrs. Mayne, and made
room for her at her side.

' You did well to come late, Mrs. Mayne,' she whispered
ap])rovingiy. * Your daughters will be the undoubted belles
of the evening. I hardly know which to admire most.'

Mrs. Mayns beamed all over.

' So good of you to say so, dear Mrs. Moredun,' she, said
pensively. ' Of course I am proud of my girls — any mother
would.'

' You ought to educate the elder one to show a little more
animation, dear. That statuesque manner will kill her as a
success in society. Gentlemen cannot bear it. Some pretty
dresses here to-night. What could be lovelier than that blue
gown of Miss Dunsyre's? Until your daughter came admira-
tion was divided between the Countess and the Doctor's
sister,'

' She looks well
at her side % '

' That is young Strathearn of Redlands and of the E.irn
Mills — a fine fellow. I like him immensely. They say they

Who is that distinguished-looking man

THE COUWrV BALL.

5he arrived
valse, from
thing sjiaco
ills. ^Irs.
until tiu'y
le Countess
rcduTi, unci
ilud uj) the
(led herself

he elhoAvcd
hands, an*'

18 enhanced
le ISIayne's
iing turned
)y the fair
>uld l)e war
^, garrulous
or gai(3ty—
^ and made

whispered
bted belles
ost.'

,' she, said
my mother

little more
her as a
ome pretty
1 that blue
lie adniira-
Doctor's

oking man

the Earn
y bay they

afp to make a match of it — a handsome, well-matched
pair, eh V

' Y(!s. AVhere is the Earl to-night ? '

'Clone out in the dumps because Sophia refused to dance
with him. He is very jealous, poor man, and his pretty wife
tries him sorely.'

* Ah, there he is I and — can I believe my eyes? — Sir William
Lundieof Castle Lundie with him ! — an unexpected acquisition
to the assembly. They are coming this way.'

With intense interest Mrs. Mayne's eyes rested upon the
face and figure of Sir William Lundie. He was tall, and of
spare and slender build. His face was sharply featured, and
sallow in hue, his eyes black as sloes, and somewhat restless
in their expression. Ilis long, thin mouth was partially
hidden by a heavy moustache, iron-grey like the heavy hair
which was brushed back from a high, narrow forehead,
licfore he was half-way up the room, Mrs. Mayne had taken
in all these details, and decided to make Caroline lady
Lundie.

Mrs. Moredun rose at Sir William's approach, and greeted
him very kimlly, for she had been one of his early friends.

' You went away a lad, William,' she said somewhat sadly,
' and you have come back a middle-aged man, which makes
me very old indeed.'

' Mrs. Moredun will never grow old,' said Sir William, with
bland yet indolent flattery.

She drew back slightly, and shook her head. 'Don't
speak like that to me, William,' she said. 'Romendx'r I
was your mother's friend. Now allow me to introduce you
to Mrs. Franklin- Mayne of Meadowflats.'

Sir William bowed first to the mother and then to the
beautiful daughter.

' Although 1 have not the privilege of being an old friend,
allow me to bid you welcome home,' said Mrs, Mayne, in Imt
sweetest tones. 'Believe me, we have often looked across to
Castle Lundie, and longed for our neighbour's return.'

'You are very good,' said Sir William, with all that languid
and cynical indiflerence which so frequently characterizes the
Anglo-Indian. Then he looked somewhat ex])ectantly at the
younger ladies at Mrs. Muyne's side. She hastened to iiitro-

ill

4i'

SUNDERED HEARTS.

I !

I i ;i

I 'ill*

1' ■!

1 1 .

duce her daughters, but if the vision of Carciine's heauty
made any impression on Sir William he hid it well
Strangely enough, his second glance was bestowed on the
sweet, girlish face of Gertrude, and when the strains of a
dreamy waltz sounded through the room, he turned to her
with a low bow.

'May I have the pleasure, Miss Gertrude T he said, in
suave, well-modulated tones.

' Thank you, Sir William, but I do not care for waltzing,*
answered Gertrude hesitatingly, and with slightly flushing
face.

* Nonsense, my love,' said Mrs. Mayne a trifle sharply ;
* you ought to be flattered that Sir William should choose yoii
as a partner in his first dance at home.'

Sir William smiled sHghtly, and his lips, hidden by the
drooping moustache, curved in amused scorn. Hi? Indian
lif-^. had made him very familiar with Mrs. Mayne's type of
womanhood. He still held his arm towards Gertrude, and
with face still more painfully flushed she laid her finger-tips
lightly upon it, and they joined the dancers.

A proud and happy woman was Mrs. Mayne as she saw the
glances of astonishment and admiration which followed the
pair. She saw the Countess bite her lips, and knew the sight
was not pleasant to lier. Though astonished that the Baronet
should have passed Caroline by, she could not but admit that
never had Gertrude looked so well. The lissom figure in itS
flowing white, the dainty throat and arms, hidden yet revealed
by the delicate lace about them, the grave, sweet face, the
earnest, truthful eyes, and, above all, the girlish innocence
and grace which encompassed her, made Gertrude Mayne a
pleasant sight to see.

' Is this your first ball. Miss Gertrude % ' asked Sir William
as they joined the dance.

' My fi^st in Scotland. I have been to dancing parties
in London, but never before to a public ball,' Gertrude
answered.

' And what impression has it made upon you \ '

' I do not know ; we had just come when you entered.
But I have never cared for dancing.'

• Strange I One so young and lovely ought to enjoy the

THE COUNTY BALL.

ine'a heanty
lid it well
wed on the
strains of a
irned to her

he said, in

or waltzing,'
itly flushing

ifle sharply ;
d choose yoii

iden by the
Hi? Indian
rne's type of
rertrude, and
ler finger-tips

} she saw the
followed the
lew the sight

the Baronet
it admit that

figure in itS

yet revealed
eet face, the

h innocence
ide Mayne a

Sir WiUiam

icing parties
tl,' Gertrude

^ou entered,
to enjoy the

music and the brilliance of a scene like this,' said Sir William
gallantly, and looking down with undisguised admiration in
the sweet face so near his shoulder.

It flushed deeply under that gaze, and she slightly drew
herself up.

'Kindly do not speak to me in that strain, Sir William.
I do not like it,* she said simply and clearly.

' Forgive me. I have been taught by experience to believe
that all women like pretty speeches. I shall not ofl'end again,
only I spoke the simple truth,' said he, with earnestness.

'Thank you. Will you kindly take me to mamma now.
Sir William? I am not much used to waltzing, and I am
giddy already.'

* I hope I have not tired you. In my enjoyment I forgot
to think of your comfort,' he said kindly. * You dance
perfectly.'

' Do you think sol I always fancied myself very awkward,'
answered Gertrude, without the slightest afi'ectation, and
presently she was again at her mother's side. Sir William
stationed himself beside her, until the Countess playfully
tapped his arm with her fan.

' Has Sir William Lundie not a word for his nld friend
Sophia Lestrange \ ' she said, in her silver - sweet tones.
* Have old Calcutta days faded altogether from your
memory ? '

'There are some things it may be wise to forget. Lady
Devanha,' he answered banteringly. 'Will you honour
me?'

' Willingly, " for auld langsyne," ' she said, with a bewitch-
ing smile, and laid her dainty hand on his arm.

' Really, I am amazed at William Lundie,' said Mrs.
Moredun. ' He has grown quite a man of the world, and I
can gather that there has been something more than friend-
ship between our Lady Sophia and him out in India.
Just look at the Earl, my dear, over yonder, beside young
Strathearn. He looks as black as thunder.'

'Lady Devanha has been in India, then?' said Mrs.
Mayne.

' Yes, she was brought up there. Her brother-in-law, don't
you know, held an influential post under Government, and

SUNDERED HEARTS.

she went out to her sister when her father died. She was
only a girl of sixteen then, and that is nearly a quarter of a
century ago.'

' Slie can't be so young as she looks,' said Mrs. Mayne.

' No ; she must be five-and-thirty, I should say. It is a
year on Christmas Day since she was married to the Earl at
Calcutta, He met her there when he went to India to
sj)end some of his patrimony, and they were married after six
weeks' courtship.'

' Dear me, how interesting ! Ah, Doctor Dunsyre, good
evening. I have not seen you dancing this evening.'

' Good evening, ladies. I crossed the room to advise you
professionally to sit out of this draught, else I shall have my
hands full tD-morrow,' said David Dunsyre, in his easy, gentle-
manly way, and while he spoke his keen eyes dwelt upon the
lovely, impassive face of Caroline Mayne. ' Miss Gertrude,
will you allow me to take you to my sister? She is most
anxious to see you.'

' May I, mamma '\ ' asked Gertrude.

* Certainly, my dear,' said ^Irs. Mayne graciously ; ' only
do not remain away from my side all the e\ ening. Who is
your sister's chaperon to-night, Doctor?'

' "My aunt, Mrs. Carter of Craigcrook,' answered he, and
offered Gertrude his arm.

' How lovely Margaret looks to-night, and how good of you
to bring me to her ! ' said Gertrude, and both voice and
manner were very dififerent from what Sir William Lundic
had heard and seen, for Gertrude felt at home with Duvid
Dunsyre.

' I thought you looked wearied. What do you think of
your neighbour of Castle Lundie?'

' I do not like to dance with him,' was all that Gertrude
said, and then they were at Margaret's side.

' I was afraid Mrs. Mayne would not let you conn , and I
was equally afraid to come to you, dear,' said ^Iiirgan;t, as she
took the white hand warmly in hers. ' This is my aunt,
Mrs. Carter, and there is a seat for you ; now we can have a
cosy cliat. Why, David is off already ! '

Doctor Dui yre was indeed already half across the room,
and presently they saw him bending low over Caroline. She

rose,

Duns\

bain'

'I (

answc
MV

Don't

;' even in

room ?

i 'Hi

I lhishe(
f with
V njMUi
I daiicin

4 ' Nc

; once '
., gentle]
?C()U^siI

> J(th
I turn (id
4 ]\Iavne
"'■ watclit
I hour a
I last.
I 'Ha
'i he ask
I a look
1 did noi

THE COUNTY BALL.

1. She was
quarter of a

Mayne.
ly. It is a
the Earl at
;o India to
ied after six

nsyre, good

• advise you
lall have my
easy, gentle-
Ai upon the
is Gertrude,
She is most

usly ; * only
ig. Who is

'ed he, and

good of you
voice and
iam Lundie
with David

5U think of

at Gertrude

!onii , and I

;iii'i;t, as she

s my aunt,

can have a

s the room,
oline. She

rose, and they took their places in a quadrille. So Doctor
Dunsvre was the first to ask Miss Mayne to dance.

* Well, Gertrudo, what do you think of the Kumford county
' hall?' asked Margaret, with a smile.

' I don't like halls, Margaret. They are very stupid things/
answered Gertrude decidedly.

'Why, my dear, you ought to be very proud to-night!
Don't you know that your first partner is the lion of the
^evening, and that you were envied by all the women in the
room % ' said Margaret teasingly.

' Hush, Margaret,' said Gertruile quickly, and her face
'? flushed again; for though 8ir William Lundie was dancing
twith and talking to Laily Devanha, his eyes were oftenest
s Upon the face of Gertruvle Mayne. '1 have not seen you
f daiM'ing much yet, Margaret,' she said presently.
I ' Nt) ; 1 have only been up twice — once with David and
once with Mr. Strathearn. I never dance with strange
Igeiitli'men,' said Margaret quietly. ' Here comes John with
f Cousin Ellen ; the quadrille is ended.'

I John Strathearn resigned his partner to her mother, and
Iturned with a look of unmistakeable jdeasure to greet Gertrude
: ^layue. Although she had been unconscious of it, he had
watched her every movement since she entered the room an
i liour ago. The opportunity he had longed for had come at
last.

' Have you a space for my name on your card. Miss Mayne?'
he asked, bending his noble head towards her, and tlicie was
I a look in his eyes which it was as well Margaret Dunsyie
idid not see.

M)h yes! it is not nearly full. See, I have only promised
Sir William Lundie a mazurka,* she answered sinqjy.

* Tiiey aie striking up another w^altz. If you are not too
|tired will you honour me?' said John a little eagerly.

Gertrude smiled her assent, put her wrap on the seat beside
Margaret, and laid her hand on John Strathearn's arm. Tliat
gentle touch thrilled him through and through. Could it he
[that this fair, sweet, simple school-girl had won the heart of
|8ensil)le John Strathearn in an hour's time, and was he, so
)ng impervious to feminine charms, conquered at last?
' Do you like dancing ? ' he asked rather inanely.

:il

in
ill

il-!

SUNDERED HEARTS.

ill %

I I

:itl.l

r!
I

* Sometimes,' she answered. ' I like this waltz. What
lovely music, and how well you dance ! '

•May 1 return the coiDpliraent?' he avsked, with a smile.
' It is not a compliment, only truth,' she answered quite
gravely.

* May I ask what has made you look so grave all the
evening 1 Several times I almost fancied you looked sad.'

* Did you ? Shall I tell you what I have been thinking all
the evening, Mr. Strathearn ? '

* If you please,' said John earnestly.

* I have been thinking that there is twenty times more
money in this room than would rebuild the Watergate and
every other wretched place in Rumford.*

* You mean the value of the dresses and jewels ?*

* Yes ; I have strange thoughts about these things, Mr.
Strathearn. I could not bear to spend so much upon myself,
knowing how many of my fellow-creatures are starving.'

' If there were more like you, Miss Mayne, this would be a
less miserable world,' said Johvi impulsively.

* Do you think the world is miserable ? I am glad that I
am not alone in thinking that. I have often even wondered
why I was born' —

* Surely that is a very sad thing for one like you to think,'
said John, and longed to say a great deal more.

* You do not know what troubles weigh upon my heart
sometimes. I wish it were possible to remain always a child.
It seems to me that when one grows older a new care comes
every day ' —

John was silent, simply because he had no words wherewith
to answer her. She misunderstood his silence, and, when she
spoke again, her voice was hurried and trembling.

' What have I been saying ? I forgot you were a stranger.
Pray forget it ; I am only a school-girl still, Mr. Strathearn,
who has not yet learned what my mother calls the ways of
society.'

' I pray you never may. Miss Gertrude,' said John, looking
down upon the sweet face with eyes dangerously eloquent.
* I was silent simply because I feared to say too much. May
I hope that some day soon you will awake to find the world
the bright and beautiful place it should be for such as you % '

I
Vi

T^E COUNTY BALL.

3»

iltz. What

b a smile,
iwered quite

pave all the
ked sad.'
thinking all

times more
itergate and

things, Mr.
ipon myself,
'ving.'
5 would be a

glad that I
m wondered

11 to think,'

Q my heart
'^ays a child.
^ care comes

I wherewith
i, when she

a stranger.
Strathearn,
he ways of

•hn, looking
y eloquent,
luch. May
i the world
as you % '

•Thank you; you are very good,' she said, and uplifted
her truthful eyes to his face with a glance which he never
forgot.

' Are you tired ? ' he said gently. * Shall I take you to
your mother, or back to Miss Dunsyre, or will you come with
me to the conservatory ? It is deliciously cool there.'

' I should like that,' she said readily, and again she laid her
hand lightly on his arm.

What strength, and comfort, and rest seemed to come to
her in the presence of this man ! what new, strange happiness
it was to feel the touch of his arm, to listen to the tones of
his manly voice, only those in whose hearts young love is
wakening can know !

Just as John's hand was upon the swiiying curtain which
separated the conservatory from the ball-room, Sir William
Lundie came to Gertrude's side.

' Mrs. Mayne has commissioned me to take you to her side,
Miss Mayne,' he said, with a courtly bow. ' She talks of
going very shortly. Pray allow me.'

John Stratheam's face flushed darkly red. He was as
proud as Lucifer, and his hot temper sprang up at the
Earonet's calm ignoring of his presence.

Gertrude, trained to implicit obedience, would have slipped
her hand from his arm, but he only held it the closer, and,
turning his back upon Sir William, led her to her mother's
side.

* I have to ask your pardon, Mrs. Mayne, if I have un-
wittingly displeased you by keeping your daughter too long
from your side,' he said, with a courtly grace which equalled
Sir William Lundie's. ' ^liss Mayne, good evening.'

As he .ecrossed the room he encountered Sir William, who
favoured him with a scowl which made his sallow face not a
pleasant one to see. And so was forged the first link in the
chain of rivalry and bitterness between the lord of Castle
Lundie and the owner of the Earn Mills.

i(.

•*:

P^^i^-^^^^

\i\

I I

CHAPTER IV.

MORNING CALLS.

jX tlio spacious moriiing-room at Castle Lnndie, Sir
AVilliam Lundie and liis sister sat at breakfast tlie
morninjif after the county ball. She was her
brother's junior by only five years, and she carried
her age well. Even a keen observer, looking closcdy at tluj
tall, commanding liguro and clear-cut, haughty face, would
scarcely guess that she had ])assevl her thirty-fourth year.
Elizal)eth Landie was not a ])eauty ; there was nothing to
attract in that sallow, somewhat harshly-featured face ; nothing
to win the heart in the expivssion of the cold grey eyes, nor
in the curves of the tirni, resolute mouth. She was a woman
to be feared rather than loved, a woman who looked as if she
never for a moment forgot her name and lineage, and who
from her stately height seemed to look round upon all the
world with indilference ami scorn. Although rich and well-
born, no suitor had ever sought the elder daughter of the
house of Lundie. The younger one, sweet, winsome, sunny
hearted Eleanor, the idol of the ik)rder county where she had
been born and reared, had in her first season married an
English earl, and would one day be Duchess of St. Koque.
Elizabeth Lundie was practically without a home. During
her brother's protracted absence in India she had dwelt chielly
with her sister, but, upon receiving notice of his intention to
return, she had come down to Castle Lundie, and for the

MORNING CALLS.

mdie, Sir
ikfast the

was lier
le caiTic'd
ly at th(i
!e, would
i"tli year,
jthiiig to
; nothinj^
eyes, nor
a woman
as if she
and who
1 all the
md well-
sr of the
e, sunny

she had
irried an
;. Koque.
During'
ilt chielly
intion to
L for the

prosont it was agreed tliat she should remain witli him. The
brother and sister had never heen great fri«'nds ; in their
younger days there had been many a bitter (juarrel between
tliem ; but they were man and woman of the world now, too
well-bred to quarrel even when their opinions differed. A
slight indisposition had kept her at home from the county
l)all, and she was naturally anxicms to hear mon; about it than
what was given in the columns of the Rumfonl Gazette.

'When jdid you come home, William] I did not hear
you,' she said, as she poured out his cotfee.

'Between one and two, I think. When did the thing
break up ? ' he said carelessly, as he gathered his letters
together and laid them aside.

' Nearly five o'clock according to the Gazette^ but everybody
would be away long before that.'

' The best people were moving when I came off. I wish
you had been there, Elizabeth.'

'Do you] Was it so enjoyable?'

' It was new to me, and so 1 enjoyed it thoroughly.'

' You must have made friends, then 1 ' said Miss Lundie a
trifle drily.

'Not I. Only I renewed my acquaintance with several
old ones — Devanha and his lovely wife were there. I believe
she was the belle of the evening.'

' You must have met her in Calcutta, William ? She lived
there for some years previous to her marriage.'

' Yes, I knew her very well. A good thing it was for
Sophia Lestrange that Devanha's wanderings led him to
India.'

' Why, had she no prospects there 1 '

'None. She was too well known as a coquette. I say,
Elizabeth, do you know anything about the Strathearns,
manufacturers in Rumford 1 '

' I know who they are — father and son, immensely wealthy.
They live at Redlands, that place between us and Meadow flats.
I know the young man by sight. He is very hamlsome.'

'And en audacious pupi)y as well,' said Sir William, with
darkening brow. ' That is one of the drawbacks of an atiair
like last night's, one has to meet all sorts and conditions of
men on equal ground.*

SUNDERED HEARTS.

Ill

' Not necessarily. I sliould ininf,'ino it would not 1)p (liOloult
to draw a distinct enou^'h line,' »aid Miss Lundie indilleiuntly.
*Do you think La<ly Ucvaiiha will (;all, William'!'

* It is more than likely — in fact, you may expect to be
deluged with visitors for the next fortnight. You will be of
great use to mo at the present time, Elizabeth.'

*I know that, else [ would not have been so pressed to
come,' replied Miss Lundie drily.

' It is well we understand each other,' said Sir William,
with a slight smile, and sauntered carelessly out of the room.

Miss Lundie leaned her arms on the table, and sat for some
time apparently deeply absorbed in thought. Her meditations
were not wholly pl(!asant. She knew over-well that her
brother only regarded her in the light of a convenience, to ^)e
set aside whenever he had no further use for her. The
advent of a mistress to Castle Lundie would be the signal for
her to depart wheresoever she liked. E'jt in the meantime
she would enjoy her icign, for, even with the prospect of a
usurper in the distance, life as absolute mistress of her
brother's house was preferable to being a tolerated inniAte at
Leyboume Park. The Earl, out of his great love for his fair
young wife, was kind to her sister ; nevertheless, it was a
relic" when she left them, and Elizabeth knew it only too
well. She rose at length, and retired to the library to write
a letter to Eleanor. That done, she sauntered idly out of
doors, wondering what she could do to make the time pass.
When she came round again to the front of the house, she
saw at the door a phaeton and two chestnut ponies in charge
of a page-boy. She hastened indoors, glad that visitors had
come to relieve the monotony of the day.

*Who is in the drawing-room, Kirkbyl* she asked the
servant just coming down-stairs.

'Two ladies. Miss Lundie, Mrs. and Miss Franklin-Mayne
of Meadowflats,' replied the man, and keenly watched Miss
Lnndie's face.

She preserved an admirable expression of indifference until
Kirkby passed on, then she looked annoyed.

She hesitated a moment on the diawing-room landing,
undecided whether to enter the room or decline to see the
visitors. But curiosity overcame her pride, and she opened

m
I ill-

AfOAN/A'C CALLS.

(liHioult
ilVeruiitly.

ict to be
^111 be of

►ressed to

WillifiTii,
lie room,
i for some
editatioiis
that her
nee, to be
her. The
signal for
meantime
spect of a
3S of her
iniiiAte at
or his fair
it was a
only too
y to write
ly out of
ime pass,
house, she
in charge
sitors had

:ence until

see the
16 opened

the door. A lady sat on a basket chair on the hoartli, riddy
atiiifd in a faslii(tiiiil)lc I'ur-triniiiii'd iiiiiiitlc and a stylish iind
vouiliful-looking bonnet. The fadi'd face under the; nndding
Illumes was wreathed in smiles, and f'>o rose with a graeefui
bow.

' I feel that I must apologize, dear Miss Luiidio, for this early
call; but as I heard from my fricuid the Hon. Mrs, Moieihin,
lasi in'ght, that you were indisjxjsed, I thought it would 1)C
})Ut neighbourly to make in(|uiries this morning. This is my
elilesr daughter. Caroline, Miss Lundie is in the room.'

The tall and graceful figure in the window turned, and tlieii
Elizab(!th Lundie saw the marvellous beauty of her face. But
her expression did not change ; she included mother and
daughter in one distant bow, and stood with one slender hand
laid lightly on the table, and an expectant look on \u'Y haughty
face, as if waiting to hear what more Mrs. Franklin-Mayne
had to say.

'It must be so dull for you in this great houstj alone,' said
Mrs. Mayne, resuming her seat, ai»i)arently unabashed by her
cool reception. 'And we are such near neighbours that it
will be charming for us to visit each other often.'

Looking at the haughty wonder on Miss Lundie'^ face,
Caroline Mayne smiled slightly, and turned her head towards
the window.

' You are most kind, ^Irs. Mayne, but I do not visit much,'
rcjilicd Elizabeth Lundie frigidly. '\VilI you be so good as
to excuse me this morning? As nnstress of my brotlier'a
house, my time is not entirely my own.'

' Certainly, my dear Miss Lundie. Pray make no apologies,'
said Mrs. Mayne ellusively ; nevertheless she bit her lip in
her excessive chagrin. ' Caroline, my love, if you are quite
ready we will go.'

Caroline turned at once. Iler serene and proud composure
equalled that of Aliss Lundie ; the humiliation which would
have made many another vv(jman ready to sink with shame
could not make her wince. That was only the outward cloak,
however; the slim hands resting in the dainty muff were
clenched togetlier, and her soul was a tumult of indignation.
Iseveitheless, she returned Miss Lundie's bow M'ith one as
distant as her own, and followed her mother down-stairs.

SUXDE/^ED HEARTS.

I, M-

* Tliat ia a ]»r(m(l and liiuijj^lity tlamo, and no mi'stako,* said
Mrs. Miiyno, when tln!y entiucd tlit; (-iirriaj;*!.

Then kIk! vented her chagi'in by wliij)i)iii^ tlie «:li('Htnut8
unnierrifully.

*I told you what it would bo, nianinia,' said Carolino
"bittorly. 'You would dra*,' me to this i>luco to Iju iuHulted by
that woman. It is the first and last time'

' My d(!ar, just wait a little ; we will pay licr out,' said Mrs.
Mayne, with energy. * She is no lady. Jl(;r treatment of us
was tlio height of rudeness. If you ever reign at Castle
Lundie, I hope you will not forg(!t this.'

* I should like to bo mistress of Castle Lundie for one day,
mamma, to make her smart for this,' said Caroline, with Hush-
ing face. 'Here is Doctor Dunsyre's dogcart coming.'

'Good morning, ladies,' said the Doctor, in his cheery,
happy way, and inwardly wondered what had been their
errand to Castle Lundie.

' Good morning. Doctor Dunsyre,* responded Mrs. Mayne
graciously. ' AVe have just been impiiring for Miss Lundie ;
I felt so anxious about her. Ah, Miss Dunsyre, how are youl
But needless to ask, you look so well.*

' I am well, thank you, Mrs. Mayne,' said Margaret a little
stifily, for she most thoroughly resented the patronizing
graciousness of Mrs. Mayne's manner.

'Won't, you turn with us and have a bit of lunch at
Meadowflats % ' said Mrs. Mayne.

Then Doctor Dunsyre looked stra^'gut down into Caroline's
eyes before ho made answer, but they were following the
soaring of a bird upon the wing. But there was a cliange
upon her face, a wondrous softening, a grave, unspeakable
tenderness, which added uncommonly to its beauty.

' Thanks. "We would have been pleased, but we are on our
way to lunch at Redlands,' responded Doctor Dunsyre. ' You
would not see Sir William at the Castle. We met him riding
through Rumford as wo came up. The county ball was a
great success, wasn't it ? I hope j\Iiss Gertrude is none the
worse for it. I need not exj)ress any anxieties about you.
You do not even look fatigued.'

* Not in the least. I feed it hard to realize that I am grow-
ing old, I feel so young physically and mentally,' said Mrs.

K'9

ii!

M0k\\7NG CALLS.

[iko,' said

i-licstmits

Cantliuo
miltod by

said Mrs.
iMit of us
at CuBtle

one (lay,
vritli tlush-

ia cheery,

)een Uieir

rs. Mayno
s Luiidie ;
kv are you 1

•et a little
)atrouizing

lunch at

Caroline's
owing the

a chiiuf^'o
uspeakuble

are on our

. 'You
lim ridiiig
)all was ii
none the
bout you.

am grow-
suid Mrs.

Miiyne coquettishly. * Well, good morning. Como soon to
Mcjiiiowllats, and bring your sister, (ioud iiKtriiiiig.'

' Wliiit a still, uiii>l«'asiint-looking creature M.ngaret l)iinsyro
ia ! ' she .said to Caroline the moment they jmrted. 'Tliat
peiilskin coat she wears would mtt be got under a hundred
guineas. Where these people get it ia a mystery.'

Caroline made no reply. lier e'yes were f.till following the
bird's uj)wanl flight, but where were her thoughts?

Sir William Lundio returned home from Kumford in time
for luneluMm at two. His sister joined him in the dining-
room, and there was an amused smile playing about her lips
as sli(! took li-T seat at the table. When the servant left the
room she looked at her brother, the smile deej)ening.

' I have had some visitors this morning, Willi, im.*

' Not Lady Devanha, so early after an evening out ? ' he
eaid, without much interest.

' No ; make another guess.'

' Mrs. Moredun, the Grahams, Lady Hamilton — any or all
of these ? '

'None. Our nearest neighbours did me the honour this
morning,' said Miss Lundie, with curling lij).

' Not the ladies from Meadowllats?' said Sir William, with
sudilen interest.

'Viu'ily; she is a frightful old woman that. I have often
hoard about her, but the reality surpassed my most vivid
iniMgi nation.'

'Who was with her?'

*IIer eldest daughter, a handsome young woman, apparently
possessed of more sense than her foolish mother.'

' 1 hope you were civil to them, Elizabeth,' said Sir William
a tiilie sternly.

' I was not. I showed them as plainly as possible my
opinion of their presumption,' said IMiss Lundie serenely.

' I regjet that you so far forgot yourself. It is my desire
that you be kind and courteous in future to the ladies belong-
ing to the liousehold of my old friend Franklin-Mayuj.'

Miss Lunilie dropped her dessert-spoon, and looked at her
brother. Her face as she did so was indeed a study. But tlie
truth dawned upon her in a moment.

'In times gone there were not uumy comings and goings

ur —

ii'

•1

iljjfl

H I'll

■(jMb^

^^^i Hiilli'

^K^B\^,-

i-i

i ■

SUNDERFD HEARTS.

bfitwcen Castle Lundie and Meadowflats,' she said slowly.
*Tliore is a meaning for it now. I must know it before I
obey you.*

* You are absurd, Elizabeth,' said the Baronet sharply.
'Tliere is no reason, except tliat, wliatever his means or family
history, Franklin-Mayne is a scliolar and a gentleman. I am
sorry for him, and I intend to cultivate his friend.shi]) here.'

* And is it necessary that I should cultivate the friendship
of his wife and daughters because you arc sorry for hiruV
asked Miss Lundie.

Sir William rose. Of late years he had not been accustomed
to have his will thwarted, and it annoyed hi in now.

' Look here, Elizabeth ; if there is to be peace between us, —
if, in short, you are to remain at Castle Lundie, — it nmst be
understood between us that my friends, whoever they may be,
are to be made welcome to my house. And if I say there are
to be comings and goings now between Castle Lundie and
Meadowflats, I expect to be o'neyed.'

Elizabeth Lundie's face flushed darkly red. She bit her
lip to keep back the storm of angry words burning for
utterance.

' In the exercise of your despotic power, I would only ask
you to remember that something is due to me and to the
honour of Casile Lundie,' she said, rising from her chair. 'I
foresee that I shall not be required here very long.'

So saying, Miss Lundie swept from the room.

She fanc'ed she knew the truth, and it was her settled con-
viction that she had seen that day the woman who was to
8U])plant her, — that Caroline Mayne was the future lady of
Castle Lundie.

■'

CHAPTER V.

THE STRATnEARNS — FATHER ANT) SON.

'^? AM glad you arc not going clown to tlio mill this
"^ morning, Jolin. It is always a treat to mo when
you are at home of a morning.'

'Is it, father? In these busy times it is not
easy to spare a day ; but the Xew Year will be U})on us before
we know where we are, and then I'll be days with you,'
replied John cheerily. 'Sui)pose we go down the avenue a
bit and see if Dunsyre is coming. He promised to be punctual,
and it is ten minutes to one now.'

'Very well, my lad, anywhere with you.'

They left the dining-room together, and John helped his
f ither on with his greatcoat, and took care to wrap his mulfler
close about his throat. The old man was all of his own upon
•■arth, and it behoved him to love and cherish him, for ho
rould n(^ hope to ^nive him very long. Then they emerged
together into the clear, bracing coolness of the bright Novemb(;r
• lay, making unconsciously tiiat most beautiful jjicture, tlie
"li'piJndence of age upon the strong and willing irm of youth.
Tliey were very like each otlier, only the ^:\11 figure of J(jhn
Strathcarn the elder was bent now from its manly height, and
lie walked feebly as if his limbs had hjst their old-time vigour.
Little wonder if they had, for the old man was in his eighty-
seventh year.

'Did you say Margaret was coming with David to-day,

SUNDERED HEARTS.

! *ii;

Jolm ? ' he asked, as John gently guided his steps round the
sweeping curve of the avenue.

' Yes ; she has been talking for a long time of coming to see
your fern-house,' answered John a little absently, for another
face tiian that of Margaret Dunsyre was at that moment
before his mental vision.

' I am glad she is coming. She is a good girl, and V(;ry
kintl to the old man,' said his father, with that simplicity to
wiiich we sometimes return in our age. Sometimes, 1 say, for
there is a grasping and unlovely age as well, which has none of
Uie winning attributes of childhood.

' Are you glad she is coming, John ? '

' Glad ? Of course I am. Haven't I loved Margaret
X>unsyre since we played togeiner in pinafores 1' said John,
with a Inngh.

' That is good. John, I want to say something to you, my
Vioy. 1 have wanted to say it for a long time,' said the old
man then, with a kind of trembling eagerness.

' Say away, then, father ; I am listening,' said John cheeiily.

* It is this. You say you have loved Margaret since you
•nere children. If — if you want to marry her, and I am sure
you must, since you have loved her so long,' said the old man
wistfully, ' don't let me stand in the way. I — I want to see
you happy, my lad. Bring your wife home to Redlaiids, and,
*f you or she thought I wcjuld be in the way, I could go d(jvvn
^o Wells Green to live, and Marjorie would go with me ; or I
would stay, if you and she wished. Anything to see you
happy, my dear, dear lad. You have loved and served me
faithfully so long, and you are old enough now. Don't let
me stand in your way.'

John did not speak. His eyes were full of tears, and his
firm under-lip quivered; for the moment emotion had the
mastery.

'What has put such a thing into your head, dad?' he said
*t length, using the old childish name not yet wholly laid
aside or forgotten.

' It was (piite natural that I should think of it, John, since
you have arrived at the age when most men begin to think of
building up a home for tluMnselvcs,' said the old man a little
deprecatingly, for he fancied his son spoke very gravely.

THE STRATHEAKNS— FATHER AND SON.

round the

ing to see

r another

moment

and v(;ry
plicity to
I say, for
IS none of

Margaret
iid Jolin,

you, my
I'the old

cheeiily.

since you
am sure
old man

lit to see

lids, and,
go d(jvvn

ne ; or I
see you
rved mo
3on't let

find his
had the

he said
oily laid

III), smco

tliink of

a lilth)

gravely.

' Don't he vexed with me, lad, and think it over ; and Margaret
would make a good mistress of Redlands.'

'She would,' said John. 'But I have never thought of
her in any light other than as a sister. I have known her too
long and intimately to feel tliai kind of love for her. Poor
old dad ! and you have been worrying yourself over my wife-
lt!ss state, and never said a word about it ? ' he added teasingly.
' When did I begin to show signs of being in love, eh ? '

' Never ; only I thought you might be wishing to marry,
and keeping back because of me. But I am very glad
that'—

' Glad what % * asked John, with a slight smile,

' Glad that it is not Margaret Dunsyre.'

'You are the most contrary of mortals, dad. Didn't you
eay a minute ago that she would make a good mistress of
Kedlandsr

' So I did, and so she would, but I didn't say she would
make the best of wives to you, John,' said the old man
Blirewdly. ' She is a trifle too proud and independent, too
pclf-assertive and strong-minded for you, Joan. I don't think
you would agree.'

John laughed outright.

' You are taking to character-study in your old age, father/
he said, in i.n amused voice. 'There, 1 hear the rattle of
David's wheels, and, upon my word, I feel quite guilty.'

He did not look at all guilty, however, when presently the
dogcart swept round the bend, and Doctor Dunsyre drew up
his horse to walking pace.

' Good morning ; late as usual,' said the Doctor gaily.
' Mr. Stratheam, I am glad to see you able to be out of dours
in November. Isn't this a fine bracing morning for youl
John, you have the easiest of lives. I have been on the move
since half-past four this morning.'

'You have the satisfaction of knowing yourself a benefactor
of your kind,' said John. ' Shall I help you to alight,
j\liirgar('t ? You look as if you were tired of your seat.'

' So 1 am. AVe loft shortly after ten, and David .solemnly
assured me he had only two houses to visit, but the morning
air seemed to refresh his memory, for I counted seven calls.
Tliauk you.'

4»

SUNDERED HEARTS,

:l: I

ill

She laid her hand in his and lightly sprang to the ground.
81ui looked fair indeed with the roseleaf bloom on her cheek,
and the blight light of youth and health in her eyes. Her
attire became her rarely w(;ll ; it was exjicnsivc, and in the
best of taste, for Margaret Uunsyre was a connoisseur in drtiss.

She turned at once to Mr. Strathearn the eider, slipped her
linnd within his arm, and led him a little in advance of the
others.

'And how are you, my dear? You look very well — (piito
like a rose in June,' said the old man, smiling and patting her
hand.

' (Jh, I am well ; I am always well,' she answered gaily.
' How pleiisant it is to come to Kedlamls again ! 1 havealv\ays
loved it, 1 think, since the old childish days.'

'Ay, ay, we cling to the past,' said the old man musingly.
* So you have come to see my fernery, John tells me. It is the
old man's latest whim. When we grow old, my dear, we are
made up of whims and fancies and memories. The actual
{)resent has very little part in our lives then.'

' 1 suj)pose so,' sai<l Margaret a little abstractedly, for her
fiyes were wandering round the picturcsipie and well-k(.'|)t
policy surrounding the fine old house. Ay, she loved Redlands,
indeed, and there stretched before her a fair vision of the time
when it would be her home. She had accustomed herself of
late to picture her future life, and it had its centre here.

' Well, ray dear, I will leave you to go in. I should like to
go round to the stables with the lads,' said Mr. Strathearn
when they reached the house. 'Marjorie knows you are
coming. She will take you upstairs, or you should know tlio
way alone now.'

' Oh y(;s, nicely, thanks,' answered Margaret brightly, and
ran up the steps ai»ii entered the open door. The housekeeper,
however, hael heard the voices, and now came forward to greet
her.

]\Iarjovie Fleming had served at Redlands since her girlhood,
and she had all the freedom of speech and of action so
characteristic of long and faithful service. She was a middle-
aged woman now, of plain yet pleasant appearance, neatly
dressed in a good black merino gown and a black silk apron.
Love of Kedlands and of the Strathearns — father and son —

THE STRATIIEARNS— FATHER AND SON.

was the passion of her life ; and, if the truth must be told, she
was jealously suspicious of ^largariit Dunsyre. Therefore her
manner, though perfectly respectful, was rather distant Jind
stitf, and sho had only tiie briefest monosyllables in reply to
^largaret's pleasant remarks.

' Will you please come this way, ma'am ; no, please, I have
altered the spare bedroom ; it is on this flat now,' she said.

' You do just as you please still, I see, Marjorie,' said Misa
Dunsyre, with a smile.

' And what for no'?* inquired Marjorie rather snappishly.
' If I thocht the best bed was bein' spoiled wi' the dampness
comin' off that muckle tree at the sooth side o' the house, was'd
no' my duty to change'd % '

' Quite right ; you are a careful housekeepsr,' said Margaret.

'"When ye are ready, ma'am, will ye come doon to the
parlour] Maister John was for me lichtin' a fire in tlie
drawin'-room, but as yo wasna to bide for tea I thocht it a
needless dirtyin',' said Marjorie, and withdrew.

Margaret smiled as she smoothed her hair at the mirror.
She was always amused at John's housekeeper, but sometimes
the thought flashed across her mind that she would be rather
unpleasant to deal with when she came to Redlands, and made
the changes she often pictured would be such an improvement
in the house. Instead of going to the parlour, as Marjorie had
desired, she found her way to the dining-room, where tiie
table was laid for lunch. It was a wide and couifortable room,
with a large oriel window facing the avenue. The furnishings,
if rather old-fashioned, were handsome and substantial, and
there were many valuable and anti([ue articles, telling of a
rctined and culturcid taste. Also the pictures on the walls
were gems of art, which would bring their money's worth any
day. The majority of them had been bought since John
attained his manhood, for his tastes were essentially those of a
^.tiuunsseur and a gentleman as well. Margaret threw herself
into the spacious, morocco-covered easy-chair, placed her dainty
feet on the fender, and dreamed her golden dreams.

Ah me ! as they lightly come, so they lightly go, till the
reality stares us in the face, hard, bare, and unlovely, shorn of
romance and poetry ; the matter-of-fact prose of everyday life.
Well for us who have love to make it sweet.

SUNDERED HEARTS.

!|'l

iliiv

When the gentlemen entered, luncheon was served at once.
It was a pleasant meal, as every meal must be when those who
partake of it are old and tried friends, betwixt whom there is
neither barrier nor restraint. Talk Howed easily, the ball waa
discussed, and otlicr items of town gossip were freely spoken
of, yet in a kindly spirit, without venom or spleen.

* Talking of the bull and those who were at it,' said Margaret,
*we met Mrs. Franklin-Mayne and Caroline returning from a
call at Castle Lundie. I said to David I wondered how Misa
Lundie could receive it. She is very proud.'

' Mrs. Mayne seems ambitious,' said John quietly. ' I like
her husband. There is no affectation about him.'

' Nor about the second daughter,' said the Doctor coolly.
*She is very like her father.'

* I am very fond of Gertrude,' said Margaret, with a tinge of
patronage in her voice which John Strathearn resented in his
inmost soul. He kept his eyes steadily bent upon his plate,
and made no further remark upon the Franklin-Maynes.
While the two younger men lingered a little at the table, Mr.
Strathearn took Margaret out to see his fernery. And he kept
her so long there with his garrulous talk that it was three
o'clock before they returned to the house, to find that the
Doctor had gone for the dogcart. Margaret was disappointed.
She had hoped for a talk or a stroll with John. It was only
of late she had begun to admit that she did hope and desire
for such opportunities. Poor Margaret ! this love to which slie
had but newly awakened was bringing in its train much unrest,
and vague, uncertain longings, only a foretaste of the deeper
pain to come.

John was to drive into town with them, to look through the
mill and see what letters were brought by the afternoon mail.
AVlicn he alighted at the by-path which struck off the high
road and led straight to the Earn Mills, he promised to come
up for a few minutes at Margaret's tea-hour, in the hope the
Doctor might be at liberty to walk part of the way home with
him. He went straight to the mill, read his letters, and, after
putting off a little time with his manager, proceeded leisurely
up the High Street towards the Doctor's house.

Just when he was within a hundred yards of it he saw the
door open and the slight figure of Gertrude Mayne emerge

THE STRATHEARNS— FATHER AND SON.

from it. His heart leaped within him, anrl he qiiickenod his
pace, for at that very moment he was thinUini,' of her, wonder-

infj when they shoidd meet

agani.

She came towards him

somewhat shyly, and would have passed by, hut lie stood still
and stretched out his hand. She laid her own in it, and
uplifted her eyes to his face, wondering a little why her heart
should beat quicker at sight of this man.

' I am glad that you are not too much fatigued to come out
to-day,' he said earnestly. ' But surely you have not walked
from Meadowflats ? '

' Why not ? ' she asked, with a smile. ' I called for Miss
Dunsyre, but she was so late in coming home that I had only
time to shake hands and run away. It gets so quickly dark
now.'

* Are you not afraid to be out alone in these quiet by-paths
after dusk ? '

* Oh no ; nobody would harm me ; only papa gets anxious
sometimes, and comes to seek me, and then he scolds me,' she
said, smiling still.

* If you will allow me, I shall walk with you until we meet
Mr. Mayne,' said John eagerly, forgetting that tea was waiting
for him, and Margaret, too, not a hundred yards away. ' I am
walking home myself to- night, and our ways, as you know, lie
together.'

* Thanks ; you are very good,' said Gertrude simply ; so they
turned and went down the street together.

There was very little said, and yet each felt at home with
the other. When crossing the bridge over the Running Bum
John drew her hand within his arm. She accepted it at once,
for it brought to her an unspeakable sense of safety and
strength. And John ? H«^ knew very well it wasmadness —
that, even if he should ever win her loVe, there was not one,
but a thousand obstacles in the way. He would not look into
the future ; he would be content with the present moment,
which was to him one of intense happiness.

^\^len they reached the gate which gave entrance to the
park at Meadowflats she stood still.

* I think you need not come ar.y farther,' she said gently.
* How can I thauk you ? You have made the walk so pleasant
for me.'

SUKDRRED HEARTS.

'And what has it hcon ff)r mo?' said John ; and, whon he
took hor olfi^rcd l»and, ho kept it longer in Lis own than lie
hcod have done.

She made no answer, hnt turned her head a little away, for
a stranj^'e burning' ;,dow ov(!rsi)read it.

'Ooo(l-ni;^dit ; I must <;o, papa will he so anxious. And
thank you again, Mr. Strathearn,' she said, and withdrew iu;r
hand.

' Good-night,' said John, and his manly voice took a note
of deeper earnestness. * Dare 1 express the hope that we may
meet again, and soon ? '

She did not at once reply. Then, with a sudden quick
gesture, she tuTned her head, and held out her hand again.
There was no mistaking the look and the gesture ; both were
full of perfect trust.

'May God bless and keep you, !Miss Gertrude,' he said
hoarsely, ' till we meet again.'

Then he raised the hand to his lips, lifted his hat, and
walked away. When he reached the bridge again he took otf
his hat, and let the cool winds play upon his brow.

'John Strathearn,' he said to himself a little scornfully,
* what is to be the end of this % You are an ass and a fool ! '

Ah, what was to be the end indeed 1

' John has never come, David,' said Margaret Dunsyre, when
her brother came in to tea at five.

' No, nor won't to night,' said the Doctor drily. 'As I came
down from Wildhaugh I saw him walking along the burn-side.
Guess with whom ? '

' How could 1 guess % ' asked Margaret sharply, and turned
her head away.

'Gertrude Mayne.'

-i':^

Jii

CHAPTER VL

FORTUNE SMILE3.

lOTHING hut bills this mnmincj; I nm worrJod to
death,' said Mrs. Franklin- Mayiio. 'Really I
wish tradespeople would not be so absurdly un-
reasonable. They take away any phsasure one
ini,L,'ht have in anticipating the festive season.'

8he swept the pile of letters and accounts aside yn\h. ira-
])atient hand, and proceeded to fill the cotfee-cui)S ; l)ut her
face wore an expression of annoyance and peevish discontent,
which made her look her age to the full

Her husband laid down his Scottrman and drew the
offending documents to the side of his plate. As he took
them up and looked at them one by one, Gertmde, watching
him, fancied the lines deepened on his troubled brow.

' Thirty-five pounds to Macmillan, Henrietta ! what on
earth is it for 1 ' he asked blankly.

*I suppose Caroline's dress and mine will be included,
and you remember the household stuff we got when we came
here was never paid for,' replied his wife.

^Why, I gave you the money for that — fourteen pounds
odds — I remember quite well ! ' he said irritably.

' My love, you are thinking of something else ; your
memory was always treacherous,' said Mrs. ivfayne sweetly,
though she knew very well the money had been received
and frittered away in trifles. 'Caroline, who are your
correspondents to-day 1 '

SUNDERED HEARTS.

* 1 have only a note from lUancho Treniaine, asking if we
cnn receive her for Christmas, as lier brother and liis wife
are going out of town,' rei)lied Caroline.

'Henrietta, I had no idea wc owed so much in Rumford,*
interrupted Mr. Mayne, in the same vexed tones. ' Really
this is alarming. Where am I to get the wherewithal to
settle these accounts ? '

* Don't worry yourself, Gilbert.
Rumford tradespeople. I have
clamorous kind before,' said his

Leave me to manage the
had to deal with their
wife serenely. 'Gertrude,

child, you eat nothing. Pass in your cup.'

'No, thank you, mamma. I am not hungry,' answered
GertiTide, and there was an unmistakeable tremor in her
voice.

Mr. Mayne rose from the table with a heavy sigh and left
the room. His wife breathed a sigh of relief.

'It is most annoying when the post-bag comes into tli<;
breakfast-room,' she said. 'If it had not been late I couM
have had all these disagreeable missives removed, and theio
would have been none of this unpleasantness. Your father
will worry the life out of me now for a few days over these
wretched accounts.'

'Will there be any prospect of us going to London in
spring, mamma % ' asked Caroline, who was not specially
inteiested in the matter of accounts.

' My dear, how can I tell 1 It will depend on how things
are here. Really I am disappointed in our success ^lere. I
am sure no woman could work more energetically, nor plan
more cleverly, than I do, and yet we are not a step nearer
entering county society. I hate the Scotch ! '

' 1 hate this place, mamma ! It is a dreary, wretched
existence,' said Caroline, with some passion in her voice.
* London was better than this. We v/ere not so oftcD
humiliated and insulted there.'

'I don't know. I have borne a good deal of that in
London. I am sure, if there is such a thing as justice or
equity in the world, some good fortune will befall us soon,'
said Mrs. Mayne. 'Well, I must go down to Rumford, I
suppose, and see what can be done to pacify these exacting
tradespeople. I'll give Macmillan a ten-pound note, and

t;ik(» I
C,iJ( »li

plirug.

SlIKiotI

Jilancli

' Y.>

(jii;irr«ij

c^juites

Urea

of (|c)0
S(>lli(!Wji

t^'Xjiressi
to liis SI
uitii an
•l)..ai
^■\Ai 1 c
'1 Wif
liis iiaiid
my dear,
('ortru
tluj.se str
til cut.

'Life
silence,
^lot to sti
^I()r(5

tender ho
* I sup
not sufficj
1 have m
Ji'liculfcy,!
Words ini)

tJioiifrJiL

^ur Mi a 6 J

I'^UfjH'n.

luiicli sin
' J^ear .

Gertrude,

FORTUNE SAf/l.ES.

if we

s wife

iiford,'
Really
Ami to

tge the

their

jrtrude,

iswercd
in hei

and left

into the
I couM
nd theio
ir father
ver thesjo

jndon in
specially

3W things
)ierc. I
nor plan

ep nearer

wretched

ler voice.

so often

^f that in
justice or
us soon,'
[umford, 1
(o exacting
Inote, and

t;i1<t» on something els((, to pacify him. Will yoii come,
Caroline V

*No, thank you, manuna/ said Caroline, with a slight
phrug. ' 1 am afraid 1 should not greatly enjoy hearing you
giiKKttiiing down Kumfor<l shopkeepers. May I write to
I'.laiuhe and say we will be glad to se(} her'? '

' Vou can, thougli it is a bore, but it is not wise to
(jtiarrtil with an earl's sister. It is to ])e hoped she will have the
c<nntesy to ask you to pay a return visit to Trcntham I'ark.'

iirt'ukfast being quite finished, Gertrude rose and stole out
of doors to look for her father. She found him pacing
sonicAvhat restlessly to and fro the shrubbery, with an
exjiressioii of deep anxiety o.i his careworn face. She stole
tu liis si<le, clasped her two hands on his arm, and looked up
willi anxious, loving eyes into his.

'Dear da<ldy,' she said tenderly, *I am very sorry. I
wish 1 could chase all your cares away.'

'I wish you could, puss},' he said, with a faint smile, and
his liaud cio^sed over hers. ' Your old father is in great straits,
my dear.'

Gertrude did not speak. She knew too well the nature of
these straits, and how powerless she was to help or lighten
them.

'Life is very hard, Gertrude,' he said, after a monnnt's
silence. 'Looking back 1 cannot recall the time when 1 had
nut to struggle with monetiiry cares.'

\h)i\\ closely still tite loving hands pressed his arm, but the
sweet lips did not utter all the sympathy prompted by the
tender heart.

' I supfjose there was a mistake at the beginning. I was
not su(ticie£itly firm at the outset of my married life, and so
1 have never been able to extricate mys If from the sea of
dillieulty,' continued Gilbert ^layne, unconscious that his
W(jrds implied censure of his wife. * When we came hero I
thought it would be dill'erent, but it isn't. It is even worse,
fur in a small place like Kumford our ailairs are only too well
known. That was the advantage of London ; it could hide
much sin and shame.'

' Dear father, I wish I could do a little to hcli) you,' said
Gertrude, through falling tears.

SUNDERED HEARTS,

I Jill

* I\f y (Infir, porTinps sdhio day V^m niay,' said GilltiTt Mayno
ahsontly, not tliiiikiii;^ vny rinif)) of what lie was sayiii},'.

'Papa, Wduld it not In; licllcr to tlisniiss soiikj of tho
servants, and live more (jnictlyl' slu; said a little timidly.
*I am suHi 1 could In^lp a gn-at deal in the house. 1 would
be so willing' and ^'lad.'

A sniilt; toiKihcd for a njouM'ut the anxious face of tlie
mast(!r of Mcadowtlats.

* My dear, it is always easier to iruTeaso expenditure than
to reduce it, as you may lind out some day,' he said. 'The
j)Ian y "U 8Uj,'gest would he the ofdy HMnetly, hut I fear it would
require more courage than eilhur your mother or I possess.
We are not so young as we were, and I daresay could not
do witlnmt tlie comforts to wliich we have been a(,customed.'

Although iMr. Mayno included himscdf in his remarks,
Gertrude knew very well that he woidd gladly deprive
himself of luxuries — even of comforts — if by these means he
could give to every man his due.

Looking at him with keen and loving eyes, she noted that
his face was pale and haggard, and that his eyes were encircled by
deep shadows, lie secunedto have aged of late, and little wonder.
Care did not sit fightly on the heart of Franklin- Mayne.

' A truce to such dismal talk, [)uss. Suj)pose you and I go
for a canter this morning?' he said, with an attempt atgaiet}
* You are losing your roses too. My darling, do not worry
yourself over your father's troubles. You will have your
own to tear by and by. Reserve your strength for them. I
am often anxious about my girls, Gertie, and what is to
become of them when 1 am gone.'

'Dear papa, don't speak in that way ; you will be spared
for many years yet, please God,' said Gertrude tremulously.
' Oh, papa, I wish there could be some way opened up for me
to help you 1 '

' I take the will for the deed, my pet,' said her father
fondly. 'I hear the sound of wheels. 1 wonder if maniiiiii
is ex])ecting any visitors to-day, or if it will be Grahame. Ali,
there they are. Sir William Lundie and a lady ; ujjon my
honour it is 1 Run in and tell your mother, while I go to
meet them.*

Gertrude, after one glance of unutterable surprise at the

FORTUNE SM/IES,

Tiiyno

.f Uio
iiiitlly.

wouUl
of tho
[•li thiiii
fc would

J)OSSl'SH.

\ilil not
oiikmI.'
■einailvs,
de}>rivo

eaiis li«

>ted that
iicled by

woiulor.
rve.
mil I g'>

t gai«'t>

)t worry
live your

hem. I
liat is to

[e sparcil
ivilouf^ly.
ip for me

icr father

f iiKiuini;\

line. All,

lupon my

I go

Ise

at the

ntmlly approfirhiiif,' ridors, flod iiitoth'" hnnsn. Tlu' annnmiro-
111. 'lit of such distiri,L,Miish('d visitors lillcd th<' vain hciirt of
Mrs. Mayiui witli a Ihittcr of cxcilrmcut.

' Kortunn is <,'oiji^' to favour us, my licar; it is always the
darkest liour Ixd'oro tho dawn, us 8om(!hody says,* sho said to
CaroliiiQ us tli(!y nipairinl to tho drawin^'-rooiii to h(j in
rt'ailiix'HS to wiilitotiKi tlio guests. * Yt!s, (JertriKh', love, yoii
call stay out of tho room if you liko. I can 8a3' you aro
(•ii-a;^'e(I. ]5ut prohahly Sir William and Miss Lundi(5 will
iiuL reiiieinhor to ask f(jr you,' sho added sorcnoly, in rojily to
(lertrud(;'8 re([Uost to bo allowed to ahsiMit h(!rsolf.

Mueli rolioved, Gortrudi; ran lightly .p-stairs to hor own
room. Sho was shy hy naturo, and sho nover recalled Sir
William Lundic's manner towards hor on the night of tho
hail without uorvimsness.

Ai.parenlly Mrs. Mayne hral forgotten or forgiven the
insult sho and Caroline had roreived at Castle Lundio, for
when tho drawing-room door opened she came forward all
Eiiiiles and hows to groot Sir William and his sister. l»ut
Caroline neither forgot nor forgave so readily. She stood in
the window, a fair and beauiiful jiicturo in her neat and
becoming morning gown, and only haughtily inclined her
head towards Miss Lundio.

* So goo<l of you to reinombor ua, dear Sir William,' said
Mrs. Mayne ofticiously. ' We are veritably strangers in a
strange land still, and we hoped, and not vvithout cause, thanks
to you, that your return to Castle Lundio would make a little
dili'erence to us.*

Miss Lundio smiled slightly, took the scat Mr. INIayne
jtlaced for her, and hold her peace. It was evident to Caroline
at least that it was not of her own free will that Elizabeth
Liiiidie had come to Meadowflats.

'My sister and I owe you an apology for being so long in
returning your call,* said Sir William, glancing point^nlly at
his sister. ' But you can readily imagine that our time has
been fully occupied.'

' Xo apology is necessary,! assure you. Sir William,' said Mrs.
Mayne, glorying in her triumph over Miss Lundio. *I hope you
find life in your own home [)leasant after all your wanderings.'

'Thanks, very. You Lave a pretty spot here,' he said,

SUNDERED HEARTS.

,l!

til ■

. n

^iM

and walked over to the window, where Caroh'ne sat, erect,
beautiful, and calm, in striking contrast to her mother's eager,
flurried deliglit. ' I trust you find life in Scotland pleasant,
Miss Mayno,' he added, and looked with admiration at her
lovely face. It was impossible not to admire Caroline ^Mayne,
and William Lundie was not the man to pass by unheeded
anything of beauty, especially if it was to be found in a
woman's face. Nevertheless his eyes wandered restlessly
round the room, and often turned expectantly to the door, as
if they could not find the thing they sought.

' I do not like Scotlmd, and never shall,' Caroline answered
briefly. ' I am an Er.glishwoman in everything but birth.'

' I hope some day you may cliange these strongly-expressed
opinions, Miss Mayne,' said Sir William gallantly, whereat
tlie smile died from the face of Elizabeth Lundie, and an
expression of displeasure took its place. Her presence was
sufficient to chill even Mrs. Mayne's gaiety, but with Sir
William on her side that lady could aflbrd to dispense with
his sister's courtesy. The Baronet's brow grew black when
she answered Mrs. Mayne's remarks in the briefest mono-
syllables, and that look boded ill for the peace of Castle Luiidie.

* Js your other daughter absent from you, Mrs. Mayne ?' queried
Sir William, when his sister at length made a motion to rise.

'Gertrude? Oh no, but fuhe is so shy, dear child; so
shortly out of the schoolroom, you know, she runs off at the
very hint of visitors,' Mrs. Mayne explained, and in a
moment her hand was on the bell-rope. Anything to prolong
the call. 'Tell Miss Gertrude I desire her presence here,
Barrett,' she said to the maid who answered her peremptory
summons. ' Say she is to come down at once.*

Mrs. Mayne was considerably surprised that Sir William
should even remember to speak of Gertrude, whom she still
regarded as a child, not interesting in any way. Caroline was
also surprised, and, turning her fathomless eyes to the window
again, she recalled the night of the county ball and the many
admiring remarks and glances which had fallen to Gertrude's
share.

* When may I look for you to shoot over my covers with
toe, Mr. Mayne ? ' said Sir William affably. * They have been
well jireserved in my absence, and afford splendid sport now.'

lib

FORTUNE SMILES,

* I am no great shot, Sir William,* replied Franklin-AfaynOjliis
quiet manner contrasting strongly Avitli his wife's eii'usivcness.

'You used to be, Gilhcrt,' she said reprovingly. '1 have
no doubt a little practice Avould improve you again. It is
truly kind of Sir William to ask you.'

' Sir William knows I think so, I daresay, Henrietta,' said
Mr. Mayne, with a slight smile, and then Gertrude entcn-d
the room. She came forward with a quick, nervous step, and
a slightly heightened colour in her cheek. Had she dared she
would have disobeyed tiie peremptory summons delivered to
lier by Barrett. Sir William advanced to meet her with a
low bow, and a look of deep admiration in his eyes. ^liss
Lundie curiously turned her head, and saw a slim, girlish
ligure, not yet fully matured, a sweet, open face, lit by
earnest eyes and crowned by sunny hair, an insignificant-looking
school-girl, she thought, but preferable to her handsome sister.
Therefore she thawed slightly, and even extended the tips of
her haughty fingers to Gertrude Mayne.

* Come and sit down by me, Gertrude,' said Mrs. !^^ayne.
'You must excuse my dear child's shyness. She has not yet
come out, and has not acquired that case of manner which
only society can give.'

' Miss Gertrude is unspeakably charming as she is,' said Sir
William, and his eyes never for a moment left Gertrude's
face. ' You are wise, Mrs. Mayne, in keej)ing your young
daughter by your side as long as possible. Pardon me, if I
express my conviction that too many of our young girls are
too early introduced into the world of society.'

* I quite agree with you. Sir William. When I was Gertrude's
age I was my mother's nightly companion at ball, and dinner,
and rout,' said Mrs. Mayne pensively. ' The c(msequence is
thai; one feels aged before one's time.'

' If you are quite ready, William, we will go,' said INIisa
Lundie, and her expression seemed to say she could bear no
more. *I hope you do not forget that Lord and Lady
Devanha lunch with us to-day.'

' In that case I will not urge you to prolong your call,' said
Mrs. Mayne. 'But I hope. Sir William, that we may have the
honour and pleasure of receiviiig you at lunch at Meadowilata
at no distant date.'

hi:

irnvn

SUNDERED HEARTS.

* Thanks, we will be delighted. But I hope before then that
we may have the pleasure of seeing you at Castle Lundie,
accom])anied by hoth your daughters,' said Sir William, with
unmistakcable emphasis on the latter part of his sentence.
'Elizabeth, what day could you be at home to receive the ladies?'

' I am always at home, and I shall be happy to receive Airs.
Mayne any day,' replied Aliss Lundie. ' Good morning. Miss
Gertrude. I ho])e ijou will come.'

She looked down into Gertrude's face with a more kindly
aspect than she had shown during that mockery of a
neighbourly call. Gertrude uplifted her eyes to the proud
face, but she did not speak. She did not know what spell
bound her, but her tongue seemed to refuse to perform its
work in the presence of the master of Castle Lundie. After
bidding Mrs. Mayne and Caroline good morning, he came to
her and fixed his dark eyes upon her face. That look acted
like a magnet, and she was obliged to meet it.

' I hope to have the unspeakable pleasure of seeing you at
Castle Lundie soon. Miss Gertrude,' he said impressively, and
he held her hand very closely in his. She withdrew it
hurriedly, and, rising, walked over to the window to hide her
trembling.

As soon as possible she escaped from the room, and stole
out of doors to see whether the fresh, free wind of heaven
would sweep away the strange dread which oppressed her.

Mrs. Mayne was in high spirits, and spoke to her husband
of the probability of Caroline one day becoming Lady Lundie.

He heard her with a smile, and watched the while
Gertrude's figure wending its way through the park towaiils
the Running Burn.

* I think your perceptions are at fault for once, Ilenrietta,*
he said at length.

' Oh, nonsense ! Wliat else could you suppose could bring
the man here but admiration for Caroline? We are not
particularly attractive, Gilbert.'

' No ; but you and I and Caroline are not the only inmates
of the house,' said Franklin-Mayne slowly. 'If either of the
girls attain to such a position as Sir William's wife, it will
not be Caroline. You will live to see Gertrude Lady Lundie.'

made a
g(»!^sips
hare,
of sucl
attracti(
by tJio
kind-lie
loved m
In al
aljle, W
It was
the hyp(
innocent
pride an
doiiicr

and gooc
i^'or

WVIV, 111;

reticent
Was surp

that
iidie,

with
,eiice.
iliesr
! Mrs.
, Miss

iindly

of a

proud

t spell

irm its

After
ame to
c acted

you at
3ly, and
Ircw it

ide licr

id stole
heaven

her.
lusband
Luudie.
while
towards

jiiriotta,'

Id bring
are not

inmates
i< of the
it will
I Lundie.'

CHATTER VII.

LOVE.

k£Tl

HAT was not the last visit Sir "William paid at
^I^JJt JNleadowflats. Before the year was very old, his
^^j^"^ visits beeame so frequent as to excite remark. It
~**"^' was at once reported that Caroline's beauty had
made a conquest of the master of Castle Lundie, and Kumlord
fjossips were not slow to catch the rumour and talk it thread-
bare, even before those interested had awakened to the truth
of such a rumour. That Gertrude could possibly be any
attraction was never for a moment taken into consideration
by the gossips. To them she was simply a very sweet and
kiud-hearted girl, void of pride or afl'ectation, one to be
loved much, but not fitted to shine in society.

In all his experience of womankind, and that was consider-
able, Wilham Lundie had met none like Gertrude Mayne.
It was not simply that she was unsophisticated, untainted by
tlie hypocrisy and hollowness of the world, it was the halo of
innocence and purity which surrounded her, her maidenly
pride and fea 'Icssly expressed contempt and hatred for wrong-
doing, her wide and boundless sympathies for every noble
and good woi'k.

For one so young she had thought much, and her ideas
were matured in no ordinary degree. 8he was of a still,
reticent nature, and it was only by chance, at times, when she
was surprised out of her reservi*, that i-he spoke at all freely,

I i

:! i

SUNDERED HEARTS.

and tlien the man of the world was amaznd. His opinion of
■womanhood was not particularly hif,di. Perhaps it was not to
be wondered at, for, with the exception of his younger sister,
whom he had seen but seldom of late years, his acquaintance
hitherto had not been with the best of them. In India he
had known many who did not keep their marriage vow in the
spirit, though tjiey may have been outwardly careful of the
letter ; lie had Hirtetl Avith other men's wives, and thought
notliing of it; his usual tone towards women was, though
couit('<>us, mingled somewhat with good-natured scorn. He
had not been many times in the society of Gertrude Mayne
before he learned that she was a being of another order than
the giddy butterflies he had known. She appealed to the
bett(;r side of the man's nature, and made him review his past
life Avitb regret. It was not free from stain ; nay, there were
many sullied pages, many actions neither honourable nor
gentlemanly, which now he could wish undone. He began
to wish, for her sake, that he was a better man ; in the secret
recesses of his soul there sprang up strange, vague yearnings
for a nobler life, a higher aim than the mere enjoyment of the
present hour. These things could have but one meaning, one
result ; love, deep, passionate, all-absorbing, for the gentle girl
who had thus, as it were, brought him face to face with self.

This was no light thing for VVilliam Lundie. He was past
the giddy time of youth, when every new face can charm.
During the past twenty years he had had many such fancies,
had made many promises, only to break them ; but this was
the love of his life, all the stronger and deeper and more
absorbing, that it came to him so late. And so he came to
iMeadowflats day after day, never for a moment dreaming that
his presence was anything but acc«,ptable to the maiden of
his choice. Perhaps that was natural also, for in all the forty
years of his life he had never brooked the slightest contradic-
tion of his will. Nothing had ever been allowed to stand in
the way of his pleasure ; he had never experienced the bitter-
ness of having the desire of his heart nipped in the bud. So
he came day after day, as I said, and the gossips talked, and
]\rrs. Mayne rejoiced, and Gertrude remained unconscious that
she was the object for which he came. She had been so Ioul,'
accustomed to regard Caroline as far above her, that the idea

LOVE.

of herself being preferred never occurred. She no lon^ror felt
the same uneasiness and dread ov(!rwhelm her in the presence
oi the master of Castle Lundie. His attentions were delicate,
and not too pointed to alarm. Indeed, so little distinction
did he make between the sisters, that it would have needed
a penetrating eye indeed to discern which he favoured most.
Mrs. ^layne was at a loss, and if Caroline knew the truth she
kept her secret.

During the early weeks of the new year Gertrude saw much
of David and Margaret Dunsyre, and often she would meet
John Strathearn in Margaret's drawing-room, for of late he
seemed to have imbibed a deeper love for Margaret's di'liciously
flavoured Indian tea. Sometimes Margaret f(!lt mi.seral)ly
jealous; at other times, reassured Vjy the careless indiflerenco
of John's manner, she blamed herself for being so foolish.
Of course he loved her, otherwise why was he so kind and
thoughtful always for her comfort, why did he urge luir to
come oftener to Retllands? The shrewd eyes of David
Dunsyre had read John's secret long ago, but he was too
loyal to say anything even to ^largaret. And Gertrude?
Ah, why did she find these quiet tea-drinkings so sweet ?
"Why did Margaret's drawing-room seem so empty on the tlays
when John did not come ? Ah, why indeed ? Very soon these
questions must be all faithfully asked and as faithfully answered.

In the first week of March the county people took flight to
London, and the great houses, Castle Lundie among the rest,
were shut up or left in the care of servants. Then it was
that ]\Irs. Mayne did her utmost to follow their example,
but for once in his life Fianklin-Mayne was firm as a rock
with his wife.

* It would simply ruin us, Henrietta,' he said decidedly,
'and Heaven knows we are near enough ruin already.'

* But think, Gilbert, what a chance we may be throwing
away. Just when Sir William was on the point of declaring
himself, that horrible sister of his had to hurry him away.
If we go to London now we may secure him, and Caroline's
engagement will be the event of the season,' said ]Mrs. ^layne
eagerly.

' I tell you, Henrietta, you are mistaken. If either of the
girls interested Sir William, it was Gertrude, but I fancy he

SUNDERED HEARTS.

li "'■■■I'lii;!

only oamc here to amuse himself,' said Franklin-Mayne. *lii
any case we are not [,'oiiig to London at pr(!s(;nt. 11' the man
is in love, he will l)u back ere long ; if not, we are better nd
of him.'

Mrs. Mayne was not only annoyed now, she was angry, and
the colour came and went uj)on her cheeks.

' R(;ally, Gill)ert Mayne, you are insufferable ! After all
my toiling and scheming, tliat I should be baulked just when
triumph is within my reach ! '

' Iluish, Henrietta ! ' said Gilbert Mayne a little sadl- .
* You force me to tell the truth. Haven't you seen for your-
self that I am failing in health ? Dunsyre told me not many
days ago my days were numbered. The excitement of such a
change would kill me.'

*0h, nonsense, Gilbert! you are fanciful, uhe result of this
tame existence. You have always been accustomed to excite-
ment, and I believe a change to London is the very thing for
you,' said Mrs. Mayne. 'And then you would see Dr.
Charteris. I believe Dunsyre doesn't understand your con-
stitution. It is not to be expected that he should.'

* I am quite satisfied with Dunsyre's skill, and with his
verdict,' said Franklin-Mayne quietly. ' Try and satisfy
yourself at home, Henrietta ; and, believe me, to go to London
just now would hinder the very thing you want to further.
It would look too much like following up the chase.'

* Very well, Gilbert ; I suppose you must have youi way,'
said Mrs. INlayne resignedly; 'only it will be insufferably
dull for us when everybody is away.'

The subject was dropped then, but ^Irs. Mayne had by no
means abandoned all hope of a two months' sojourn iii
London.

On the afternoon of that same day, Gertrude, with faithfiu
Lion as her guardian, walked across the fields to visit some of
her poor people in the ^Vatergate of Rumford. Except in
rare instances she took nothing in her hand, and it was
evidence of how true a hold she had upon their hearts, that
for her own sake she was as welcome in their homes as th''
beams of the summer sun. She walked slowly, for the air
was very pleasant that March afternoon. The day wu;
redolent with the breath of spring ; there were green buds on

hedge
green
iiptiir
be re!
gl;i(hi(
haj.py
rip])le
in its
f^pring
and j)i
enjoyn
glad V
doubly
a vast
standiii
• juic'kei
from tl]
within I
A na
directly
the tov
teneniei
nn'lls.
chieily
unstead
ways,
at the
town, u
a disgrac
air and
selves to
when th
for certa
''iithusii
fruit. ^
Waterga
number
upper en

' -Eh, a

in the \

111

LOVE,

'In

5 man
er nd

yr, and

ior all
I when

sadly,
r yovir-
b many
such a.

of this
excito-
dng for
5ee I>r.
lur cou-

^ith his

satisfy

London

further.

IT way,'
[itlcrably

id by no
lourn in

faithful
some of
Lcept in

it was
Irts, that
Js as thi!

the air

lay wu-

I buds ou

hodgc and tree, the grass in the lea fields was talcing on a
greener, fresher tinge, and the rich brown furrows, newly
upturned by the plough, smelt frtish and sweet, as if glad to
Iji' released from the ice-king's thrall. There were notes of
gla(hiess, too, in the soft, mild air ; the twittering of the
liappy, hopeful birds mingled harmoniously with the rush ami
rii>ple of the Running Burn, which leapt freely and joyously
in its pebbly bed, as if it, too, loved the gentle breatli of
sj)ring. All these things Gertrude Mayne loved with a keen
ami passionate love, and her walk was to her the purest
enjoyment. Perhaps her heart was beating in time with the
glad voice of Nature ; of late the world had seemed to her
doubly fair. Her way led her directly past the Earn Mills,
a vast pile of solid masonry, with four tall chimney-stalks
standing out against the calm, bright sky. Her heart beat
(piicker as she passed the offices, which stood a little apart
from the other buildings, for might not the master himself be
within 1

A narrow and somewhat dingy lane led up from the mills
directly into the Watergate, which was the oldest portion of
the town — a narrow, dirty, unwholesome street, with tall
tenements on either side, blackened by the smoke from the
mills. In the Watergate dwelt a thriftless, shiftless lot,
cliieily factory workers, male and female, who were either
unsteady in their habits, or extravagant and wasteful in their
ways. The more respectable class of mill hands now dwelt
at the Uppergate, a little township at the east end of the
town, upon the Redlamls road. The Watergate was indeed
a disgrace to a county town, where there was no lack of fresh
air and pure water, if the inhabitants would but bestir them-
selves to take advantage thereof. But the time was coming
when the Watergate of Rumford would be a thing of the j)ast,
for certain earnest words which had fallen in a moment of
enthusiasm from a girl's lips were about to bear their goodly
fruit. When Gertrude Mayne entered the lower end of the
Watergate that afternoon, she was greatly surprised to see a
number of men ])usily engaged demolishing a house at the
upper end.

' Ehj Miss Mayne, my woman, there's to be unco cheengcs
in the Watergate,' said a voice from the other side of the

SUNDERED HEARTS.

street, and a slatternly woman appeared at a low doorway, and
set her amis akimbo, prepared to impart all her news.

Gertrude had no liking for the individual who addressed
her, as she was a hopeless case of drunkenness and thriftless-
ness, but she was so anxious to hear particulars of the impend-
ing ' cheenges,' that she stepped across to the narrow, uneven
pavement and asked the woman to further enlighten her.

* Ay, mem, unco cheenges,* said Peggy Duncan, delighted
to find herself of some consequence. 'They say ^Maister John,
o' the Earn Mills, — young Mr. Strathearn, ye ken, — has boclit
up the hale Watergate, and a bonny penny it wad cost him,
cor man says, auld rickle o' stane an' lime though it be, the
way property's selling the noo ; an' he's gaun to pu'd a' doon,
an' build braw new hooses like the Uppergate, and the renta
is to be nae higher. That's what I ca' daein' the thing wise-
like.'

* And where are you all to live while these alterations are
going on, Mrs. Duncan \ ' inquired Gertrude, and her voice had
taken a softer, sweeter tone, only Peggy was not sufficiently
j)enetrating to discover it.

' That's the best o't a', Miss Mayne ; the young maister's
gotten the auld Earn Mills (ye ken them, farther up the burn)
made into hooses, an' it'll baud the folk on thon side till the
new anes be ready. Maister John for invention, as oor man
says. He'll no' tak' the better o' puir folk.'

'It will be an immense improvement in the town,' said
!R[iss Mayne quietly. 'Well, good afternoon, Mrs. Duncan;
I am going to see Katie Ruthven.'

'Ay, mem, 1 jaloused as niuckle. Katie sets a hantle by
ye comin' — sae kind, an' sae does her mither,' said Peggy.
* If there were mair o' your kind among the gentry, puir fulk
wad be better afF.'

Gertrude smiled, and passed on. The misfortunes and
grievances of ' puir folk ' was a pet subject with Peggy.

Miss Mayne walked a few yards farther, and then enterod
a low arched doorway, which gave admittance to all the
dwellers in a large tenement. It v.'as dark and gloomy
within, but Gertrude's feet, familiar with the curious turns
and bends of the staircase, found their way easily to the top.
There was some light there, admitted by a skylight in the

roof, j

to a ger

little n

with 01

Jilace wj

cr.ifklin

walls an

Tliere

round tn

wli(!reon

pal(!, anc

intelligei

A gi(nv

etoj)pc'd ]

'Oh, I

as she cLi

*I am

tln'rig an<

get this s]

* Ye wii

Katie, an

thoclit I

this.'

Gertruc
She did n
mojiicnt.

* Ve wa
^^fi.^s Gert
li'^ird wha
"Wjitcrgatc!
'Vcs, Js
down on ti

' My, M

saw ye Ls 1
A tremu
* A great

^^'Jiy I lool

Jiow you ar
'I nm „

^^ieii I get

and

isscd
lend-

leven

l^litcd
John,
boclit
, him,
»e, the
doou,
; renta
y wise-

)n3 are
ice had
iciently

laister's
e burn)
Itill the
or man

said
Juneau ;

Intle hy

Peg<:y.

iir

kes

folk
and

entorod

all the

I gloomy

Is turns

[he top.

in the

LOVE.

roof. She tappod H,£,'htly at one cf tlin doors, and, in an«w<'r
to a gf^ntly spoken 'Como in,' entered witli soft f()otst('[)s. A
little narrow lobby terminated in a -wide, low-ceiled room,
witii one tiny window looking,' down upon tlie street. TIk;
place was niea<^rely furni.slied, but it was clean, and tlu^ chetjry
cracklin;^' ot the fire gave au air of comfort even to the bare
walls and floor.

There was a bed in one corner, and in tne other, drawn
round towards the window, a comfortable chintz-covered couch,
whereon lay the figure of a young girl. Her face was deadly
pal(!, and thin and worn to a degree, but it was sweet and
intelligent, and wore an expression of contentment and peace.
A glow of [)leasure oversprwid it when Gertrude Mayne
Btejjped lightly across the floor to her side.

'Oh, INliss Gertrude, but I was wearying for ye,* she said
as she clasped the olFered hand in both her own.

'1 am sorry I have been so long this time, Katie, but one
thing and another has hindered me. Why, where did you
got this splendid sofa? '

'Ye wadna ask whaur I got a' the rest, Miss Gertrude/ said
Katie, and her eyes filled. ' Mr. John was hero ae «lay, an' ho
thocht 1 wad get tired lyiu' i' my bed, and so he sent up
this.'

Gertrude turned aside and laid her gloves on the table.
She did not care that even Katie should see her eyes at that
moment.

' Ye wad see them beginnin' to pu' doon the auld booses,
Miss Gertnnler said Katie eagerly. 'An' likely ye'll hae
heard wha's daein't, an' what great cheenges are to be in the
Watergate; % '

' Yes, Katie, I have heard,' said Gertrude, and, sitting
down on the couch, she looked with radiant eyes into Katie's.

' My, Miss Gertrude, how weel ye look the day ! I never
saw ye ls bonnie,' said Katie impulsively.

A tremulous smile touched for a moment Gertrude's lips.

'A great joy has come to me to-day, Katie ; that is perhaps
why I look 80 well,' she said simply. 'But come, tell me
how you are. I think you look better.'

' I am better, I think, an' I'll get a' better, I'm thinkin',
wlieu I get oot o' this waesome Watergate. Had I been able,

SUNDERED HEARTS,

'■'

i'i*

i r

■I 1 1;

^r.'iistor John wad hmj Imon us oot lonj^' fiffo, but it'll be maun
rise ^vhen tho Iiookc is to be jm'ed aboot oor cars.'

* I have always thou;,'ht you would <^v.t bottor if you were in
Bonic little cottage away from this murky, un[)k;asant air,' said
Gcrtiudo.

' That's what Maister John says. Eh, Miss Gertrude, he
has b(!(',n a guid frcM-n' to mother an' me, an' a' bocause faithcr
wrocht sax months in the Earn Mills afore he deu'd. It was
an unco handfu' motlu^r was left wi', mind, me no' able to dae
a haund's turn for mysel', an' aye need in'. I've whiles
•wondered what way God didna mak' me strong like ither folk.
]-5ut Maister John showed me the richt side o' that ae day
when I was grumblin' till him.'

* Ay, Katie, w<i cannot always see the good which lies
beliind our trials,' said Giutriide, and rose to go.

She wanted to be alone for a little with her own beautifid,
ha])py thoughts. Bidding the invalid girl a kind good-bye,
and promising to come again soon, she ran lightly down-stairs
and out into the street. It was deserted at that hour, for
none of the bairns were home from school, and the slatternly
gossips had retired in-doors for their afternoon cup of tea.
There was only one person visible in the Watergate — a gentle-
man wearing a grey tweeil suit and cap to match, coming up
with easy, swinging gait from the direction of the mills. It
need( (I no second glance to tell (ie^-trude who it was ; her face
Hushed deep crimson, and for the tirst time during their six
months' acquaintance she could have fled from the i)resence of
John Strathearn. But Lion, recognising a friend, bounded to
meet him, and John came forward with his hand laid caress-
ingly on the animal's noble head. There was no mistaking
the pleasure on his fine face, and ho made no effort to hide it.

' Lion evidently trusts me, Miss Gertrude,' he said pleasantly,
and he took the slim hand in his manly grip, wondering a
little why the sweet eyes were so persistently turned away.
* May I hope you are going to Miss Dunsyre's to-day ? '

' No, I must go home ; I only came down to see poor Katie
Ruthven, and the walk has done me good. It is such a lovely
day,' said Gertrude (juietly, .and with still averted eyes.

* Yes, it makes one dream of summer,' said John, and his
tone was rather disappointed.

love.

ami he

tliat swo

liajipinei

And C

the iDiisi

sky seem

love. «(

tlie shad

hearts an

aew, stra

« ii

\l-^:.-

LOVE.

'Tlioy have hoon tollini» nio to-day of thn rlinnc,'oa you
j)ro|i(tso to make in tho WattT^atc, Mr. Stratlicarn,' said
(icrtnule, fooling even a nionicnl'a silence eniharrassing.
SSurely Kiunfonl will owe you a debt of gratitude for this.'

*I care nothing for tho gratitude of Rum. ford,' said J(»)in
quickly. * 1 an» afraid my motive was more selfish even than
to gratify my townsfolk.'

For tho first time the great earnest eyes were uplifted
inquiringly to his face. They were down-dropped at once,
iuiil one slender hand was nervously hi id on Lion's stately
head. But that look scattered John's prudence to the winds.

*I have never forgotten what you said about this place the
first time I had tlio unspeakable happiness to meet you,' he
said ({uickly. 'The time has now come — whether fortuuiitely
or unfortunately for me I cannot toll — when the first word
you uttered has bijome law to me.'

Every vestige of colour died from the face of Gertrutle
^liivne, and he saw her tremble.

' 1 — I must go, Mr. Strathearn,' she said hurriedly. * Good
afternoon. Come, Lion.'

iJcfore John was aware she had j^assed him, and was making
her way down the street as if purs\ied by some evil thing.
He smiled slightly, she was so shy, his pure, sweet, girlisli
love. Ke thought his rough-and-ready way had startled her,
and he went on his way full of hope, picturing the day when
tliat sweet, gentle presence should make the sunshine and the
iKqipiness of Redlands.

And Gertrude? Her hnpjiy heart found a sweeter note in
the music of bird and running brook, the soft, dove-colouied
sky seemed roseate-hued, all nature was gilded by the sun of
love. 80 she went u])on her hai)})y way, not dreaming that
the shadow waited for her at home ; tiiat oven tlion otlitT
hearts and hands were shaping for her a destiny in which this
new, strange, beautiful love had no part.

M/i

^^*^

t^r--^i»,

^'i^lL^riJ

CTTAPTER VIII.

THE SHADOW FALLS.

^^^^^^ERTRUDE liiifforcd upon lior homoward wny. Rho
W (r*J*^).'- was ill no lutsto to cxclian^'e tlio peace and promise
of the outside world for the uncongenial, and so
often sad, atmosphere of lier home. She was in
no haste to hury de(;p Iier own sweet thoughts in her heart ;
no, she would he ak)ne for a little uith this wonderful truth
which had only heen revealed to her to-day. She had come
very ni-ar it nuiny times before, but to-day every shadow
Heem(!(l Hwej)t uway, swallowed up and forgotten in tlie
blessedness of the knowledge that John Strathearn loved her.
That was enough for her Hist ; then she liad no desire to look
further than that. She stood long u])on tlie rustic bridge
which spanned the Kunniiig Tmrn, and, watching the ripple
and How beneath, thought of John's manliness, of liis goodness,
of his tenderness and thoughtfulness. The testimony of all
who knew him was that he was the best and noblest of men.
Ilis name in Ruraford was synonymous with everything fair
and honourable and upright ; and even the veriest scandal-
inorgers and backbiters in the place had no word to say
against him. And to this man, honoured, beloved, revered
{U)ove liis fellows, she was unspeakably dear. Oh, young love !
strange, sweet madness 1 thou art indeed the very elixir of
life ; thou hast no equal ; no second like unto thee !

Dusk found her still upon the bridge across the Running

JJiim,

tilc H

iiii,' tf

tlir p

tlieir J
of six
sfill ai
obscur

f\n', 18 I

cofiipaj
at li(»in
to then

Lion
and hoi
with ha

As sh

fillilF]) cl

liad (ivit
library
Was hut
i'<»oni, to
liour at
Ikt niotl
(•ertnidf
fac(.' radi

'My
suave kii
' 1 Wat
liinninia.
^^L'l'trude
^0 mild

Very sorr
'I am

alone ove
Mrs.

observe a
•Thisi

said Mrs.

^ertrude'j

t>4

THE SHADOW /'ALLS.

I^im. Linn, tupf,'iii<,' at Iwr skirts, nnd tlm ^'Icam of li<.^)itH in
the wiiiddws of her father's house, warned her she was linger-
in.,' too l(tn^'. She had watcheil, yt^t witlioiit conipreliendinj;,
tlie i)l(>uj,'hmoii witli tiieir ttniins leavin;^' tho furrowiul tields,
their lahuur ended for the day. H}»e had counted tlio strokes
(if six as tliey came peaUn^' from tlie town dock tlirou^di the
still and (juiiit air. A nii-t had come down ujion the earth,
ohscurin^' the lij^ht of (hiy, and tin; (hisk fell before its time.

'Lion, my pet! yijur mistress is day-dreaminj,', do;^'^Me, anH
she is so liai)i)y,' she said, when she roused herself to obey her
cttmi>anion's summons home. ' Lut what will tlu^y say to mo
at home, 1 wonder? I think my dogf^'ie will make my excuses
to them, for he knows all about it.'

Lion wa^'^'ed his tail furiously, ^'ave a sharp bark of deli;4ht,
uiid bounded on towards the stile, his mistress following' now
with hastening' feet.

As she walked quietly thrr.up^h the shrubbery she heard the
sharp click of hoofs dying away in the distance. Some rider
lifid evidently just left the house. She entenid by the folding
library window, which looked out upon the shrubbery, and
was but seldom locked. From tln^nce she stole up to her own
ro(»ni, to make a hasty toilet, for seven o'clock was the dinner-
hour at Meadowttats. While she was brushing out her hair
her mother entered the room. She was already dressed, and
(lertrude, turning round, fearing her displeasure, beheld her
face radiant and satisfied.

' My child, where have you been so late ? ' she asked, with
suave kindness of manner.

' 1 was visiting Katie Ruthven, a poor girl in the Watergate,
luanima. No, I have not been at Margaret's to-day,' replied
Gertrude. ' But I stayed too long on the way home. It was
so mild and sweet, and everything was so pleasant. I am
very sorry if you are vexed.'

' I am not vexed, my dear ; only it will not do to wander
alone over the countryside at nights now. See ' —

Mrs. Mayne suddenly checked herself, but Gertrude did not
observe anything peculiar.

' This is likely to be a great day in your destiny, Gertrude,'
Baid Mrs. Mayne, fanning herself gracefully, while she watched
Gertrude's white hands deftly braiding her soft hair. *Sir

! I

SUNDER' ED HEARTS.

\ ,0

"William Lundie has boon boro — camo all tho way from
London expressly for the purpose of comii)<^ her(i ; — hut then—
I i)romise(l yc/ur father not t say anything about it. Come
away down, my dear ; I think dinner waits.'

'But he is away a,qain, mamma,' said Gertrude, with ]>aling
lips. ' He will not dine with us to-night % '

'No, no, dear; don't flatter yourself. He has just gone,
and will not be back until to-morrow. But there, if I stay I
mud tell you, so I'll run away, my dear, sweet, fortunate
child,' said Mrs. Mayne, and with a sudden rush of aifection
she bent forward and kissed Gertrude's cheek. Then she
went away, and Gertrude made haste to complete her toilet,
but her fingers trembled so tliat they could scarcely fasten the
silver necklet round her throat. That something unusual had
hai)pened she was forced to believe, but she could only dread
what that something was, fearing lest it should very nearly
concern her.

V^hen she entered the dining-room she found her father
and mother already seated. Caroline had gone to spend the
day at the neiglil)ouring town of Blairshiels, and was not
expected home until the late train. Franklin-Mayne rose to
place a chair for Gertrude, and when she looked up to thank
him she saw that his face bore traces of deep emotion ; also
the hand grasping the chair seemed to tremble. It was from
her father Gertrude had inherited that sensitive nervousness,
that highly-strung and excitable temperament, which to its
possessor is fraught at times with keenest pain.

' I fancied Sir William looking so well,' said Mrs. Mayne,
whose mind seemed concentrated on one theme. ' I told him
he looked years younger — didn't you think so, dear ] ' she
added to her husband.

' Indeed I did not, Henrietta. I have always thought
Lundie looked his age to the full,' replied Franklin-Mayiu!.
* Well, my love,' he said to Gertrude, with a strange, yearning
tenderness of look and tone, 'had you a pleasant walk hito
town to-day % '

* Very, papa,' answered Gertrude, toying listlessly with the
food on her plate. *Do you know the Watergate is to be pulled
down and rebuilt?'

'Ay, I heard something about it from Dunsyre some little

fim
t,ik(
iiien

thei
thin
' .Mrl
'Stral
Very

I mI^ ■ I

THE sff nnni' falls.

rni

lue

i«g

mo,

iiy I

nate
;tion
she
oilet,
II ilu;
1 hiul
dread
learly

fathcT
id tlio
as not
pose to
thank
I ; also
from
usness,
to its

Mayne,
)ldhim
]' she

^hon^ht
[Mayne.
learning
ilk into

rith the
le pulh'il

-6

little

time ncjo,' replied Fraiiklin-Mnyno. 'Yonncj Strnthcarn has
taken the tliinj,' in hand, so it will be Wfill (Unie. He lias hoth
means and common sense at liis command.'

'It is natural tliat these mill people should delight to s])eud
their money where they have made it, and a right and proper
thing as well/ said Mrs. Mayne, with an air of superiority.
'Mrs. Moredun was saying to me the other day that young
Strathearn and Margaret Dunsyre are to make a match of it.
Very suitable for both parties. Has she never spoken of it to
you, Gertiiide ? '

'Never, mamma. These things are not discussed between
^largaret and me,' Gertrude forced herself to reply.

' \Vhat models of propriety you must be ! ' laiighed Mrs.
Mayne. ' Well, dear, if you are quite done, we will have
dessert in. Gertrude, you have eaten positively nothing.
Had you anything in Rumford V

' No, mamma ; but I am quite satisfied.'

' This will never do. If you grow thin and pale I shall be
taken to task,' she said, with the same coquettish air of
mystery so painful and exasperating to an uninitiated listener.
Again that strange dread swejit over Gertrude. She looked
almost appealingly into her father's face.

' Be quiet, Henrietta, and don't talk so foolishly,' he said to
his wife, in rather irritable tones.

On ordinary occasions Mrs. Mayne would have answered
back as irritably, but she only smiled sweetly and nodded
approvingly. Surely she possessed some secret which could
take the sting from every disagreeable word or loc»k.

Franklin-Mayne did not linger at the table. At the earli(\st
possible moment he rose, and saying to Gertrude he would
like to speak with her for a little, he left the room.

Gertrude did not long remain behind. When she entcucd
the library she found her father standing leaning against the
mantel with a worried and careworn look on his face. Of
late that look had been seldom lacking, and it was mingled
sometimes with another expression, which seemed to tell of
physical pain borne without a murmur.

' Papa, dear, what is it ? What has happened ? What
does mamma mean when she speaks like that ? ' she asked
apj)calingly

: . '

■ I

I
. 1

fci

I ^

^ UNO EKED HE A R TS.

Franklin-Mayne drow his daughter to his side, fondly kissed
her blow, and [)laced her in a cliair.

' My darling, a momentous thing for you hapj)ened to-day.
I have had the honour and satisfaction to receive an oH'er for
y<mr hand,' he said, and somehow he did not care just then to
look upon Gertrude's face. 'Asyuu have been made aware
of Sir William Lundie's visit to-day, my love,' he continued,
beginning to walk restlessly up and down the floor, * it is more
than likely you will re once guess that the proiK)sal came
from him. lie is coming to-morrow for his answer either
from you or me. What is it to be ? '

He glanced towards Gertrude now, but her face was hidden
in her hands.

* There is no need for me to say with what pride and joy I
should see my darling made Lady Lundie,' continued Franklin-
Mayne. * The world will regard you as the most fortunate of
women, and with cause. Sir William Lundie is a gentleman,
and a generous-hearted man, and he loves you truly. Of that
I was abundantly convinced to-day.

*I am aware that there is some slight disparity in yeara
between you,' he said, after another slight pause, 'but the
difl'crence is not so great but that love can bridge it. C(jme,
look uj), my pet, and let me see the face of the future Lady
Lundie.*

But the bowed figure in the chair never moved, nor was the
sweet, wan face uplifted from the protecting hands.

' As you know, my darling, I am no longer so young nor so
strong as I was ; in fact, my constitution is undermined,
and I cannot hope for many more years of life. You know,
too, my love, and have often lightened them with your sweet
sym])athy, the monetary and worldly cares which oppress me.
Gi;rtrude, your marriage with Sir William Lundie will sul)-
etantially remove the greatest of these, which is anxiety
about the future of my wife and daughters. Wlien the lir.st
surprise has worn away, I am sure you will not only be
pleased, but charmed with your prospects, and justly so.
Any woman might be proud to be the wife of Sir WiUiam
Lundie.'

* But if I do not love Sir William Lundie, papa, how can I
be his wife?' asked Gertrude at length, in a strange, quiet

now

COIIlf

niarr
tii.'iri

(;e

Was

trt'iril

unsle;

ling

these
niatter,
do not ^

The
'I'kI sinj
^'-^'t her
le III or.se
t'oiiscioM

quuiichei

Ill>:

lor so
billed,

LUOW,

Uvveet

ss lue.

Il sul>-

lixiety

lirot

ily be

[ly SO.

illiam

THE SUA DO IV FA LLS. 69

vmVr, qnitp unliko her own. *It is a sin, is it not, to marry
f «r any motive but loveV

A pad smilo touched the h'ps of Franklin-^rayne.

♦ When I was young, my (larling, I thouglit as ycri do, l-.ut
now I know that love without the more solid basis of worldly
CDinfort cannot bring happiness, but the reverse. Jietter
marry well, even if that mad passion called love is lacking,
thiiu ])luiige into misery from which there is no recall.'

(Jertrude rose, and the delicate lace at throat and wrists
was not more colourless than her face. Also her limbs
trfinbled, and she was obliged to stretch out one hand
unsteadily to the table for support.

' If you will let me go away now, papa. T cannot bear any
more just now,' she said feebly. 'I will think of what you
say. I will try to do right, and God will show uie the way.'

At that moment the door was noiselessly opened, and
Mrs. Mayne fluttered into the room.

'You have told her now, Gilbi^rt dear? Let me kiss my
darling child. Let me hold in my arms the future Lady
Luudie, mistress of Castle Lundie, Stoke Abbey, and Lundio
Ibnise, Piccadilly,' she exclaimed, as if she had been conning
these ins])iring words in her mind for long. ' What is the
matter, my pet? Overcome with your good fortune, eh? I
do not wond(>r at it.'

The room swam round Gertrude Mayne. A confused din
nnd singing sounded in her ears, and she remembered no more.
l.jt her lie, proud, heartless mother, and over-anxious yet half-
rt'iiiorseful father, let her lie. Better uncons(M(»usnesa than
consciousness now, for the light of hope and youth and love is
quuuchud for ever 1

can I

quiet

i'i

. i

1 'if ^ i

l;;;^

:'l

^i''

,1 iii'

i i'

; )

CHAPTER IX.

THE WISDOM OF THE WORLD.

sttura.

ERTRUDE jMAYNE awoke from what soomed to
be a long sleep to find the sun streaming in at
her window, and yet she had no remembrance (if
having gone to bed, or even of having come iip-
As she lay in the stillness, which was broken only by
the twitter of a pair of swallows in the eaves, the events of tlic
past day slowly came back to her mind. And then tlic
brightness died out of the sunshine, the music from the sweet
twitterings outside, and it was as if a grey darkness lay over
all. She turned her face to the wall, too miserable and
crushed to wonder even about the hour, or Avhether any oiio
■was stirring in the house.

But presently the quiet was disturbed. A hasty footfall
cnme along tlie corridor, the door was eagerly oj)ened, and the
faint perfume of rose-water, anil tlu; ilutter of ribbons and
flounced skirts, proclaimed Mrs. ]\Iayne's presence in the
room even l)efore she spoke.

' My darling child, are you awake 1 ' she asked in a whis]K'r.
'Ah yes, my pet, I hope you are better. You must l)e al'ltr
such a long sound sleep. Do you know it is nearly eleven,
and Sir William, impatient num, is to be here at one, or nut
later than two. Now, what Avill vou have for breakfast?'

'Nothing, mamma,' said Gertrude wearily, 'Couldn't 1 Ho
still all day ? 1 feel too weak to move.'

7(»

THE WISDOM OF THE WORLD.

ootfall
mil ilip
lis and
in tlic

eleven,
, or nut

ii't 1 Uc

*My dear, you slml! have a cup of tea and an oi::cj, with
buttered toast, in Ix-tl, and I shall let you lio till positively tlie
last minute,' said Mrs. Mayne fussily. 'And then ycni will
]nit on that swuet white cashmere moi'ning-<fown of Caittline's,
and <,'<► down to the drawiiiLf-rooni, just a few minutes lu'foro
Sii- William couuis. And wlicnever wo all go down to lum-h,
my love, you will come back to bed again. Will that do,

eiir

' I need not go down to-day, mamma,' said Gertrude.

'I\Iy dear, you must. You belong to Sir William now, my
love.'"

' M.imma, how can you say tliat terrible thing?' int(M'pos(>d
(Icrtrutle jiassionatcly. 'I have not promised to be his wife.
I shall never pioniisc. I do not love him, and I can never bo
his wile.'

' My love, ycm are not (pn'tc well yet,' said the wily motlier,
laying a soothing haml on the girl's flushed brow. ' W(> will
not say more about it now, but I will run and see about yuur
hreakfast.'

'Is Caroline home, and where is papa?' asked Gertrude
listlessly.

' Yes, Caroline is home, writing letters, I believe. Your
father has gone to the towiL lie said he would be back at
noon.'

'Could Caroline bring me my breakfast, mamma? Will
you jthiase ask her?' said Gertrude wistfully.

' My love, of course ! she will Ik; only too happy,' said
Mrs. Mayne, and left the room to order the slight repast.

In a quarter of an hour Caroline entered, carrying the littlo
tray, which she set on the table and came over to the bed.

' I am here, Gertrude, \\liat can I do for you ? ' she asked
kindlv.

'Just sit down beside me, Caroline,' said Gertrude. 'I
wish you could help me, for I am very wretched.'

'Why are you wretched? You ought to be proud and
hajipy, as I would be were I in your place,' said Caroline,
with a slight smile. ' But now you must take this, or maniiua
will be up scolding pn^sently.'

With real kindness, and wonderful gcnitleness of look and
luunuer for the huu^^hty Caroline, she arranged tlio pilluwa

I !

^ h 1

SUNDERED HEARTS,

round her sister, and bronj^'ht tlie tray. Gortnide nte
sparin;jjly, and at last lu'^'j^'ud Curoliiie to take it away, and
conio and talk to her a<(;iin.

' I don't understand y<ni, Gertrude. What is there in the
brilliant prosjicct o|)('nin<j; up bc^fore you to make you so ill
and UMliap[»y?' she said wondcringly.

' 1 don't know,' said Gertrude wearily, * Oh, Caroline, do
yon think they will make me do it?'

'l)(Hi'ttalk that way, dear. Papa and mamma are evichintly
bent upon it, but the days are gone when girls can be forced to
marry. If you positively refuse, no power on €;arth can make
yiui do it.'

'Do \jou like Sir William Lundie?' asked Gertrude
suddcrdy.

'What has that to do with it, dear 1 I am not to marry
hiiu,' said Caroline evasively.

'TlK're — I knew you didn't like him. I have often seen
your lip curl wl:en he was present. How would you like to
piiss your life with him ? '

'Gertrude, I would marry Sir AVilliam Lundie to-morrow if
I got the ciiance, though I hated him worse than I do,' said
Caroline bitterly, — 'just to get away from this wretched
life.'

' I never thought you weio wretched, Caroline ! ' said
Gertrude, with wondering compassion, for it seemed that never
till to-day bad she known her sister.

' Wretched ? Don't you think / can feel as well as you the
miserable deceit of our lives, only I can control my face lujtter
than you, and smile when I feel it most,' said Car(.)line. ' if
you are wise, Gertrude, you will marry Sir William Lundie as
soon as possil)le. I believe papa will be bankrupt ere long,
antl then wliat Avill become of us ] Sir William would save
his wife's relations from disgrace for his own sake, if not fnr
hers. It will be easy for you to be happy with him, for it
will cost you nothing to give him wbat lie requires, and ho
wdl have all his own way. With my ])ro\id, passionate teni])er,
it would be dillerent ; we would ijuariei at the very outset of
our n'ai!i(!d life.'

'Caroline, 1 thought it was ymi he cared for,' said Gertrude
Buddenly.

'S
accc]

'C
you (
with ;

'Bi

tears,
and Ik
♦Th
you, b(

very d;

GertriK

said Ca
"^'^W bail
your h.:
h us hand
pleasure
a little r
iind you
position,
Gertn
Jong Jasi
f^hjiken.
"ii.ther's
^'•'ve accc
'Youl
I know,^

Do you

^Wiom I
^ntiiin yo
<'ertnu
her fves.
<'-MH"i'iciie,
'liat hitli
many I,];,

'''"'y ill oi

'1-

THE WISDOM OF /HE WORLD,

ite
lid

the
.ill

ntly
(1 lo
Hike

,ru(ie

narry

1 seen
ke to

o\i tho

bc.ttLT

ulie as

1(1 SilVC

'So flifl I till lately; and thoiif:fh T would \villiii;,'ly have
accepiL'd him, it is no great disappointment.'

'Caroline, do you think it right to marry one ninn when
you care for another with all your heart 1' asked Gertrude,
witli sliglitly flushing face.

' But you cannot care for another,' said Caroline sharply.

'1 am afraid 1 do,* said Gertrude, and her eyes tilled with
tears. Then she told her sister how she loved John Stratlicarn,
and how she was parted from him now apparently for ever.

'The man has been playing with you, amusing himself with
you, because you are simple and young,' said Caroline hotly.
' Why, do you know he is to marry Margaret Dunsyre ? Tiio
very date is fixed, I am told, my poor little sister ! '

' I will not believe it. He could not deceive mo so,' cried
Gertrude rebelliously. 'I will ask him.'

'Hush, my pet, you know nothing of this deceitful world,'
said Caroline soothingly. * If you will take my advice, you
will banish all thought of this handsome cotton-s])inner from
your heart, and make up your mind to love your future
husband. Why, the glory of being Lady Lundie, the
])k'asure of being mistress of so many stately homes, is worth
a little misery, is it not % And very soon you will learn to
tirid your chief joy in the duties and privileges of your Vv^^
])()sition, which will give you entrance to the first society.'

Gertrude wearily sank back among her pillows, and the
long lashes drooped over the white cheeks. Her faith was
shaken. Caroline's few grave words had done what all the
iiKither's half-angry, half-playful remonstrances could never
have accomplished. And Sir William's suit was nearly won.

'You think yourself the most miserable being in the world,
I know,' said Caroline. ' But others sutler as wcdl as you.
Do you know I sent away a man who truly loved nie, and
whom I loved, because I hoped to win the prize which is now
within your reach? '

(uTtrude, in the greatness of her amazement, opened wide
her t'ves. That Caroline should ever have had such an
<'.\[K'iic'nee, and should confess it, was but additional j)r()of
ih.iL hitherto tliey had been strangers to each other. Ay,
many l)Lick tragedies of which we do not dream take place
'li'ily in our midst.

I M

I !

SUNDERED HEARTS.

L.,,:

'Mi

*0h, Caroline, who was it? how could 3'oii do it?* cx-
cl;iiiiH'd Ocrtrudo.

' It was Doctor Dunsyro ; and I have told you my niotivo.
I could do much worse tliinj^s than that if 1 saw siillicicnt
cause,' said Caroline, with outward conij)osure. But she ri)>o
tlicn, and walking over to tl»e window stood looking out upnu
tlio sunlit huu' '■'aj)e. And in the tiroud dark eyes lay tin;
jtitiful shadow c ^V- . ; earning, regretful pain which lilhul lu-r
hciirt.

For the mome., vxn'rHle was forcrottcn, and slic re-
incinhered only a niooidit cv niing not a nioulli gone, a man's
earnest face, lit by deep emotion, the tones of a manly voice
j)l(^ading a dee[>, true, and tender love, ollcriiig lier his licart
and home, and a devotion ivuch as fair wommi loves. And sht;
liad looked him st'Tiight in the face, with ey(!S whidi did 'mt
falter, and answered no. David Dunsyn^ expected, as he h;iii
a right to expect, a diirerent answer, Ijut h? took his dismissal
without a word. It was the first and last time, he told him-
eiilf, tliat a woman shouM so humble him, and he would kec])
his word. Tlien he fohled down that page in his history, ami
vowed he would never turn it again with the finger of regict
or of hope. Ihit we make many vows, the folly of which
time oft(!n makes plain, and that sometimes when it is too
late. The worhl knew notliing of the result of his wooing, for
it hiid never known of his love. When I say the world, [
inchide Margaret, for, fond as he was of his sister, there weie
some things Doctor Dunsyre did not tell her.

Again Mrs. IMayno came bustling into the room, anil
Caroline at once left it.

'How are you now, dear child? Ah, I think you hoV
better! Well, it is almost one, so I thiidc you will rise aiul
go down to the drawing-room, will you?'

Must as you like,' said Gertrude listlessly.

She was passive now in their haiuls. So she allowcii
licirself to be attired in the dainty white robe, anil obeilientlv
followed her mother down to the drawing-room. Mrs. Mayne
was delighted.

' My love, I knew you would be your own sweet self when
you were better in health,' she said, with ell'usive fondues-.
'There, my love, compose yourself, while 1 go and see tlwl

THE WISDOM OF THE ll'OKLD.

cx-

)t)VO.
ICU'Ut

^. r(»>e
ly the

•il luT

10 ro-
^ voice

ili*l Mi't

In- \i;i'i
isiuissal
)M liini-
ild k*'»'i)

oryi

;nul

f which
it is too
; for
woilil, 1
ere ^vel■e

)ni, aivl

^ou lool^
rise ami

allowcil
lu!(liciitl\'
rs. Mayue

Lelf wlu'i^
(foiulu'^^'

soe Uiiil

lunch is quite ready. You look cliarminir, interest in j,', lovcl}'.
Sir William will fall in love au'aiii when he sees you.'

So sayiiip,', Mrs. ^Mayiie tluttered from the room, aiid
Gertrude huried her face in the soft cusliions, atid wishcfl
herself a child again, or a ligiit-hearted school-girl, to whom
heme and grown-up life, in the enchantment of distance,
seemed fairyland indeed. 01), how diU'crcnt the reality!
— a land of shadows and pain, when every day seemed to add
another care to the weary heart.

The sound of voices and footsteps outside made her start
nervously to her feet. Looking through the window, 'le
saw her father and the master of Castle Lundie walking to
and fro the terrace in close conversation. Doubtless sh' wa:
the subject of theii talk, her destiny the theme of ab'^ ii'b ig
interest to them both. Sick and weary at heart, she c-''j)t
hack to her couch, and prayed that the way might b^ made
}»lain to her. Filial love and duty, unselfehness of •.'\'si-
tion, the desire to do the most and the best ii: her power for
tliose she loved, waged fierce war with every impulse of her
heart. She heard them enter the house at icnglh — heard
their footsteps on the stair, and the opening of the drawing-
room door. Then, as in a dream, the tones of her father's
voice fell upon her ears.

* My dear love. Sir "William Lundie is here, and would
ppeuk with you for a few minutes,' said Fianklin-Mayne
nervously. 'Sir William, you see my daughter tloes not look
very robust. She is young, and your proposal took her by
surj)rise. I w^ould beg you not to needlessly agitate or
distress her.'

'You may rely upon me,' said the master of Castle Lundie ;
and then Gertrude was conscious that she was alone with the
man whom fate seemed to will sliouhl be hei future husband.
She slightly raised herself, and with a strange, calm composure
looked him in the face. That look seemed to read him
through and through. She saw the tall, spare figure, with its
inherited grace of carriage and micm, the thin, sallow fac(!, the
resolute mouth, and keen black eyes, the high white forehead,
■^vith its masses of iron-grey hair ] then her eyes fell, and a
shiKhler ran through her frame. For the ohl distrust, the
Vague dread which could not be put into words, came back to

|l^ I

I I

i rj,' >

.■'Ai;'

Ill

'll f'l

y»

SUNnKRED HEARTS.

hor with ncldorl RtroTic,'lh. To ho his wifn ! To h'vo iiTidor

HiSO

his roof-tree, to sit at his tahlo, to bo his for all time 1
thouj^'hts filled her soul with unutterahle loathiiif,'.

* 1 trust your fatiier has not needlessly buoyed me up with
tlie hope that tlie ^'reatest desire of my hfe is about to \w
fulfilled,' he said ^'eutly, yet with deep earnestness. ♦ Gertrude,
ho may have told you of that desire, but he could not tell y(»u
of the love whieh prompted it. 1 love you as a man loves but
once in life. Will you be my wife?'

For a moment Gertrude tlid not sj)cak. The impulse was
strong uj)on her to send him from her then and for ever, but
a^'ain Caroline's words — * I believe papa will ere long be a
bankrupt, and SL** William would save his wife's relatives
from disgrace;* and yet again her father's careworn face, his
entreating words, ay, even the very glance of pleading he
had cast upon her as he left the room — sealed her lips. It
seemed years since yesterday, when she had met John Strath-
earn and read in his face the love he would not utter yet.
And he was false, they said. He had looked at her with
those eyes while his heart and plighted honour were given to
another. She would not believe it against him yet. She
would see him again before she ])assed her word to the man
waiting at her side. These thoughts flashed through lier
mind in a moment, and then she lilted her eyes to the face
of William Lundie.

' You have done me a great honour. Sir William,' she said
gently. *Will you give me another day — only one — to
consider 1 It was so sudden, so unexpected, and that is a
very little thing to ask.'

' I would be less than a man to refuse such a request from
these sweet lips,' said Sir William almost passionately, for lie
"was very much in love, and could scarcely refi'ain from
clasping the fragile, girlish figure to his heart. 'Only do not,
I beg you. keep me longer in suspense. When a man's love
is like mine it is very impatient. I am not without hope
now, however, and I trust that at no distant day Casllo
Lundie will welcome its young and lovely mistress.'

At that moment the luncheon bell rung, and, to Gertrude's
relief. Sir William left tin; room. As ho turned to i:<> ho
took one white hand and raised it to his lips.

h tiw :
1 1*1

!ili{

THE WISDOM OF THE //ORLD.

1(1 OT
|H!S()

with
n ht',

I ycu
8 bvit

B was
r, but
be a
ativi'3
;e, bis
iig be
.s. It
Hralb-
jr yet.
r with
ven to
,. She
le man
<^h bcr
[le

face

e said
,ne— to

luit is a

•Soon, very soon, T hope tliat fair hand will bo mine,' lio
paid pillantly, 'and then I shall have the right to kiss the
8\vc('l lips whi'-h gave it to nie.'

A burning iihish overspread the girl's fair face, antl sho
tunie<l away from him with a petulant motion which made
hill, smile. He liked the coyness, the shy, maidenly shamo
which encompassed her. Yes, Sir Williani Lundit; was well
phiased with his choice, and, having no doubt now about the
i><sue of his suit, he went down-stairs and made himself par-
ticularly agreeable to his future relatives, and Mrs. Mayno
thoroughly enjoyed her lunch, for her mind was tilled with
triumph, with pleasing visions of tlm future. Surely the star
of fuiiunu Lad riiieii nuvv ubuve the huuue uf Meudowilata

1st fn^ni
for he

\\\ from
do not,

In's love
it hope
Castle

1 ;

irtrutlo's
yo ho

;'i<»ij(l

CUAI'TKH X,

TOO LATE 1

I'ifl"

■f'm

' ;"■

)ITE'N" John Strathcani left riorfrndo that aftornnon
h(! (lid not go to Mar^iirut's, as he liad intciidcil.
l\(i simply walk('(l to the upper end of the Watir
gato, looked careliissly at the ])i'o,nress they wen;
makinj,' with the denioliti(Mi of the; erazy tenements, tlii'n went
hack to the mill for his letters. The manaj^cr, who eaiiui to
him on somethin^j^ connected ^vith the nuich'!iery, found him
ahsent-minded and uninterested, a state of mind lie never
remembered to have seen in the youn,^' master Ixsfore.

'Ay, ay, I'll see alnnit it to-morrow, J,)onaldson,' he saiil
carelessly, and, clapping his hat on his head, left the ollicf,
and went away home. lie had not brought his horse down
that morning ; on line, mild days, when the roads were good
and the atmosphere j)l(iasant, he preferred walking to riding,
and a tlu'ee-niile was just child's play to stalwart John, As
he walked leisurely along between the hedgtu'ows, which wcro
already tinged with green, he pondered many things in liis
mind. He had commitU^d himself that day, wisely or un-
wisely he could not tell, and lie was in honour bound to
declare himself openly now. So npon the morrow he resolved
he would go to ]\readowllats and ask permission from Gilb'it
FranklinM.iyne to ]>ay his addresses to his daughter. Finiu
the old man himself he had nothing to fear. He knew him
as a kindlv, fiank, iwiostenlations being, who would ii'it

TOO LATE I

Milliiii^ly )inrt a follow cn'ottirc. It w.-is tlio iiiotlior, the
',<r<)ii(l, iissuiiiiiiL,', piitroiiisiji^f dame, \viK)so aniiut ions slriviiii^'H
at'tiT position w(!it.' so well kiiouii she it was he had \\w
must caiisi! to (ilea*!. Slu! woiiM iJouhtU'ss consider it prc-
suiiijition, one of Kunifonl niillowncivs to a.sk tin; liand of w
KriniklinMayuo ; it wonld he, a Itittcr j)ill for Ikt pride to
Hwallow, nnl(!ss tho rich ^'ildini,' of tin* niillownei's wealth
cniiid sw(!et(!n it to her tast(\ Th« ordeal to ho faced was not
jilcasant, hut love would help him throu_i,di.

And then ho {^Mve himself up t,() l()v«'ly hopes and visions
which clustered round the tiiou^dit of Gertrnde. When she
was his wife — thrillini,', raj)turou8 thou;^dit ! — how ho would
care for her and sludter her, surrounding' h(!r with every
luxury, everything of beauty and costliness which love could
siii:,m'st and money could Imy. Ami oh, what a liome that
8\veet and gentle presence would make of the dreary house of
Kinllands ! Wliat sunsliine of iiappincss she would shed about
her where she dwelt ! All these things, and many, very
many more than I could write of, rose up in sweet succession
before tho mind of John Stratheavn, fragile, beautiful dreams,
which would rise only to be dispelled.

Six o'clock was the dinnerdiour at Redlands, and as old.
Mr. Strathearn was punctmd and fidgety to a minute, John
was never behind. The old man was very exact and cere-
monious in his habits, and ho still dressed for dinner every
day, and was as particular about his toilet — indeed, more so
than his son. John often teased hira about it, saying ho was
a dandy in his old age. Then the old man would hiugh, and
say it was all done out of respect for John himself. They
were very happy together, father and son, and if the old man's
love for his ' dear lad ' partook of the nature of idolatry, it
can be forgivem li- was all he had, and was to him the best
and most devoted of sons.

It was five minutes t' ' six that evening when John entered
the house. He hung up his hat, and walked into the little
l)arli)ur where his father spent the best part of liis time,
reading and smoking, and wearying for John to come home.
The old man was an inveterate smoker. John liimself did
not care for it, though he often took a cigar of an evening to
keep his father company.

1 ',

SUNDERED HEARTS.

The parlour was the cosiost little room in the house. It
was furnished in substantial ros(nvoo(l and crimson damask.
A <|uaint rosewood bookcase, with cabinet below, tilled one
end of the room. There was also a comfortable-lookinj^' lounge
witli a bear-skin over it, wliere tlie old man took his afternoon
nap. A big old-fashioned easy-chai" stood upon eacli side of
the hearth. Beside one stood a smoker's table, whereon were
ranged pipes of various size and kind, cigar-cases, and tobacco-
pouches, and every other requirement for the smoker. A
small round table, covered by a crimson cloth, stood in tlio
middle of the floor ; the wide, low window was hung with
crimson curtains, which gave the place a snug and comfortable
api)earance. There were a few good engravings in Oxford
frames on the walls, chiefly of animals and hunting scenes;
the latter John's choice.

This room was the favourite resort of both gentlemen, and,
though the dining-room fire was on all day, it was seldom
entered except at meal times. "When John looked into the
parlour his father was standing on the hearth warming his
hands at the cheery fire. He had but newly left his dressing-
room, and was faultlessly attired in broadcloth and shining,
spotless linen. John looked rather ruefullv at his own rough
tweeds.

* I say, father, I've no time to dress,' was his cheery greet-
ing. ' Will you let me sit down with you in this garb ? '

* Of course I will, lad,' said the old man, wheeling round,
for he had not heard John enter. 'But why do you stay so
long down at the mill, and leave yourself so little time % Is
l)t)naldson not doing so well as he did, that you are so closely
tied?'

' Oh, Donaldson's all right. The blame is m.'ne,' said John.
* There's the gong with the first stroke of six. I wondcsr if
IMarjorie was ever a minute behind in her life. She will be
lioirified at me sitting down to eat in this heathenish garb.
Come, then.'

John gave his arm to his father, and they went to the
dining-room.

^larjorie always waited upon the gentlemen herself. Jolin
had frequently remonstrated with her, asking what the other
girls were good for^ but Maijorie remained firm.

'A'er, tJ

^•T him,
«f tliat
l"jfr<'(I a'
'This

out Jiis
tJJno to c|
'I bej

thoil^rlit^j,

^•JVe, to

1:'

TOO LATEl

. It
nask.
I one
ounge
srnoon
ide of
a were
)bacco-
er. A
in the
,(f with
Eortiil)le
Oxford
scenes ;

en, and,
J seldom
into the
ming his
dressing-

sliinii^^i
vn rough

ery greet-

Y^ round,
lu stay so
inie \ Is
so closely

Laid John,
■wonder if
Ve will he
lish giu'h.

Int to the

jlf. J*'^^^
\lie other

'When I'm no' ahle, Maister John, it'll be time enench for
ane o' tliae glaikot lassies tae handle yer meat. IJe very
thaiikfu' that I'm able an' willint,' she had said once when tlie
subject wiis under discussion, and that had put an end to it.

She did look rather reproachfully at her young master's
grey tweeds, and gave her head a slight toss as she ladled out
the soup.

' I see your ominous frown, Marjorie,' he said, with a
twMikle in his eye. 'Out with it.'

'The mill's surely thrang enoo that ye canna get time to
(■Icau yersel' afore dinner-time,' she said drily. * Jist look at the
auld maister, at his time o' life too. He micht be a lesson to ye.'

,lohn laughed outright. He always enjoyed Marjoric's
qiiaiiit ways, and [)ermitted considerable licence in sjxm'cIi.
but Marjorie know her place very well, and never transgressed
till! bounds of respect. But as she looked upon the father
and son as her ain, a sacred charge left her by her mistress,
she thought it her bounden duty to keep them both right, and
also to sustain all the honour of the house of Redlands.
"When dessert was brought in, she retired, and the two had a
chat together there over the atlairs of the day ; for nothing
was done at the mill without the old master's knowhulge and
consent. Although during the great part of the year he was
unable to drive even the length of the town, his interest
never for a moment flagged, and he was as keen and long-
sighted in business as of yore. John was always willing to
lunnoui him, although there were little things connected with
the working of the huge concern which he often kept l)a(;l<,
knowing they would only annoy and distress him. l)inner
over, they retired to the parlour, where both felt more at
home. John drew in his father's easy-chair, filled his j)ij)e
fi>r him, and the old man often said he got the best smoke out
of that filling ; then he lighted his own cigar, and the two
liutled away together in silence for a little.

'This is rare comfortable, lad,' said the old man, stretching
out his feet in perfect enjoyment. 'I just weary for this
lime to come ; it's the best jiart of the day.'

'1 believe it is, dad,' said John a little absently, for his
thoughts weio elsewhere. He longed to tell his f.itlier of his
love, to confide in that faithful heart ail the liopes and fears

1 , 1
I'M

I 1 1

!-. ;i

1 1

■jt

SUNDERED HEARTS..

icRcpar.'iLlo from tliat love, to get tho ndvico .'ind .syTnpathy he
liad never yet craved in vain. And, alter all, had he not a
riglit to be told, for the advent of a mistress was a matter of
vital inter(!st to the olil man, for she could make or mar the
ha])i)iness and comfort of his last days. Oh, bnt Gertrude
would make a dear, kind daughter, as she would make a
sweet and winsome wife; and again the lover's thoughts
soared into the shailowy land of dreams and visions, until his
l'athei''s voice recalled him.

'What are you thinking of, John? Anything troubling
you, eh ? '

* Not exactly ; hut I want to tell you something, dad,' said
John ; and, knocking the ash from his cigar, he laid it on
the mantel, and, leaning both his arms on his knees, lookeil
into his father's face.

* Ay, ay, lad, tell away ; whatever concerns you concerns me,
you know. Out with it ! '

'Do you remember speaking to me- before the New Year,
lather, about getting a wife,' said John slowly.

The old man nodded, and looked wi^.h some eagerness into
John's face.

' You laughed at me then, but you've thought better of it,
I see,' he said, with a sly smile. * Isn't that it?'

'I am not sure but that I was thiidving better of it even
tlien,' said John, 'only you fixed uj)on tlu; wrong lady, father.'

The old man leaneil forward suddenly, and the exi)ression (Hi
his face became one of keen anxiety. He had not dn^amed of
this, and as Margaret Dunsyre was the only young lady who h.nl
ever been on intimate terms at R(Hllands, he was rather puzzItMJ.

' The wrong lady, John ! If you are thinking of a wife, who
can it be but Margaret Dunsyre?' he said, in troubled tones.

'Tliere are many other girls in Ruiiiford and out of it
besides Margaret Dunsyre, and you know i have always saiil
it was only as a sister I cared for her,' said John ([uickly.
'JUityou need Jiot be anxious, father; I am sure, when you
set! the woman, the woman I love, you will say I have chosen
wisely and well,'

' Who is she, John? Do I know her? Tell me her naiiif,'
asked the old man nervously, interlacing his fingers together.

' You will know very well who she is, though, 1 think,

you

slie i

Ikn

dead
])oor

the ];i
tJie oJ

TOO LATE!

, a

the

c a

^hts

his

)lnv-;
said

i t)U

)oked

IS mft,
Year,
ss into
' of it,

it even

alhov.'

Uion oil

\i() h;i'l

|)UZ/U''i-

:e, who

.ones.

of it
liys saitl
liuiekly.

("11 y^^
choseu

iianie,'
Li'ther.
thiiii^

you have nevor seen her,' said John. ' Tier name is Gertrude ;
she is tlio second daughter of Franklin-Mayne of jMcadowHats/

' Franklin- jShiyne ; that must be GillHUt Franklin-Mayne.
T knew his brother George very well ; a fine fellow, but he is
deatl,' said the old man. 'A good family, but poor — very
poor ; ]jut you have enough for both. Well, my lad, 1 ho[)o
you will be very ha})py in your choice. What I said to you
the last day we spoke on the subject I say still. Remtimbcr
the old man is in your hands. You will bring your little girl
to see me, John ? Oh, my dear lad, I will love her very dearly
for my son's sake ! '

He stretched out his hand, and John took it in his strong
right hand, and reverently raised it to his lips.

* Thank you, dad,' he said, and his own eyes were not dry.
' But what do you su])pose they will say to me to-morrow
when I go to Meadowllats ? I am not of an old family, and
we are only mill-people, you know, and the Franklin-AIaynea
are county gentry.'

'The Fianklin-Maynes are very small gentry,' said the old
man, with dry scorn. 'Don't you go too humble, my son.
You are as good a man as any Franklin-Mayne that ever lived
— a better in my eyes.'

John smiled slightly. It was but natural that his father'n
opinion should diller slightly from that of Mrs. Franklin-
-Mayne.

' We will hope that they may think with you, dad,' he said,
with cheerfulness. * Well, enough of that subject for to-night.
Sliall I get the chessmen and beat vou again to-night?'

' Yes ; but is it to-morrow you aie going 1 '

SSome time to-morrow, dad; you know I was always an
im[»ulsive chap who couldn't bear suspense,' answered John as
he rose to get the chessmen from the cabinet.

The subject was not mentioned again between them, but it
was none the less the absorbing interest of both minds, and
their game lacked its usual keen relish. The old man retired
t.) rest at his usual early hour, but John himself sat far into
the night. The coming day was to be full of issues for him,
and would change the even tenor of his way either for weal or
woe. He went down to the mill at the usual hour, followed
hy his father's heartfelt God-speed and earnest prayers. The

SUNDERED HEARTS.

i, '

\ \

■1

' (

I'i

i ■•

manager claimed his promised attention to the machinery, and
the forenoon was o()iio before he knew where he was. At one
o'clock lie went up to tlie Ctjunty IloUil for a bit of luncheon,
and then set oil', striding like a man who had an aim in view,
up the burn road, across the bridge, and over the fields to
Meadowflats, where he arrived just when the ladies had
finislied luncheon.

He asked for the master of the house, and the maid wlio
admitted him showed him into the library, and took his card
to the dining-room. In spite of his natural nervousness at
the approaching ordeal, John cast his eyes with interest about
the room, for here, doubtless, liis beloved spent much of her
time. It was a quaint, low-ceiled room, with oak panellings
and beautifully - carved oaken roof. The well-lined book-
shelves contained many curious and valuable volumes, and the
room was filled with antitjue furniture and rare articles of
vertu, such as are found in old family houses. The; only
modern thing was a cottage piano, open, with a song of
Schubert's on the stand. While John was occupied in scanning
his surroundings, the door was opened with a jx'culiar fhauish,
and to his dismay Mrs. Franklin-Mayne fluttered airily inle
the room.

* Ah, good morning ! Mr. Stratlieani of the Earn Mills, I
think?' she said, with gracious con' U'scensi(m, and looking at
the card [)oised coquettishlj betwecii lier iingers. 'What caih
I do for you ? Charmed, I am sure, to see you.'

*I asked for Mr. Franklin-Mayne, Mrs. Mayne,' said John,
acknowledging her salutation with dignity and manly grace.

' Ah, so the girl said, I think, but he has, ah, unfortuuiitely
for you, gone to spend the day at Castle Lundie,' said Mr.-i.
Mayne impressively. * But I was thinking I might do as
Mcll, at least that I might convey any message from you.
I'ray sit down, Mr. Strathearn. I assure you I seem to know
you quite well. My dear friend the Honourable Mrs. Moredun
oficji t dks of you, and of your many good works. And I am
6ur<i, if you wish Mr. Franklin-jMayne to head a subscription
i'v^X^ T can speak for him, and say he will be charmed.'

.John, who k'levv^ v^t, well the pecuniary dilHc\dlies of the
Fiiirikiin-Maynes, co)ild scarcely repress a sinde.

' I ;.y.ssure you I came ou uo such errand, Mrs. Mayne,' he

said

will

for)

him

'I f.

some

whicl

Jol

clianc

you g^

time i

when

said J\

Castle

at no c

'Ih

heart's

his fac(

'Ind

Wiilian

said Mi

it is no

that th(

]\riss G

John St
knew he
ness of
' •! an
said Afrj
iMr. Fra
a^'ain an
'John
gracious]
t'le hous
d(!so]ate
I^iiii— ale

TOO LATE!

paid cnnrtonnsly. *As my business is with Mr. Maync, I
will not further intrude upon your time.

' Oh, nonsense ! do sit down, and let me order a glass of wine
for you,' said Mrs. Mayne, who had no intention of allowing
hini to go until she had electrified him with her glorious news.
' I fear Mr. Mayne will be likely to be much occupied for
some time to come, owing to the approaching auspicious event,
which will break up our family circle.'

John bowed, but remained standing.

* Probably I may have the good fortune to meet him by
chance some day soon,' he said rather stupidly. 'I will wish
you good morning, Mrs. Mayne.'

'Must you really gol Ah, well, I suppose gentlomon'g
time is always occuj)ied. I say to Sir William sometimes that
when he is married he will have less time than ever,*
said Mrs. Mayne. ' I suppose you must have heard that
Castle Lundie and Meadowflats are to be more closely united
at no distant day 1 '

' I have not heard,' said John, courteously still, though his
heart's blood seonied suddenly to gather about his heart, and
his face visibly paled.

'Indeed, I thought my second daughter's engagement to Sir
William Lundie would be the talk of the town by this time,'
said Mrs. Mayne, unab^d any longer to contain herself. ' If
it is not, you need not regard it as a secret, for it is probable
that the marriage will take [)lace very soon.'

'I am honoured by Mrs. Mayue's confidence, and I -ih
Miss Gertrude and Sir William Lundie every happiness, .siid
John steadily, though his face was still deadly pale. Tlod
knew how awful was the effort to preserve that outward calm-
ness of demeanour.

'I am sure you do. Every one must who knows thorn,*
said Mrs. Mayne sweetly. ' Well, c/rwr/ morning. 6'o sorry
^Ir. Franklin-jSIayne could not see you to-day. Pray come
again any time that you wish to se(; him.'

John bowed, scarcely touched the begemmed white fingers
Rrac.iously extended to him, and abruptly left the room and
the house. The world, so fair an hour ago, was black .id
desolate indeed. But wo will leave him to battle with ids
pain — alone.

! ' ! t

I I,

■ U--

,*■ I

n/7 *V

Willi

iiiatt(
'1
thing

i; i;>

■^'"i

CTIAPTKR XI.

niS PROMISED WIFE.

[riAT was yoiii.^f Stratlioarn of the Earn Mill^,
Caroline,' .said Mrs. J\Iayno, wlu'ii slic retiiniol
to the (lining-room, Haopily Gertrude had iint
come down-staii's to luucheon, and was thus
unaware of John's visit. Caroline visibly started.

' What did ho want, maninia?'

* Something with your father ; he did not say wliat. Really,
he is a very handsome fellow, and (juite u gentleman. JIi>
seemed quite astonished when I mentioned Gertrude's engage-
ment to him.'

'Did you actually tell him that, mamma? Was it not
premature?' asked Caroline (juiekly.

' Why prem;.ture? It is nearly settled,' said Mrs. Llayno
shar])ly.

' And \vli;it did ISlr. Strathearn say ? '

'^ly J'nMj. Ik' is I'^o thorough a gentleman to make any
comment. He sinml} '-xpresscd his polite congratulations aiul
went away,' sail ^. Irs Mayne. *I wonder when Sir William
ami your father • ,li be 'lere.'

'I don't know, said Oa'^oline, rising. A^: slio was al • to
leave liio room S';? laid h'-r liand on her mother's arm tiinl
lookc'l impressively in her face.

'Mamma, I would ai'.vise you not to mention youiii.'
Straihearn's vi.^;it to Gertrude.'

• le,

niature

accomj

Jumiili;

'A'oi

' ^Vill }
Gertru(j

She

room,

under t

cheek

and j)ai

' },ly

e.xert ]

ncss.

drive

We M-ill

'Ind

said Ge

'Verl
I hope
•■^toopin;
hurried
Gortr
drive aw

H/S nWM/SED WIFE.

*])ear me, wliy not V

' 1 cannot say ; only believe me it would not further Sir
William's suit. Take my advice, I am seldom at fault in such
miitters.'

'1 know you are not, but that is a most extraordinary
thin;,; ! What can young Strathcarn have to do with (jcrtrudo
and iSir Willi.ini's suit?'

' Mni'(! jxirhaps tlian you imai^M'ne. Mother, oidy take my
advii-e and all will go well,' said Caroline meaningly, and left
tlie room.

Mrs. Mayne was considerably mystified, but she was too waiy
to disregard Caroline's caution.

'1 think I will drive across to Moredun House this after-
noon,' she said after a little. '1 am positively expiring to tidl
tlu! old cHiaturo the news. Will you come 1 '

'Yes, I'll come; but, mamma, I think you are really jtre-
inature in s]ieaking of Gertrude's engagement as if it ucr*' an
accomplished fact. Were anything to prevent it, think how
humiliated you would f(!el.'

' >.'othing shall prevent it,' said Mrs. Mayne decidedly.
* Will you go and order the ponies while 1 run up and see what
Gertrude is about '? '

She found Gertrude sitting by the window of her dressing-
room, looking idly out upon the ])eaceful landscape smiling
under the sunshine of the spring. The mother noted the pale
cheek, the listless air, but she did not see the look of weariness
and })ain which dimmed the lustrous eyes.

'My love, you have risen, 1 see. I am glad to see you
exert yourself so much,' she said, with her usual fussy fond-
n(!ss. ' Caroline and I have been thinking of taking a little
drive. You will not weary while we are gone? If you will
we will gladly stay indoors for your sake.'

' lnde(!d no, mamma. Go by all means. I shall not weary,'
said Gertrude, with almost feverish eagerness.

' Very well, love, we will bo back in time for tea, at which
I hope someljody else will j<jin us,' she said slyly. Then,
stooping to kiss her daughter's fair cheek, the giddy woman
hurried away to dress.

(Jertrude sat still in the window-sill. She saw the phaeton
drive away; then she rose hurriedly and began to look out her

I ' I

i i|:

SUNDERED HEARTS.

ill I

'li ■■-■, a
'III ■"

outdoor j^arh. Rhe hiittoncd on hor boots, put on hnr walkinj;
g.'irb ami a warm fur cape, and stole down-stair« and out of
doors. 8ho wont round by the stables, lot Lion oil" his chain,
and the twain took the familiar path by the Running Burn to
Kumford. It was a stranj^'o nunlnoss which possessed the j,n'rl,
an uncontrf)llable yearning to look once more uj)on the face of
Jolm Strathoarn. She indeed felt that if she could but uj)lift
her eye.8 to meet his true, earnest gaze v«^lie could ask him to
sa her, to take her away, out of his love for her, from the web
of fiestiny which seemed to he closing round her j)aLh. And
meanwhile dohn himself, poor fellow, was striding to the town
by the high road, with his hat drawn over his brows, and
something like the bitterness of death in his soul. He seemed
oblivious of what was y)assing around him ; he was uneoTiseioiis
of several greetings which fell from the li{»s of j)assers-])y to
whom he was known. More than (mo wontlercd what was up
with the young master of the Earn Mills. Just as he entc^rod
the upper end of the Higii Stniet, he encountiireil at a crossing
■where three ways met the figure of Margaret Dunsyre, who
had been making a call in the neighbourhood, and was on her
M'ay home. A faint roseleaf bloom touched her fair cheek,
and she came to him with outstretched hand.

*John, i;ow are you? What are you doing here at this
hour?' she said banteringlv.

He took her hand and lifted his hat, but on his set lips
there came no answering smile.

* How are vou, Margaret?' he said quite gravely. * Is David
well?'

' Yes, David is well. Were yon on your way to us? What
has hap])ened to you ? You vseem out of sorts.'

'Do 1 ? The easiest-minded amoTig us do get out of sorts at
times,' said John, trying to speak lightly. ' iS'o, thanks. I
shall not go in to-day. Good afternoon.'

His manner was abru[)t, hurried almost to rudeness, an*l
Margaret drew herself up in a slightly otlended manner. l)ut
John saw it not, saw notliing then except a slim drooping
figura in dark brown walking dross coming up the street.
!^larga^et saw it too, and at once entered the house and shut
the door. At that moment she felt bitter exceedingly against
Gertrude Mayne. Gertrude also had seen t}iem^ and a deadncs.-^

har] r
niade
hrave
stood
lifted
He iW,
\\\ the
lieen v
fiiriouj
ceived
in the
WiJh-ai

* iMy
your gli

* \\\y
blankly!

'No,

a Walk i

than I tj

' SureJ

Sir W^ilJ

you honi

^ ife U

I'lien Jici

jUDiped \

'"^trathear

^Vat,

pain.

He strr
^^'tnt awa
waster of
avenue he
evidejitly

Jiiip'itient
^"he bitter
^'as liis to-

' ^^^ell,
0^ trembiii
. * J niadf^
'^ '»n at on

ins rROMISFD WIFE.

hnrl crf^pt a*hout hor heart, a stony dimnnss in lior oyns, which
iii.iilo her linihs tremhlo honcath her. Nevertliuk'ss she; kept
hravely on, until she was quite near to John, tlien slie almost
stood still. But he never slackened his j)ace, only gravely
lift(!d his hat and passed on to the other side of the street.
He did not see the look of wistful entreaty change to anguish
in the sweet, truthful eyes, else perliajis this history had nevc^r
been written. Just then a well-apj)<»:nt(!d dogcart was driven
furiously into the High Street, and Gertrude, looking up, i>er-
ceived that it held her father and Sir William. ]>oth looked
in the utmost astonishment at sight of Gertrude, and Sir
AVilliam, drawing nun, at once jumped to the ground.

* iMy darling, what are you doing here? Is it you or
your ghostV he said, with anxious solicitude.

' Why, puss. I thought you were in bed,' said her father
blankly.

' No, papa ; I have been up all day. I thought I would like
a walk into town,' said Gertrude faintly. ' But I am weaker
than 1 thought.'

' Surely. They ought to have taken better care of you,' said
Sir William gravely. ' Come, allow me ; wo will soon take
you home.'

He lifted her in his arms and placed her in the front seat.
Then her father stepped across to the back, and Sir William
jumped up beside her, and turned the horse's head. John
Strathearn, happening to look back ere he turned dcnvn the
Watergate, saw all that, and ground his teeth in his bitter
pain.

He strode on to the mill, took his letters from the bag, and
wont away home. That had been an anxious day for the old
master of Redlands, and when John came striding down the
avenue he saw his father walking up and down the terrace,
evidently watching for him. Forgive him if he felt a little
iin])atient of the sympathy he knew was waiting for him.
The bitterest disappointment which can wring a man's heart
was his to-day.

' Well, my son, is all well ? ' asked the old man, in accents
of trembling eagerness.

' I made a mistake, father,' said John, knowing it best to tcdl
it all at once. ' I was ass enough to fancy a woman could cure

1 i ; I

I - I

tit .'1,'

SUNDERED HEARTS,

for mo for myself. Miss Gertrudo Mayno is to bo marriod in
a fuw weeks' time to Hir William Luiidio. ForLuiiiitely I
hoard it lieforo 1 committed mysolf, and so was 8i)arod that
humiliation.'

1I(! turned his head away, and then looked across the \\'v\'\
stretch of country to the low-lyin^ roofs of Meadovvllats. Tlnj
lordly pile of Castle Lundio intervened, interceptinj^' his viiw,
even as its master had como between him and his heart's
desiro.

F(jr a time a deep silence lay upon thorn hoth.

' My lad, my dear lad,' said the old man at length, * your
old father will never fail you.'

'I know that, dad, tliank God !* said John, and he brou-ht
his eyes back to his father's face with alfectionate gaze. ' Don't
fret about me, father. I will be all right. V/cll, I am hut
where I was before,'

' That is the true spirit of the boy,' said old John Strathearn,
with admiring fondness. * lie won't let a sorrow master
liim I '

' Nay, when I have so many blessings, it would ill become
me to say there was no good in anything simply because 1 am
denied one thing,' said John, with simple earnestness. 'AVell,
dad, that is over and done with. Let us never talk upon it
again. Will you agree '\ '

'Surely,' said the old man, and they shook hi.. ids upon it,
and the subject was mentioned no more between the u for many
a day.

l>ut in spite of his brave, bright, earnest words, charactorislic
of the man to the heart's core, it woukl not be over and done
with for .John Strathearn for a long time to come. Ah nn!
love was no light thing for him, and it would be no light task
for him to forget.

Meanwhile Sir William's dogcart had arrived at Meadowllats,
and Gertrude ran up-stairs to be scolded by her mother, who
had been in the utmost consternation over her absent.'.
Gertrude heard her in silence, and, when she went away at
length to dress for tea, the girl sat wearily down on the front
of the bed, and let her head droop on her hand. She had got
the one look she craved for indeed ; not in vain had slie gone
to seek it. Caroline had spoken the truth. She had only

hrnn
Won

Milil,

Jiianl
the ii
liorn(
try n

ness (
Pel

^VlM|i,l

reasoi

i'lipnl:

thawii

lace c(,

clasp f

filie wa

ready f

I'lit the

roii;n al

'My

I M'a.s n

it ailed I
'I to
Well no

Tin
again av

tliat noi

Oert
hurried

'Certi
.you wli

^^'ilh'am
J'" II heco
iiient hi
darlnif »
J-iie fa
clieek di

niaiTiage
^'f' give j

HIS PROMISED 11/ /E.

m1 in
that

will'".
The

bron tlio playt1iinj:j of an idlo hour to Joliii. nlmtlioarn ; he lia«l
Villi lnT lirart by his oarncst \vf)r(ls and wiiiniiij^' ways, even
\\\\'\\v liis was given to anotlier. Was tliat the way of all
iiiaiikind, sIk^ wondered? was tliero no trntli or lioiionr in
tlu! heart of any one of tlieni ? The; afternoon's (ixju'rienee liad
Imiiie fruit of its kind. Her own liaj)j»iness was lost; she would
try now to lind ht3r solace in doing her utmost for the happl-
Iit'ss of others.

perhaps after a time, tho iinflinchinLr perforniance of iluty
wiMild hriug h(!r tho reward of conteulnu^it. Thus sho
reasoncil in her solitude;, and then, as if inspired hy this new
iiiijiulse, sho luirriedly rose and made her toilet for thu
drawing-room. Sho M'as careful about it to-tiay. The dainty
Lue collar and sleeves, tho pretty silv(>r jew(;llery, the silver
clnsp for her hair (birthday gifts from her Uncle George when
she was at school), all were remembered. And when sho was
ready she went down-stairs. Her mother's tca-tabh; was spread,
hut the urn was not yet in. Her father was in the drawing-
rtiuai alone, and looked uj) anxiously at her entrance.

'My love, my dear child, you look more; like yourself now.
I was afraid when 1 saw you to-day in the town. What was
it aih.'d you?'

'I told you, papa,' answered Gertrude quietly. 'I am quite
Well now.'

There was a moment's silence, then Franklin-^Mayne spoko
a;^'ain with added eagerness.

' ]My child, 1 hope it will be all right — that Sir William —
that none of us are to be (lisai)pointed ?'

Gertrude did not at once rei)ly, and he continued in the same
hurried, eager way, —

'Gertrude, have pity on your poor old father. I will t(dl
you what perhaps would be better left untold. I am Sir
AVilliam's debtor to an extent I can never hoj)o to rei)ay. If
ynu become his wife there need never be any talk of repay-
iiiiiit b(!tween us. It will take away all my cares, my
ilarlmg.*

The faint colour which had stolen unawares to Gertrude's
clioek died away, and she grew white to the lips. Jfer
niarriage was to be a barter between man and man. She was
*'(' give her youth and bcau.y, herself, in exchange for wealth

I : ■ , i

i I

« : !

i I

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IMAGE EVALUATION
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1.0

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Corporation

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716)672-4503

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I :

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1 «,

,1 ]

: !

Ill '

1 3 ■]'

SUNDERED HEARTS.

nnd high estate. The thing was done often, she Vnrw.
A'oarly every day the world is witness to such perversion of
<he lawM of love and honour, but on that account it was none
the less a heinous sin in her eyes. l>ut for the sake of her
poor, frail, failing father she would submit.

Slie went up to him and laid both her arms about his neck,
nnd her voice when she spoke was broken by sobs.

* Put away all your cares, dear daddy. Out of ray love for
you I will do all you wish. For your dear sake I will be Sir
William's wife, and God will help me to do my duty by him,
^nd perhaps make it easier for mo than I dare to hope at
present.'

•Sir William, who had been washinj^ the dust of his drive
from his hands and face, entered the room, and Gertrude
rtarted back. He came forward to the hearth, but the droop-
ing head was not uplifted, the troubled, innocent eyes,
wherein just then a deep shadow lay, did not meet hia im-
passioned gaze.

Franklin-Mavno took his daughter's hand, and held it
towards Sir William Lundie.

* There is my daughter, William Lundie,' he said solemnly.
* And may God deal with you as you deal with her. '

Then he hurriedly left the room.

Sir William raised th» white hand he held to his lips, and
took a step nearer to the slender figure.

'This is my darling then, my promised wif^?' he said
eagerly.

Gertrude was silent a moment, but she had put her hand to
the plough, and dared not now turn back.

' I wiH be your wife. Sir William,' she said quite calmly,
too calmly to satisfy a lover's heart. lUit he put his arm
about her, and, bending his stately head, kissed her on the
lips.

from tli(
throng (

City. J
^•f door;
nMcrs ii

f<»V(tiirit(

MHUiy A
l'i"iiii.s('

W.IV ;,J,

•'^"',^^,"'stiv

•'J<y— to <

however,

^'iinislied
attire, w;

'"■nitle, 01
^'naiiiejiti

1 of

lono
her

leck,

e for

le Sir

him,

po at

CHArTER XIL

LUNDIE HOUSE, PICCADILLY.

'N Mie spiun'ousaiul lu'tiutiful «lr;i\viii,i;-room of Liindie
House, J^icciulilly, saL Miss Luiulic alone (»ii a
sunny aftrrnoon. She was «l(»in^ nothing, sitting
in one of the long, wide windows with her hands
idly folded on her hip, and her eyes wandering alternately
from the budding greenness in St. Janu!s's Park to the endless
throng of carriages which rolled incessantly to and from the
City. It was half-j)ast four, and fashionable London was out
of doors. Hyde Park was full ; already there were many
lidtrs in the Row. Miss Lundie at present was denied her
favourite exercise, because her brother was out of town, and
she did not care to have a f<jotman for an attendant, ller
]talt', aristocratic face wore no very pleasant expression thai
^uimy April day, and yet tliere was enough of Ixiauty and of
piiiiiiisc in the fresli green turf on which j)inkdipj)ed daisies
were already beginning to open their eyes — enough of
Htigg«>stive loveliness on hedge and tree, and in the ros(!-tiiited
sky — to gild even the heaviest thought. Elizabeth Lundie,
however, Inul no great love for nature's beauty; to her a well-
fin iiished room, or a costly article of jewellery or fashionable
attire, was intinitely metre interesting than spring's green
III iiitle, or than the rich hues of autumn. She was elegantly
'li'sscd in an afternoon gown of silk and finest cashmere, her
ornaments quaint mosaic set in gold. She was not beautiful

SUNDERED HEARTS.

r~ 1

j \m

by any means, l)ut slie was a handsome and elegant-looking
■woman, wlio carrit'd hor rank in her very mien. While slio
was sitting meditating upon her brother's absence in Scotland,
and the cause thereof, one of the many stately e(iuipag<s
■wliirh can be counted by hundreds in the West End duriii.,'
the season, was drawn up at the door of Lundie House,
^liss Lundie recognised the liigh-stcpping roans pertaining to
the Countess of Devanlia, even before she saw the lovely face
of her latlyship nodding and smiling from the carriage. In a
few minutes Lady JJevanha was ushered into the drawing-
room of Lundie House. Miss Lundie came forward to mert
her, and they gave eacli otlier the kiss of conventionality, arid
exi)ressed their pleasure at meeting, for in Scotland they had
become close companions.

' I was wearying for you, Sophia,' said Elizabeth Lundie.
* Do let me send your carriage home, and do you take olF your
bonnet and take tea with me. 1 am suHiciently dull here.
Kot a creature has looked near me since William went
away.'

' My dear, I daren't. The Earl would be furious. We are
to dine at six to-night to suit some gentlenuui he has asked,
and I tmLst bo home in time,' said Lady Devanha. ' lUit
where is your brother? ^Vhy, he was riding in the Row tlie
other day.'

* Last Wednesday, and left for Scotland by the niglit mail.'

* What does that mean ? Had he a sudden call \ '

* Not that I know of, but I can very well surmise what the
object of his vi.sit is,' said Miss Lundie, with bitt^'rness. ' In
fact, William is going to get liimself a wife, Sophia.'

' And you will be deposed so soon ! ' exclaimed the Counters,
sinking into a chair, and folding her dainty hands complacently
on her knee. * Ai^d, pray, who is the happy fair?'

*A nobody, Sophia; that is where it stings,' said Miss
Lundie hotly. * One could bear to have one's place usurjud
by a lit person. It is one of the Franklin-Maynes who lias
aspired to and has won my brother's affections,' she added,
with immeasurable scorn.

' Lnpossible ! I remember them well. The elder one is
very handsome, and the otlier is a ]iretty little school-girL Uf
course it is the former,' said Lady Devanha.

LUND IE HOUSE, PICCADILLY.

king
and,

ousc.
lit; to
r face

In a
win;4-

met't
^, and
;y had

lUndio.
tf yo\u'
I here.
I went

VVe are

asked,

' r.vit

ow the

ail'

Ihat the
'In

ninto-s,
lacently

d Mi>

lusuri

U'd

added,

one is
lirL Of

* Oh, of courso ; and from wliat I liave seen of hrr sho will
be hkcly to carry matters in a very higli-luuuled fa.>«hi<^ii wlieii
8lio is I^ady Lundie.'

'You are right. It will he imi)ossil)lo for you and slie to
live under one roof,' said Lady Devaidia simiifieantly. ' Well,
well, I did not think your hrother likely to si-ttle so s(X)U.
It is extraordinary sometimes the freaks tlmsir men take.'

•Was William very gallant in India, Sophia 1' queried
Miss Lundie, with interest.

Lady Devanha shrugged her shouMers.

' My dear, he was a i)erfect lady-killer. Is it possible you
have not heard the story of poor Adelaitle Crudenl'

'How could I possihiy hear it? Do tell me.'

* It is easily told ; only, my love, it will n<-t greatly redound
to your brother's credit. Adelaiile Cruden was a young
sul)altern's sister — orphans they w(?re, who, out of pity, w(,'ro
somewhat taken notice of in our cirele. Siie was one of those
sweet, angelic, milk-and-water maidens who.su chief aim in
life seems to be to die of love for some man. Well, your
hidther made love to her, j)romised to marry her, and all
thiit, you know, and she worshipped him. After a little her
Mind devotion began to pall upon our gay Lothario, and ho
}^Me\v less fond. Well, of course, she began to break \\v.i
iirart and her health over it, and they said she came and
iini)lored hira to have pity on her. He projni.sed to many
her in a given time, I believe, and the j)oor fond thing began
to make her preparations. But when it came to l)c so scriou.s,
my lord was missing, gone up the country tiger-hunting, or
Miiuething, and he wrote to her, saying it would l)e better for
them never to meet again. What did she do? Died, of
cour.se, as was to be expected of her kind. The bvotlier, a
liot-headed young fellow,' added Lady Devanha, with a littlo
smile, for she had held that same hot-headed f(dh)W fast in
lier toils, 'vowed vengeance against Sir William, antl would
have had it, too, had he not been out of Calc»itta wheji your
hiolher returned. Public oj)inion was ratlier against William
for a time, and I am right in suspecting that he found it far
loo hot for him, and so came home, apparently, to find
pastiu'es new.'

' Dear me, how interesting ! but it was rather mean of

1 1
1 1

I ill

SUNDERED HEARTS.

William to troat tlio poor thine* ro hadly,' said Miss Lnnd'e
iinisin;j;iy. ' 1 doii't 8Ui)jx>se Miss Kninkliii-Mayne wouM l,e
greatly pleased to \w\x\' such a story.' '

' My (Ic^ar, I can vcwX my own sex liko an opon book, an<l I
tell you slie is not the sort of woman to let such triil<;s rullle
her,' said Lady Dovanha. ' If her hushand can j>rovide her
with position, means, and every other needful of this life, she
will not lei his aulectulents or ante-matriuKjnial allairs trouhle
her. I think I could get ou very well with your futuio
eister-ih-Iaw.'

' 'I'hen you will make friends with her, Sophia \ ' said Miss
Lundie rather reproa<djfully.

Lady Devanha lauj^died a silvery laugh.

'My love, of course I will. If I want to flirt sometinios
with Lady Lundie's husband, I must be civil to I^uly Lundie
herself. 1 am very fond of your brother, Elizabeth, and when
I want to tease the Earl, I tell him I would intinit<;ly liavi;
preferred William Lundie for a husband, only he did not ask
me in time,' she said, with charming candour, and then rose
to go. ' Let me advise you, Elizabeth, not to look too glum
over this affair ; always put the best face on trouble. Of
course I sympathize with you. It is inlinitely preferable to
be Miss Lundie of Castle Lundie and Lundie House than
Miss Lundie of nowhere in particular; but such is life
Some day soon I ho{>e you will have a home of your own,
but, ah me ! matrimonial prizes now-a-days are few and difli-
cult to draw. Ah^ here is your tea-tray ! How I should
like to stay and partiike with you, but 1 must positively go.
^ly love, good afternoon.'

80 saying, the Countess fluttered away, to relate to the
next friend she met the entire circumstances of the Lundio
family, and to speak pityingly of 'that poor, plain Elizabeth,'
at whom no man would ever look.

The evening mail brought a letter for Miss Lundie addressed
in her brother's bold handwriting, and bearing the Rumford
IK)st-mark. It was very brief, merely stating that he wouM
not return to town for a few days, and giving various direc-
tions al)out the horses and other uninteresting matters. iSo
]\Iiss Lundie had to abide in coin|)arative solitude till the end
of the week, when, ou fciuLurday morning, she received a

LUND IE HOUSE, PICCADILLY.

a I

bcr

slu)
111 lie

Miss

tiinos
uiulio
vvlu'U

ot ask
II rost)
glum
p. Of
.ble to
) Umn

8 lif<'.
own,

Id (lilVi-
sliouUl
ely go.

I to the
jun«lio
kabetl),'

Idresped
luirfortl
woul'i
diroc-
irs. ^0
Ithe end
jivud a

tclogram saying' Ikt brotlior would be homo at night. Now
she had no expectation of being told what had taken him
to Scotland; she was therefore rather surprised when, after
having had his late dinner, he came up to the drawing-room,
evidently for the purpose of having some conversation with
her. He was in a very amiable mood — in fact, he even seemed
to lo(,k younger; evidently his mission had been crowned
with success.

' Well, have you had a dull time of it during my absence,
Elizabeth?' he asked all'ably.

'Not particularly,' she answered briefly.
' 1 have womlered whether you had any iJea of what took
nil' to Scotland,' he said then.

'How could I [tossibly have any iilea, William? You do
not make me your conhdante.'

' I'erhaps wisely. You have rathiT many dear particular
fiieiids to be trusted with much,' he said, with gooddiumoured
sanasm. * Perhaps it may surprise you, then, to hear that I
am about to be married % '

Miss Lumlie preserved admirably her careless, indiU'erent
expression of face.

'Why should I be surprise<n ' she asked quietly. 'You
iire no longer young, and it is natural you should desire to
give Castle Lundie a mistress, as your ancestors have done.'

'Well said, Elizabeth! You are a thoroughly sensible
woman. I admire your practical good sense I ' exclaimed Sir
William delightedly, for he was in the best of spirits, and
evirything seemed to smile upon him now. 'Have you
guessed at the lady of niv choice?*

A slight smile curved his sister's proud lips.
'Am I blind, William? Do you suj>])ose I have watched
you go day after day to Meadowllats without knowing w7///
you went? There is no use for me to say that 1 think you
laight have found a woman whose name and rank could better
match your own, but 1 am not fool enough to suppose that
anything I, or any person, would say, could for a moment
shake your decision or change your plan.*

'You are right, Elizabeth, and I am grateful to you for the
manner in which you have received this announcement, said
Sir William slowly. ' lielieve me. I shall not forget it.'

^ i

',1 J ?

ilii

I-

I';

98 SUN It I: NED IIliAK IS.

'ninre was a nKtincnt'a silcrK'o, and Kli/aln'th Tjjndic Pnt
witli her eyes downcast, ami a sii;^lilly li(;i;;lil(iiiMl ('«»lour in
luT cheek. She had schooled licrsclf for this, kiiowiii;^ th;it
with a man of her brother's calibre it was the wisest and lust
course to pursue if she would keep her own intiicsts \\\
view.

* You will, of course, expect me to quit your house before
Lady Lundie comes home?' she said, lifting her kci-n eyes
qui'stionin^'ly to his face.

'That is a matter I wish to lay before you, Kli/abctli.
^liss Kranklin-Mayne lias very little experience of society —
none whatever of the things which will be recpiired of her ms
my wife,* said Sir William, beginning to pace to and fro tin;
room. * If you are willing, it would be good for Iht were ynu
to remain, at least for a time, a member of our family cini*-.'

To say Elizabeth Lundie was astonished but weakly
exj)resses her feelings.

' It is very kind of you to wish me to stay, William,' she
said; 'but I fear it might not be agreeable to your wife. It
did not strike me that she lacked experience. She has becu
out, I think, for a few years.'

Sir W^illiam smiled. He knew what mistake his sister was
labouring under.

'I see your perception has been slightly at fault, Elizabeth.
It is not Miss Franklin-Mayne who is my promised wife, but
her younger sister, Gertrude.'

Miss Lundie rose.

* WTiy, William, is it possible ? That school-girl ! that
child ! that innocent, baby-faced little creature ! ' she ex-
claimed. * Is it she you have chosen as the future Lady
Lundie % '

* Even so. Gertrude Mayne is the future Lady Lundie ! '
'I am relieved, but immeasurably surprised. Well may

you say she lacks experience ! Why, poor little tiniiil
thing, like Lady Burleigh, she wnll be borne down with an
honour unto which she was not born,' exclaimed Miss Luiwlio.
' W^ell, William, I do not know where your eyes were wh^^^n
you chose her instead of her handsome sis, r ; only you liave
this advantage, that you will bo able to mould your girl-wife
into what form you will.'

Pflt
r in

tli.il

,8 in

ilM'th,
ety—

MM' US

ro lliti
re yu
inl<'.'

m,' she
ife. It
as becu

LUND IE /JO USE, PICCADILLY.

ter was

'Then you will stay with us for a time at least?' said Sir
AVilliam a triflo ilrily, lor he did not altoj^'cthcr relish iiis
histcr's jdain speakiiij;.

* Williii^'ly. Did you speak of it to \\vxV

•It was not necessary. Gertmde is willing to be guided by
me in all thing's.'
Miss Lundie smiled.

• \ thou^dit as much ; but surely, William, your marriage
will not take place before the lapse of a year at least.*

'Why noti it is already fixed for the 18th of June, then
'w3 will go uj)on the Continent, only returning in time for tlie
Twiilfth. Vou will go to Castle Lunilie in our absence,
Klizaheth, and be in readiness to receive us.'

Miss Lundie nodded. She was well pleased ; nay, more,
her heart swelled with pleasure and hope, for the future was
very bright. She would be mistress still of Castle Luntlie — ■
her years, her experience, her rank, would make it easy for her
to set aside her brother's girl-wife.

Not so hasty, Elizab(!th Lundie ; the girl-wife may prove
lnrst!lf a woman yet, with a strength of purpose and tirmnesa
of will vvilli wliich even yours will find it dilUcult to cope.

zabcth.
rife, but

1! that
she ex-
re Lady

Bill

lie!'

ell "i:^y
e tiiuul
with an

Lun>liti-
ve wIk'D

ou have

girl-vaie

CHAPTER XIIL

THE MARRIAGE.

'11

;i ■

yiii

II!

in I

FIXE tit-hit for tho Kuinford Imsyhodios was llie
forthcomin*,' iimrria^'c; of Sir Wiliiain Liindic to
Gertrudo Fraiiklin-Mayno. Opinion was dividfl
as to the suitahlenpss of tlie match, hut jx'ojdc
were unanimous in &ayiii,L,' that Mrs. Franlchn -Maync li;id
played her cards well. Jlajipy woman ! she was in tin*
zenith of delight. IJills ceased to worry — ceased to coin(! in
at all, indeed, for, in the eyes of Kumford tradesj)eople, tlif
future mother-in-law of the chief lord of the soil was a
very dilferent ])er8on from the wife of the needy master nf
^AfeadowHats. She could order what she pleased now with-
out fear of the result, consequently Meadowflats Avas fi_<,MiiMt-
ively speakin.i,' for a time a land flowin*,' with milk ami
honey. The liride-elect's trousseau was entrusted to Madame
Dumaresque of Regent Street, and that lady came Imt
august self to !Meadowflats to see what was required, it
was im[)erative that she should come, hecause the bride to lie
was not able to travel to London to see her. Gertrudes
listlessness, her pale and wearied languor, was a source of some
chagrin to Mrs. IVIayne, and of an unspeakable uneasiness to
her husljand. Ix)oking at the shadowed face of his best-loved
cliild, the man's heart was smitten with remorse, and he coiiM
almost have stopped the thing had it been within his power to
do so.

100

THE MARRIAGE.

K 1

idic to

But ihnt wa« impossible now, even if Cicrtnule liad sronicil
to wish it. She was passive, perfectly willing' to <l(> aiivtliiiij^
that wjis required of her, — to look at patterns and materials, at
jewellery and milliner's trities, — she would not fail in <>n«' j<»t
or tittle of her task. She accepted the ma^Miiticent half iioop
of diamonds which Sir William brought as a formal tokm <»f
tlu'ir betrothal, allowed him to put it on her linger, and to
kiss her, and nmrmur fond words about it and the plaim-r oiio
so soon to glitter by its side. But she showed no elation over
his costly gift, the glittering circlet awakeiietl no tender ehmd
in her heart, recalled none of those sweet memories insepaiahly
connected with the engagement-ring when it is given and
received in love. Although Sir William could have wished a
little more animation in his darling, he still attributed it to
shyness, and told himself the white bud would oj)en when b«
had it in his own keeping, away from every i»rying eye. MisM
Lundie did not come down to Scotland until the last week of
May, but she had previously written a kind, if ratlmr patron-
izing, letter to her future sister-in-law, and received a geiitly-
woriled and grateful reply. The first morning she was at
Castle Lundie she drove over with her brother, as in duty
bound, to see the bride. Caroline was alone in the drawin^,'-
room, and a somewhat distant greeting pass(!d between thest)
two women, who never would be friends, because their natures
were antagonistic.

* I have come to see your sister. Miss Franklin- Mayne,* said
Elizabeth Lundie. ' Can I see her ? '

' I suppose so,' said Caroline caredessly, and touched the
bell. 'Pray tell Miss Gertrude that Sir William and Mi>s
Lundie are here,* she said calmly, and resumed the dejieate
jtiece of fancy-work with which she had bej>n engaged wlieii
the vi, itor was announced. She did not oiler to si)eak, and
tlie two sat in dreary silence, for Sir William had purposely
remained out of doors with Mr. Muyne. In a few minutes
Mrs. Mayne came bustling into the room, with outstretcln'd
hands and radiant face. Miss Lundie actually forgot heistif
80 far as to stare at her attire. She wore a morning-gown of pom-
padour sateen of such a pattern as an acknowleilged beauty w ould
scarcely have dared to wear. II er cap was of the same maienai
profusely trimmed with lace and adorned with primroses.

IJMIL

103

SUNDERED HEARTS.

' My dear Miss Lundi^, so cliarnicd to roo yon ! «o pood of
you to cnino mo sdon alter your fati^Miiii^' journ«!y,* slu) said.
♦ Y'cs, Gertrudes will bo down just in a iniinito. Poor, swrct
chiM, filio is nervous uiid a littlo lluttercd. Not to ho
wondered at, I think, at her ape, and the time druwiu;,'
so ni'iir.'

Miss Linnlie bowed stifTly, and resumed her seat. She did
not know wliich was the more insullerjible — the gusliing, ovt r-
dressed mr)ther, or tlie proud, still, hau<,dity sister. It was an
unsjieakablo relief to her when Gertrude at last entennl tin)
room. Slio rose once more, advanced half-way to the dour,
and, taking both the girl's slim hands in hers, kissed lur
cheek.

' My (l(>ar, I am glad to see you ; but how pale you look —
liow changed ! I would scarcely have known you ! ' she said
kindlv.

The faintest shadow of a smile hovered for a moment on tlie
girl's pale lips, and the truthful, earnest eyes were uplifted
with strange wistfulness to the liaughty face. Klizaluth
Lundie never forgot that look. She went back to her chair,
and Gertrude sat down on an ottoman, and folded her hands.
The diamonds glittered on the slender third finger, the sini-
beams making each precious gem a little blaze of light.

Mrs. May no talked, the rest sat silent Again Miss Lundio
was relieved by the entrance of the gentlemen. She keenly
watched Gertrude for the next fifteen minutes, and several
things made themselves singularly plaiii to her penetratini;
mind.

* Wlien will you come over and see me, dear, before I resifjn
my post to you ? ' she said gracefully, when slie took
Gertrude's hand at parting.

A deep, almost painful flush then overspread the girl's
sweet face.

'Thanks, you are very good; but if you please I would
rather remain at home. 1 have so little time with them now,'
she said quietly.

'Your father has promised to bring you some day early
in the week, Gertru<le,' said Sir William ; and, thougli his
glance was fond, his tojto was (h'cided. ' It will be a gria^
di:>appointment to Elizabeth if you do not come.'

V'^ AMA'A'/.-tCE.

103

•Vory well,' «ai(l ricrtruilc, (|niti5 (piictly still.

Tlit'ii iIm' fiiri'wcll j,M('<'li!ii,'H worn niiulc, iiikI llic brothor anil
BJsttT I'kIc iiwiiy t(»;^'r|,li('r.

'TIh' cliild is vi'iy much chiiu^^M'd huwm I saw her last,'
H;»i(l Miss Liiiidit', after tlicy liul left tlio ntitranei' j^'att's
i.f MiMiluwllatH l)(!liin«l. ' What is the matter with li« r,
Wiili.im?'

' Matter with her? — nothiii;^. What do you suppose is tho
iiiiittrr willi her?' said Sir William testily.

'S)it^ Idnks execetlini^dy ill, as it' luu" mind and body aliko
wnc iinde.r some tcrrihlo strain,' said Miss Luiidie slowly.
' II slrui;lv me — wron|^ly, 1 hope.-- that she had the appearaueo
of a person hein;.,' coerced into marriage.'

' Mli/aheth, you talk most absurdly ! ' said Sir William
liotly, for the idea was nctt [ileasant to him. ' Who could
(orree her into a marria^'e ? '

' Tliat mother is Ht for anythinj^. She is a frightful
creature,' said Miss Lundie. 'I hope, William, that you will
not encourage your mother in-law to c<mie often to Castlo
Lundie.'

' Not exactly,' said Sir William slowly. ' I am not marrying
the family, Elizabeth. What do ycm think of her sister?'

'I do not 'ike her. She will make trouble if you do not
take care.'

Sir William smiled.

' I do not agree with you. I both like and respect Caroline
Mayne. She shall be welcome to come and go as she j)l(.'ases
to Castle Lundie.'

Miss Lundio bit her lips, but made no further remarks upon
Caroline.

' The old man looks very delicate, quite worn and ag(!d,' she
yaid next.

• Ay, poor old chap, he is not long for this world, I fear,'
said Sir William.

•lust then a horseman came in view on the dusty road, a
luihle aniuial bearing a stalwart figure, in grey tweeds. When
iie came up a distant salutation i)asscd between Sir William
and John Stratheani.

*]lovv handsome young Strathearn is, and what a beautiful
animal he ridca ! ' exclaimed Miss Lundie when they were ysLAt.

I i

!il;1'

104

SUNDERED HEARTS.

* Ay, tlioso yonnc^ sjM'igs of tlio cotton aristocracy like to ape
their better^,' said Sir William bitterly.

Causeless was his dislike of Joliii Stratlieani, but it was tlio
outcome of jealous envy of the noble, youthful figure, of the
tine face, of the love witli v.hich he was loved in Rumford ;
in fact, Sir William Lundie would very willingly have seen
1m m crushed to the dust. Little minds only are capable of
such poor jealousy. In .loiin's nature there was no room fur
such, and he honestly wished his high-born and successful
rival uvery happiness, if only he would be good to the sweet
young wife ha would have given so much to win.

ricrtrude was not able to pay the promised visit to Castle
Lundie early in the week ; she was even unable to leave her
own apartments. Caroline was with her constantly there,
trying to cheer her by eloquent talk of the brilliant future in
store. But the pathetic eyes never brightened — no expression
of interest ever crossed the sweet, patient, shadowed face.
When it came to witliin ten days of the marriage, which viis
to be celebrated quietly at Meadowilats, Mrs. Mayne took
alarm in earnest, and sent for Doctor Dunsyre. When he saw
her that afternoon he was inexpressibly shocked. She was so
changed from the bright, hajjpy, winsome girl who hid so
often spent an hour with his sister, that for a moment he could
not speak. She smiled wanly up into his face, and asked
kindly for Margaret.

' She is well, thank you ; but, my dear "Miss Gertrude, it
pains me inexpressi])ly to see you so ill, and the auspicious
event so near at hand,' he said gravely.

* My daughter has been much excited, and a little worried,
perhaps, with the preparations,* said Mrs. MayiiJ a little
sliarply. ' Surel^^ you can prescribe some tonic to strengthen
and raise the system a little ?

Yes, Doctor Dunsyre could very well prescribe a tonio.
He knew what would work the charm, but he dared nut
utter it.

'I will send up something this afternoon, Mrs. Mayne,' li«3
said politely. 'And in the meantime. Miss Gertrude, I would
advise you to go out of doors as much as possible. Has thid
lovely June weatlier no tenqiting charms for you?'

The kind tones, the anxious, half-compassioniite smile on

THE MARRIAGE.

loS

tlie face of her old friend, caused Gertrude's eyes suddenly to
overflow. Seeing that, Mrs. Mayne hurried him away,
inwardly ai^athematizing him for what she termed his meddie-
snnie interference. Yet there had heen nothing meddlesome
or interfering in David Dunsyre's words, though his manner
ini[)lied much. In some things Mrs. Mayne was shrewd and
iar-seeing enough.

On the terrace outside he met Caroline face to face. Oh,
how lovely she looked in her white summer dress, how
desirable in his eyes. He saw that she would have spoken,
also that her face visibly paled, but he only gravely lifted his
hat, and, jumping into his gig, drove rapidly away. David
l»unsyre did iiot mention to his sister that day that he had
been at Meatlowflats. He was a little odd in some things,
and could keep his own counsel better than any man in
Uumford. The first time he mentioned his visit was one
al'tcrnoon when John had dropped in to the drawing-room,
and Margaret made some remark upon the wedding to take
[ilacc in two days' time.

' It strikes mc very forcibly that the poor girl is being forced
into this marriage,' he said slowly, as he sipped his tea.

' You have no right to say so, David,' spoke up Margaret
sharply. * I assume Oertrude Mayne is not the sort of woman
to be coerced into an} thing.*

' Um, that'*^ just a piece of opinion,' said David ; and though
he kept his eyes keenly on John's face he saw no sign of
interest or emotion there, only it did strike him that of late
his friend had seemed to look dull, and more careworn than he
should.

'When did you form that opinion?' asked Margaret.

' I went to see her professionally a week ago, and the change
in her was striking and painful,' he said slowly, still lo(jking
at J ohn. He saw his face change, and that he swiftly turned
away his head.

* It will be the burden of her honours, perhaps, weighing
upon her, like poor Lord Burleigh's wife,' said ^Margaret, with
mild sarcasm, using unconsciously Miss Lundie's own words.

iS'cither David nor John liked the tone in which she spoke.

* It is a question worth studying, why you are so universally
uncharitable towards each other,' said the Doctor drily. * Must

' I

. it

^ 1 '^ i ^

i ■

1
1

'*t I

ll ' I

¥ I

in6

SUNDERED HEART:

von r^o, John ? If you wait till I run up to see a patient in
th(; TorracG, I'll convoy you a bit.'

' I jan't wait ; thanks all the same,' said John, and soiao-
wliat abruptly took his leave.

David's words rang their changes in his ears. Could tluy
have a grain of truth in them ? could it be that among tlii'ia
they were breaking his darling's heart, spoiling the fair young
life at its \ery outset ?

Unconscious of what he was doing, he strode on past tlio
mill, along the burn road to the bridge — ay, across it too, innl
up the path to the Mcadowflats grounds. And once at the
stile, which was hidden from view of the town by the leafy
Juno foliage, he caught the tlutter of a white shawl, the gleam
of sunny hair, and Ids heart beat fast and furious in his
breast. A few strid(!s took him to the stile, and he was face
to face once moie with his love. He could have cried out at
the wofui change upon t»'at lovely face, but both stoml
absolutely still, Gertrude tri.nd)ling from head to foot, until
she was oblij;cd to lay one blue-veined hand upon the mossy
rail for support.

' I am mad, idiotic to come here ! ' said John hoarsely. ' I
know not what impulse moved me to come. I heard them say
you were being forced to marry bir William Lundie, and I
suppose I came to see. Only let me hear from your own ]i})s
that they lied ; tell me you are nappy, and I will go awciy,
praying God bless you and him.'

No words fell from the white lips of Gertrude Mayne. TTm'
wide eyes looked straight into his with a strange comminglinq
in their deptiis. Agony, wistful entreaty, yearning love wero
there, but he could not lead them rightly.

' I am to be married the day after to-morrow,' she ^id at
length, in a faint whisper. * Why did you wait so long % '

A ctrange light came into John's eyes, the light of a passioii
held in curb.

'If you Till but bid me, my darling, I will take you fmni
them yet, It is not too late,' he said hoarsely, and took a
step nearer to her.

There was tiie crackling of brashwood behind Gertrude, a
hasty footfall, and then the shadow of a tail figure fell aslant.
the sunlight of the summer evening. A voice fell upon their

TIIR MARKIACR.

107

enrs, coM, measured, clear and distinct as a bell in the drowsy
stilliu'ss.

'1 have been looking for you, Gertrude, scarcely dreaming
that I should and you here with this person,' he said, without
so much as looking at John. ' Pray allow me to take you
hack. I fear you are weaker tlian I thought.*

John ground his teeth when he saw lier turn to him and
ohcili(;ntly lay her hand on his arm. They had trained her
well.

'I am very sorry. Sir William, it was quite by accident,*
she said calmly. Then, as she turned to go, she looked at
John, and if her voice took a more hurried tone tliat was all.
' Good-bye, Mr. Strathearn ; pray forget what 1 said. I thank
you for your good wishes. Good-bye.'

So they passed away together from his view, and he saw
Gertrude Mayne no more. When next he looked upon her
face she was Lady Lundie, of Castle Lundie, Lundie House,
Piccadilly, and Stoke Abbey, Herts ; for by all these titles did
Airs. Mayne love to call her.

On the third day after that, the following notice ap'^^eared
in the English and Scotch newspapers : —

*At Mea<lo\vflats, Rumford, N.B., on the 18th inst.. Sir
AVilliam Lundie, P)art., of Castle Lurulie and Stoke Abbey, to
(Icitrude Lucy Mary, second daughter of Gilbert Franklin-
May ue, Esq.'

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PART II.

CHAPTER I.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

> I

■ i

R^ K the wide, low window of a private drawing-room
in a Venetian hotel stood Lady Liindie on the

on
afternoon of the eighteenth of July. She was
alone and idle, and apparently deeply absorbed in
thought, Her eyes were fixed on the spires and domes of that
wondrous city, but her heart was elsewhere. Venetian skies
were blue and smiling, Venetian scenery picturesque and
novel to her unaccustomed vision ; nevertheless her eyes were
lilled with deep yearning for the greyer skies and colder, more
rugged beauty of the land of her birth. Her attitude was
listless, suggestive of languor, and a little weariness of the
heart — not an attitude common to a four weeks' bride. Her
face was pale, and her eyes mournfully shadowed ; but her
liLfiire seemed to have gained in dignity and grace. The
i^light, insignificant-looking girl, who a month ago had taken
the vows of wifehood upon her in the drawing-room at
]\Ieadowflats, was a girl no longer, but a woman who knew
her position, and who carried in her mien the consciousness
of her double dignity of rank and wifehood. Gertrude Mayne
M'as a being of the past, whose life was over. Gertrude Lady
Lundie's career was but newly begun.

lOi)

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auxnr.Ki: d he a k ts.

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A peal of morry laui^litor broko the stillness of tho snmmor
air, and Lady Luiulin, ai-eiiig whence it came, sniiliid «li,i;htly
and waved her hand. A gondola, in which sat a sweet Kiii^lisii
girl with a yonng man busidc her, swept swiftly up tlie w.itt r
past tiie windows of the hotel. They were visitors to Vtiiitu',
and betrothed lovers as well. Lady Lundie had met tlitin at
various jilaces to wliich lier husband had taken her, ami li:nl
grown «|uite interested in them; they were so young iin.l
light-liearted, and so happy in each other. The giil was
travelling with her father; the young man had a college chum
as his companion ; but the latter, finding himself so often t/e
trop^ had settled down for a week's art study at Florence, and
left the lover to follow his betrothed to Venice. The girl was
a year or two older than Lady Lundie, yet the interest the
young wife took in her was that which an elderly woman, who
had suffered much, might take in one who was just standing
on the threshold of life. Lady Lundie herself was an object
of intense and compassionate interest to that pair of ha['[»y
lovers. Her position was plain enough — she carried her history
in her face. Sir William Lundie would have felt righteously
indignant had he overheard the terms in which he was dis-
cussed by tlie boy and girl, as he contemptuously called them.

When the gondola swept out of sight, Lady Lundie turned
away to a little work-table and took up the slipper she was
sewing for her father. She had finished the other at Rome,
and this one had been begun in Florence. It would interest
him, she knew, to be told where every stitch had been put in.
Before she had taken the work in her hand, however, the
door opened, and her husband entered the rcjom.

' Busy again, Gertrude ? ' he said ; ' you are, without doubt,
the most diligent of womenkind.'

* Indeed, no, William ; I have been looking out of the
window for at least half an hour, and was rewarded at last l»y
the sight of our young lovers. They seem to be our travelling
companions.'

' Apparently. Well, what am I to get for what I have
brought you?' he asked teasingly.

She looked up cngcrjy.

'Letters, Vv'illi.iin ! Scotch letters! Lot me see them!
she cried. 'It seems so long since I heard of or fruni home.'

hu^hamj a.md hue.

Ill

. doubt,

of the
last l»y

'Tliore is but one letter to-day, my love, for wliich T want
mv paynjeiit,' lie said, keeping his hand behind him, and
t^linhtly bending towards her.

Her face (lushed, but she raised her head, touched his brow
with her lips, and hehl out her hand.

' Let me have it now, if you ph-ase.'

'Tliere it is ; I believe you prize it more than you would
one of mine,' he said, in a slightly vexed tone. 'The writing,
1 think, is your sister's.

(Jertrudc did not liear ; she had broken the seal, and had
begun its perusal. It was short, yet ominous enough.

• Meadowflats, N.B.
* July \Otk, 18—.

• My dear Gertrude, — I write this in the hope tliat it
will speedily reach you. You know papa was ailing when you
left, and whether it was the excitement of the marriage or
not we cannot tell, but he has been very poorly ever since,
lie has not been down-stairs, nor out of bed, indeed, for a
week. Doctor Dunsyre shakes his head. Mamma telegraj)}ied
ior Doctor Charteris this morning, and he wires from North-
luiiberland, where he is attending the ^larchioness of Barnsley,
that he will be here to-night. Papa speaks very much of you,
and in his sensible moments, which, I am sorr;;, to say, are
growing fewer every hour, he always asks if you are on your
way home. I think, dear, you ought to come, for, though we
still hopf^ for recovery (Doctor Dunsyre says he has a chance
if the illness takes a certain turn), we must be prepared for
the worst. I know this will be a terrible shock to you, my
dearest, but we dare not keep it from you. Do try to come.
Surely Sir William will not hinder or delay. With dear love
to you, and kind remembrances to Sir William, I am your
loving sister,

*Caroune Mayne.'

i !

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I have

them !

The letter fluttered to the floor, and Lady Lundic covered
her face with her hands. Sir William picked it up and read
it through. He never thought of asking permission to do so,
although his letters were not left open for his wife's perusal.
He had his own opinions on certain matters.

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112

SUNDERED HEARTS.

' This ia unfortunate, Gortrude,' ho said, and neither voice
nor oxpnissiion wore particnilarly sympathetic.

*1 will go and tell Clare to pack my thinga. I sup])ose we
can get away from Venice to-night T said La<ly Luiidic,
starting up.

' No, we cannot, nor can we act so hurriedly,* said Sir
"William quietly. ' We must consider certain things. This
will upset all our armngements.'

' Wliat of that? What are arrangements to me when papa
is ill, dying, jRirhaps calling for me, and I not there?' she
exclaimed passionately.

' Be calm, my love, or you will make yourself ill, and then
travelling will be out of the question. Have you considered 1
Why, we are not expected home for throe weeks. Castle
Lundie will not be in readiness till then, Elizabeth not there
to receive us ; in fact, it is well-nigh in) possible for us to
return to Scotland immediately,' said Sir William, who was
methodical in his habits, and hated to be hurried or incon-
venienced in any way.

His wife looked him straight in the face, with wondering,
almost scornful eyes.

' What do you say, William ? Is it possible you would keep
me here when my heart is breaking to be home, and yet you
speak of love for me ? '

' Be reasonable, my life, and remember your first duty now
is to me,' said Sir William, for if he did not hold his own in
this, their first difference, his authority would be gone. 'Uf
course, I am extremely grieved for you cind for your poor
father, — who is a most estimable man, — and I have no intention
of kee])ing you away from him at this time ; only there are
some things which, as I said, must be considered and planned
before we can at a moment's notice upset all our arrangements.'

Lady Lundie was very pale, and in her eyes there was a
strange commingling of feelings.

'Very well, William, I will try to be patient, and wait till
you are ready to take me home,' she said, in a low voice, and
turned to leave the room.

But her husband's heart smote him, and he caught her to
his breast.

' My darling, of course you think me a tyrant. It is my

HUSBAND AND IV/FE.

113

love for you which makes me so. I am jealous of your fathor,
jealous of everything I fear you estimate more highly than
me,' he said passionately. ' Of course I will take you home.
AVe will leave to-morrow, and travel by way of Paris. It will
tiiko us a little longer, but I have some business there to
wliich I must attend. Look up, and smile upon me, and say
you forgive me for my seeming harshness.'

She did as she was bid, but he knew that her heart was not
ill her action nor in her words. He was beginning to realize
that it might be a mistake to marry girl-wife who did not
love him, even when he had her training in his own hands.

'I will go out, Gertrude, and telegraph to Elizabeth to
proceed at once to Castle Lundie,' he said presently. ' She is
staying at present with Lady Devanha at their place in Surrey.*

Gertrude turned her head quickly.

'There is no nead to inconvenience Miss Lundie, William,
as I shall probably be at Meadowflats for a time — that is, if
j)apa is still in need of me,* she said, with a falter in her voice.
' There is no need of any formal reception.*

'My love, I must just remind you again that your home
henceforth will be at Castle Lundie, not at Meadowflats,'
said Sir William, in his quiet but decided tones. * I shall not
prevent you going to see your father, of course, but he will
not expect that you are to take up your position as his nurse.'

Lady Lundie bit her lip. For the first time in her life the
gentle spirit was roused, and something like anger was in her
heart, and could have found expression through her lips. Her
husband noted that quivering lip — noted, too, the heightened
colour in her cheeks — and a smile touched for a mome^^t his
long, thin lips. The girl-wife, like other women, had a temper
of her own.

' Shall I telegraph to your sister at the same time, and say
we are on our way home ? * he asked, as she again turned to
leave the room.

* As you please,* she answered wearily, and went away up
to her dressing-room. She sat down there, and, pressing her
hands to her throbbing temi)les, tried to see wherein the path
of duty lay. Because she had become a wife, was it her stern
duty to renounce all other claims ? must no other love find an
abiding-place in her heart 1 If so, then she must be desolate

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SUNDERED HEARTS.

indc't'd, for, tlutu^h she li;ul been Sir Willi:nn's wifo for fmir
weeks, sli(} felt iio iiejiier to liiiu — iiJiy, her hoart was further
oil' lliaii ever. For at tiriu'S tlieie had Leen ivvealotl to lier ii
}^'liiii[Kso (»f selfishness, of hearticvSsnesrt, whicli math) hor iHs-
iiiiiyeil. Aiiart from any love, it would ho no easy task f^r
iier to lionour and respect the man with whom her life must
liencefijith he sjtent.

The maid, a ,L,'entle-oyed, kindly-disposed youn^' creature, at,
that moment entered the room to lay out her lady's dinner toilet.
Slio started to see her sittin*,' in what appeared to he tlio
ahamlonment of j^rief. With more delicacy than those of her
chuss ^'enerally <lisplay, she was about to retire uyain, when her
mistress raised her head.

'Come in, Clare,' she said feebly. *I have had bad new.-^
from home, and it is quite possible we may have to return to
Scotland earlier than we expected. You had better have
everything,' in readiness in case of a sudden journey.'

' Very well, my lady. I am very sorry to hear it,' said iho
girl. * What shall 1 put out for you to wear to-night ? '

' Nothing — that is, anything you j)lease,' said the yoi-.ii^'
wife listlessly, for Sir AVilliam required that she should make
an elaborate toilet for dinner every evening, even though they
were alone.

Clare turned to the wardrobe with a perceptible sigh. That
a lady, newly married, and possessed of so complete and
beautiful a wardrobe, should be utterly indifferent as to what;
she should wear, betokened something seriously wrong. Hub
it ha<l not taken that sharp-eyed young person four weeks to
discover that her fair young mistress was not a happy woman.

By ten o'clock next morning Sir William and Lady Lundii^
were on their wav to Paris. She was not made aware of tlio
nature of her husV)and's business there, but it detained them
for two days ; conseijuently they ditl not reach London until
six days after the receipt of Caroline's letter. Lady Lundie
})reserved an outward semblance of calmness and patience ;
but oh, what an agony of longing, of bitter rebellion, sur^Mil
in her storm-tossed soul 1 In those brief weeks she had
leanuul that her husliand required unquestioning obedience at
her hands, and, though she hail been early trained to obey in
all things, it seemed harder now. She could not tell why it

i»-i

gjaiki

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

i<$

was that the desiro was constantly with her to oppnao h«»r
liusl)iiinra will, why hIio sIkhiM IIikI it so hard a task to j^'ivy
iiiin wifely duty. Thi? solution of the mystery was that love
was lacking' to mako olx'.dionce sweet. They left London on
Tlniisday by the night mail, vvhi«;h arrived in Edinburgh early
on the following morning. In tlie same leisurely manner Sir
AViliiam set aside his wife's entntaty to take the train about
to start for the s»»uth. lie saiil it would be too much fati-riuj
f(»r lier, and that tliey would drive to an hotel, where she
wduld breakfast and rest awhile. The noon-day train would
(III very well ; an hour or two now would make no difference.
Agiiiu Lady Lundie heard and obeyed in absolute silence.
All he did was apparently in solicitude for her, lest she shoidd
be over-fatigued or hurried in any way, but it awakened no
gratitutle in her heart.

The train left at a quarter to one, reaching Rumford at
twenty minutes past two. A carriage from Castle Lundie
awaited them, and when Lady Lundie heard her husband give
the order to drive straight home she stood back.

' 1 will nut go to Castle Lundie Hrst, William,' she said, in-
low but resolute tontjs. 'You have tried me far enough, and
if you do not choose to drive me 1 shall walk home.'

A dark red flush mounted sh)wly to Sir William's brow.

*To Meadowflats lirst, Masson,' ho said, and handed his
wife into the carriage.

She sank back among the cushions, and for a long time
tliere was nothing said. But when the carriage reached tne
Meadowllats entrance she sat up and laid her hand almost
phiadingly on her husband's arm. If she had done wrong she
would be the first to ask to be forgiven.

'William,' she said, and her voice trembled, 'forgive me,
but I could not wait any longer. My mind has been on the
rack so long that I forgot myself, perhaps, and spoke as I
•should not have spoken. It was my anxiety about papa that
made me do it.'

' You are on your way Iwnie now,' he said coldly, emphasiz-
ing the word, ' and can afford to dispense with my attention,
perhaps with my presence. It is pleasant to be shown thus
caily in what estimation you hold me, Lady Lundie.'

She sank back among the cushions once more. Her lips

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SUNDER RD HEARTS.

woro floalcd. For of what use was it to answer such unjust
uccuHations 1 of wliat avail just thou to sook to justify herself
in his (^yoH?

Tlio carria.c,'() swiipt round tho bend in the avenue, and sho
quickly raised h(!r head. Every blind was drawn, and thoro
si'otncd to bo a stran','o desolation lying upon her old homo.

Without waiting to bo helped sho hastily alighted, and ran
up to tho di)or. Tho maid who opened it had eyes nd
with weeping, and at sight of Lady Lundie her tears UuweJ
afresh.

* My father, Mary 1 ' fell faintly from Gertrude's lips.

*Gone, Miss Gertrude, — Duly Lundie, begging your pardon,
— this morning at half-past eleven, and looked for you to
the- end.*

L'idy Lundio turned and looked towards her husband, who
had followed Iht to the door.

'You hear, VVilliain?* she said, in a strange, quiet voice.
< We are too late. Perhaps you will be satisfied now \ *

|!i

CHAPTER II.

CASTLE LUNDIB,

ADY LUNDIE slowly went upstairs. Carolino
met her on the drawing-room landing, and put
her arms about lier. But no word passed between
them till they entered the drawing-room and shut
the door.

Tlien Caroline, pale and heavy eyed with grief and watch-
ing, but lovely still, looked with mournful, questioning eyes
into her sister's face. Then suddenly she burst into tears.
Surely the heart of the haughty Carolino had undergone of
late some wonderful change.

Gertrude looked on with tearless eyes and composed
demeanour. She even wondered to see Caroline weep.

'Oh, Gertrude, why did you not make haste to come?'
exclaimed Caroline at length. *It broke our hearts to hear
him calling so continually for you.'

* Why did I not make haste ? ' repeated Lady Lundio, and
a strange, bitter smile touched her lips. *I have a muster
now, Caroline, whose bidding I have to do.*

Caroline impatiently shook her head.

* My dear, what is it that has come to you 1 You look so
old, so changed. I would not have known you.*

' Tt is the burden of my new estate weighing upon me,' said
Gertrude. * Tell me something about papa before I go to see
hiiu. Let me hear how ho died.

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SUyPFREP I IRA R TS.

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' Thore is little to tell,' rpi)li('il Ciiroline. 'After T wrote l,p
gradually sank. Dr. Charteris could do nothing for him. lie
said the system had been breaking up for nionlhvS. He tlitl
not suiier very much — only great weakness — and his end was
(.juite j)ainless — ^just a falling asleep. His whole talk wms of
you, Gertrude. How he must liave loved you ! I think your
mairiage was a blow to him in one way. He appeared lo
refnHit it.'

Lady Lundie moved over to the window, and stood thoie a
few minutes in silence. liut though her eyes roamed over the
sunny landscape, they saw none of it.

' Mamma is prostrated, and has gone to lie down ; j)erli;ips;
I had better awake her. She will be vexed if you go without
seeing her.'

'^'o, Caroline, let her sleep. I could not see her yet.
!May God forgive me if I have any unfilial feelings towards my
mother,' said Gertrude, and, turning away from the v/indow,
she came near to Caroline, and laid her hand on her arm.

* Caroline, the sacrifice, as you know, was made for ])apa,
for him alone, and ho is gone. I suppose now my home i.s
yonder,' she said, pointing backward in the direction of Ca.stle
Lundie. ' Tell me, how is my life to be lived 1 Who is there
on earth to hdp me now?*

' My darling, do not speak so wildly. You are over-excited
and fatigued,' said Caroline. ' Come, let me take you up-stairs.
One look at pa])a's face will calm yen, I am sure. He looks
so happy ; but death had no terrors for him. It meant rest.'

Caroline was wise. She knew what was most needed. At
the door of the room where the quiet i^leeper lay, she drew
back.

' I will come to you, dear sister, in a little while,' she
whispered, and stole away.

Lady Lundie entered the room and shut the door. She
walked to the window first and drew up the blind a little way.
Then she went to the bed. It was indeed as Caroline had
said. That beautiful and tranquil face was like a draught of
sweet peace to the girl's v/eary heart. She knelt down and
laid her head aown on the pillow, her breath coming in (iiiick
sobs. At last the flood-gates were opened, and her eyes over-
flowed. It was Heaven's own healing, and took away some-

'oto ]>P.
1. lie
:Ie (lid
ml Wiis
was of
>k Your
i-ie<l to

tluM'e a
ver the

perhaps
kvithoul

er yet.
u'ds my
vindow,
tn.

)r ])apa,
[loiue is
• Ca.stle
is there

-excited
[p-stairs.

e looks

rest.'

h1. At

e drew

,' she

k Slic
jle way.
Ine liad
bght of
ni and
([uick
Is over-
Suiue-

CASTLF. LUMUE.

119

thin*: of the hitter load oppressing mind and heart. She grew
caliiii'r at length, rose to her feet, and stood h>oking down
11 1 Mill that dear face so soon to be removed from her sight for
ever. She had strenf5th now to look her position in the face.
Slie had married for her father's sake, solely that his eare
might be lessened, that life might be made easier and
))l.'asanter for him. And before he could reap the benefit of
liiT sacrifice, before she could even bid him welcome to her
own home,, he was taken away. Oh, what meaning had an
inscrutable Providence for this strange, hard dealing wilh herl
81it' could find no wherefore for her trial, nor reason wly she,
of all others, should be singled out to drink such a bitter q.\\\\
(Iradiially something of the peace which dwelt upon the face
of th(! dead stole into her heart. She would ask no moic,
(lucstion no further her strange destiny. She would take up
her cross, as many another had to do in this weary world, and
bear it. with patience, until God in His mercy shoidd bid her
lay it down for ever. . She had heard or read that the heroic
performance of duty, the unflinching and uncomplaining
endurance of things hard to bear, brought through time a
placid satisfaction to the heart of the sufferer. In time, there-
for<', that solace would be hers. She bent down and kissed
with lingering lips the sleeper's tranquil brow.

' Farewell, my father ; some day, please God, we shall meet
again ! ' she whispered, and stole back to the window to dra\v
down the blind once more.

A low tap at the door, then its soft opening, made her turn
her head.

' ^lay I come in, dear ? ' said Caroline's voice. * Sir
AVilliam is waiting for you. He sent me to see if you were
hciirly ready.'

The summons, which an hour ago would have made her
chafe, did not disturb her now.

'I am coming, Caroline,' she said, and when she came to
tliP door she suddenly put her arms about her sister, and ludd
her very close. ' You will come sometimes and see me yonder 1 '
she said hungrily. 'I — I — shall want your love.'

'Yes, my pet, I will come,' said Carc^line hurriedly, for she
Was nearly breaking down again. ' IJefore you go, won't you
leave a message for mamma? She will wonder otherwise.'

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*I have none,' answered Gertrude hastily. ' l>iit tli^ro,
that is not as he would have h.id me speak. Give mamma
my love, and say I hope sne is bearing up, and tell her fiDiu
me that his is great gain.'

i\y, great gain indeed ! Franklin-Mayne's younger child
whispered the words over and over to herself as she wt-iit
down-stairs — whispered them hungrily, yearningly, as if she
would fain be partaker with Kim of that inheritance. Not
yet awhile.

The husband and v/ife drove home in silence. The carria«Te
had been closed at Meadow Hats, but it w.as sufficiently li<iht
to permit Sir William to read his newspaper, but his wife sat
far back in her corner with her eyes closed. There was a
brief pause at the massive gateway which gave entrance to the
grounds of the Castle, but the lodge-keeper was disappointtnl
in not seeing the face of the new Lady Lundie. The ap])roa(;li
was a mile in length, and wound most beautifully through
stately elm trees renowned for their beauty and symmetry
even in that richly-'vvooded district. Lady Lundie saw none
of them, and, when the carriage stopped, she sat up with a
Blight start.

' Are we at Castle Lundie already, William ? ' she asked.

' Yes, Gertrude, this is Castle Lundie,' he said ; and as the
carriage door was opened he sprang out and assisted her t(»
alight. "V^Tien she stepped out upon the gravelled walk, and
looked about her, a look of wonder came upon her face.

This was her first sight of Castle Lundie, although its groy
turrets were visible from the eminence upon which Meadow-
flats was built. It was a grand old place, such as she had
road of in song and story. The massive battlements, tlio
Kjllioned witdows, the pillared doorway with its couchaiib
liens guarding either side, seemed redolent of the romance and
associations of a long-gone age. There was ivy clinging hero
and there, in odd nooks end comers, its lovely green softening
the stern outline, and adding a tender beauty exquisitely in
keeping w ith the rest. Save for the wide sweep in front, it
was shut in by its ancestral trees, beneath which the grass
was green with all the freshness of the summer-time. The
hum of drowsy insects filled the pleasant air, the birds chirped
on the leafy boughs, the gentle summer zephyr whispered

CASTLE LUND IE,

121

filiyly through the leaves, the simbeams fell aslant the daisied
turf. It was a picture of exquisite and restful beauty, which
^^iidy Lundie beheld not unmoved.

'Oh, William, hew beautiful !' she exclaimed involuntarily.
' I never thought Castle Lundie would be like this ! '

' I am glad you are pleased with your home,' he said, with
more kindliness of manner. ' Come, we will go in. Kirkl)y
tells me Elizabeth came two days ago. I am glad she is here
to receive you.'

'It should not require another to welcome me to Castle
Lundie when you are with me, William,' she said, somewhat
timidly.

' Thank you, my love. Now you speak like your sweet
self,' he said, and the last vestige of sternness disappeared
from his brow. She took his proli'ered arm, and they entered
the house together. In the iiiner hail stood Miss Lundie,
ready to welcome them. Sir William stooped and kissed his
Bister, and then she turned to Gertrude.

' Lady Lundie, you are welcome home,' she said kindly, if
rather condescendingly. Gertrude's face flushed slightly as
she returned the profTered kiss.

' Call me Gertrude, if you please,' she said gently. Then,
in obedience to her husband's whispered request, she turned
towards the assembled domestics, to whom he introduced hei
in a brief word. She did not speak, but she smiled and
bowed her head with sweet frankness to each one as she
passed. That smile, and the nameless something which made
her so loveable, won their hearts, and in the servants' hall there
was nothing but kindly criticism of Sir William's wife, the
new mistress of Castle Lundie.

* Your maid arrived some time ago, and told me you had
gone to Meadowflats,* said Miss Lundie, as she accompanied
her sister-in-law up-stairs. 'I hope you found your father
somewhat improved ? '

* We were too late,' answered Gertrude quietly. ' He died
this morning at half-past eleven.'

Elizabeth Lundie noticed the heaving of the breast, the
compressed lips, and the shadowing eyes, telling of emotion
held in curb. She was somewhat amazed to see her young
sister-in-law completely mistress of herself.

I !

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122

SUNDERED HEARTS,

\^ •

*I am oxrofdijiirly sorry,* she said, sincoroly enoncjh. 'It
will sa(l(l(!n your lioiiir-coniin*^. It was a pity after all tliat
you sliortciuMl your ti-ij) on that account.'

'rcrhaps; hut it <^'uts to be a weariness travellinjjf ahnut,
Miss Luiiilic. I aril not sorry to he at home. Are thi^sc my
rooms'/ They are very beautiful,' she said, with quiet ap[)n!ci i-
tioii. ' Ah, I am glad they are at this side, because I can >(.•(!
Meadowllats from my Mnndows.'

'That is a riu^re chance, I assure you,' Miss Lundie hastoin'd
to cixplain. 'These have always been Lady Lund ie's rooms.
Tlu^y were my mother's and my grandmother's also. They
reipiiriMl no alteration nor renewing, only my bntther hiid ii
new piano sc^nt down for your sitting-room. It is on tlie
other sid(^ of the ;iressinj.-room. See, they are a complete
suite in themselves, and can be shut oil' from the rest oT the
hous(>. There is even a stair from the sitting-room wliich
h'ads down to the western lobby, and a door tliere which
o[)ens out upon the terrace ; but it has been unused for many
years.'

' How quaint and delightful ! I shall have that door re-
opened. It would be so nice to run down of a nutrning for a
br(^ath of fresh air without disturbing the rest of the house.
Yes, 1 sliall ask William to get that done for me at once.'

Miss Lundie bit her lip. The gentle, insignificant girl she
had fancied would be so easily set aside, evidently knew her
position very well, and intended to take advantage of it.
Th(^"e was nothing of timidity or hesitation in her manner.
She spoke with the indejiendence and fearlessness belittini;
the mistress of Castle Lundie. But it galled Elizabeth
Lundie inexpressi])ly, because there came to her a whisner
thiit her reign was ended.

'Tea is served in the drawing-room at five o'clock, Lady
Lundie,' she said vsomewhat abruptly. ' But perhaps you are
too fatigued to come down ? If you would like to lie down
for an )iour instead, I can serve you up a cuj) here.'

'Thanks; you are very good. I shall be much obliged;
but you need not trouble, 1 can send Clare for it. The sooner
Bhe makes her aexiunintance with the house the better.'

Again Klizabetli bit her lij.. There was nothing forward
mn' presuming in the vlemeanour of her brother's wife, only a

■\.7'

CASTLE LUND IE.

123

gentle .and decided dignity, which would not he imposed (ipon
or set aside. Elizabeth resented it bitterly ; and yiit could
not Lady Lundie give what orders she pleased in her own
house ?

Gertrude noticed the slight frown on her sister-in-law's face,
hut misunderstood its meaning.

'Have I vexed you? I am quite willing to come down if
you would rather I did,' she said quickly. ' I do not want to
be troublesome, and, of course, you must know the houseliold
ways best.'

' It is no trouble whatever. You are at liberty to give
what orders you please in the house, of course. Lady Lundie,'
she said somewhat coldly. 'It is I who must guard against
being troublesome now.'

Gertrude's face flushed. It was scarcely in good taste, she
thought, to remind her of their reversed positions in the very
hour of her home-coming.

'Do not be vexed with me, Elizabeth,' she said gently. 'I
am the stranger, you know ; and it is you who must make me
foel at home.'

' I will do my best for you, Gertrude,' said Miss Lundie
less coldly, and left the room.

81ie met Clare in the corridor, carrying a small tray whereon
stood a tiny teapot and cup and saucer. Evidently this young
person required no introduction to the house, nor any instruc-
tions regarding her duties. She would make the comfort of
her mistress her first study, come what might. Miss Lundie
passed her with darkening brow, and Clare went serenely on
her way, inwardly hoping that haugiity and cross-looking lady
wouhl not long remain an inmate of Castle Lundie.

' V^hy, Clare, you have been very smart,' said her mistress
})leiisantly. ' How have you managed to get all this before
you have been an hour in the house?'

'I just went down, my lady, and »a,id to the housckeejier
you would need a cup of tea when you came, and she was
very kind and pleasant, though Miss Lundie's maid turned up
her nose at me for being officious.'

' Hush, hush, Clare ! I cannot allow you to speak like
that,' said Lady Lundie, with some sharjtness. 'In your
solicitude for my comfort, my girl, you must not di-^regard

' w

T^n

i I

,,, ,:,,

':\ '1

SUNDERED HEARTS,

that of othors. But then it was very kind of you to m^ko
Huch haHte on my account,' she added, seeing the f^irl's pretty
fiico grow downcast in a moment under her reproof. 'Now,
get ni;; things unpacked. I fancy you will find room and to
8par(3 for tlicm in the dressing-room.'

Wluni she had drunk the tea Lady Lundio threw on a
drcHsing-gown, wrapped a rug about her, and lay down on a
coucli in tho sitting-room.

Clare moved about noiselessly in the adjoining apartment,
and was much gratified at length to see her young mistress fall
ashicp. 8ho sorely needed it, for her anxiety about her father
Ijiid Ijanishcd sleep, and now the reaction had come.

Meanwhile Miss Lundie, sitting alone in the drawing-room,
was pondering the state of affairs in her mind. Her dreams
were not all to be fulfilled; her shrewd vision foresaw tliat
li(mc(;forth she would be a secondary person in Castle Lundio,
"What she had to decide now was whether, such being the
cas(5, it would be worth her while to remain.

That question was still unanswered when the butler brought
in the tea-tray, and was followed almost immediately by
8ii William lumsulf.

CHAPTER IIL

THE PATH OF DUTY.

OUR wife has gone to lie down for an hour
William,' said Miss Lundie.

' I know. I looked into the sitting-room and
found her sound asleep. Poor child, she is quite
worn out ! '

He spoke softly, even tenderly, and there was an expression
oil his face his sister had never seen there before. Up leai)ed
lier quick jealousy of the gentle creature who had touched
that hard heart, and again the heightened colour and compressed
lil)s betrayed inward annoyance.

This spiiit of jealousy, of narrow selfishness, had in times
gone wrought much misery in Castle Lundie, and would
again. It was the family failing, and had found an abiding-
\>hu'M in the hearts of the brotlier and sister. The youngcsr
sistiT alone was free from any taint of it, having inherited
her mother's beautiful and unsf^lfish nature.

' Shall I give you some tea, William ? ' she asked.

' I don't mmd. Gertrude ought to have had some before
she lay down.

Miss Lundie laughed.

' Do not be afraid, William. Your wife will lack nothing
for her own comfort, and she has trained her maid W( 11.
Lady Lundie knows her position, and will keep it.'

Sir William smiled slightly. His sister's evident dis-
ap])ointment rather amused him.

She will taste no stronger stimulant.'

I i

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1 1:^.1

If:

126

SUNDERED HEARTS.

' Til at sc( nis rather an unpleasant thought for you,
Elizaheth,' lie said.

'Why should it be?' she asked sharply. 'Only you aro
mistaken a little in your estimate of her. She is not one who
Avill take an advice from me, or from you.'

' JJo you think so? I have found her very docile. ]]ut
WdMH'n can never agree,' said Sir William indiHerenlly.
'Well, what have you lu'i^n making of yourself during our
absence? How did you enjoy livhig en famille with Devauliu
an<l the lovely Sophia?'

'Very much. Poor Devanha! he is too soft and good-
natured. Sophia takes shameful advantage of his indulgence.
Hers was a clear case of inariai/e de cujtoeuance.'

' I sui)pose so. That sort of thing predominates now-a-days.
Did vou see anvthing of Kleanor? Is she better?'

'Not completely; Wilfred was talking of taking her otf to
Spain. They are too absurdly fond of each other. I prefer
Sophia and Eric's mode of life. I always feel de trap at
Leybourne Park.'

Sir William remained silent. Very seldom indeed did he
visit his sister in her own house. The reason was not far to
seek. There was nothing in common between the noble, higli-
souled young Karl, who had never done a dishonourahlo
action in his life, and his middle-agetl brother-in-law, whose
life could not be laid bare for every eye to read.

' Wilfred is a bit of a mulf, and Eleanor won't improve
him, but by all means let them continue to be lovers. It is
so "are in married people, that it would be a pity to .see it at
an end. Well, Elizabeth, 1 suppose you would rather remain
here for a few months than join Wilfred and Eleanor in
Spain ? '

' Infinitely ; but it depends on how I get on with your wife,'
rejilied Elizabeth serenely. ' Devaiiha and Sophia expect to
arrive at AVilderhaugh on the 11th. I had a note from
her this morning. Aro you going to ask anybody for the
12th?'

' My wife's mourning will prevent me doing so, even had I
been niclined, but 1 was not thinking of it.'

' Oh, of course. I forgot Lady Lundie must live in com-
parative retirement for three months. That is unfortur '^a

■*_:'

THE PATH OF DUTY.

\%1

for mo, for, of course, out of respect, 1 must follow her
«>xam|)le. Wlien ia the fuiienil?'

' I did not ask ; but 1 sliiili have to take chief part in it, I
8Uj»p<»se. I believe tliere are no m-ar niide relatives.*

' Is there anythin",' left for ihinn to live ui^on?'

* Very little, 1 should say, except the place. It is worth about
four hundred a year. That ought to keep thiiin (piietly.'

' It won't. Mrs. Franklin-Mayne is not the woman to live
(|uii'tly, iind she will have a new position now, you know, as
your moLher-in-law,' said Miss Lundi'j, enjoying the httlo
honie-thrust.

' 1 daresay you are right, Elizabeth,' he said indiirerently,
iiiid took up a magazine, thus showing he did not desire to
pursue the conversation.

Shortly thereafter Miss Lundie retired to her own room.
Diimer was served at seven, and she did not like to be
hurrieil in her dressing. About half-past six Sir William
went up-stairs to his wife's sitting-room. She was lying on
the couch still, but was awake, her fair arms folded above her
{golden head, her eyes fixed upon the waving tree-to[)s, just
visible through the quaint old window. He saw there had
been tears in these eyes but lately, for a glittering drop still
trembled on the sweeping lashes.

' Have you rested, my love ? It is time you were thinking of
getting up. Seven is the dinner-hour ; it is half-past six now.'

' Is it so late ? I had no idea. I have been awake a long
time ; Clare ought to have come in,' she said, staitiiig up.

' What were you thinking of when I caught that far-aw.iy
look in your eyes, my darling?' he asked, laying a hand on
hi'i head, and bending his eyes searchingly on her face.

'Thinking of? Oh, a great many things. I could not
tell you.'

' i do not like my wife to keep even her thoughts from me/
he said gravely.

She smiled up into his face, a smile which almost banished
his jealous fancy.

'How could I tell you all my thoughts? How could I
retain them so long? You know how swiftly they come and
go,' she said. ' Has your sister gone to dress? Do you think
she is pleased with me. "William?*

I ,

128

SUNDERED HEARTS.

I "

' Slif^ tliinks yon will tnako a very (lij^Miifictl Lady Lnn<liR,
he said evasively, f<H* ho could ii<it tell her the truth.

' How strange that she sliould thuik so,' said Gertnulo
slowly.

Wiien she rose she laid her hand on her husband's shoulder
with a quick gesture, which caused her hair to slip from its
fastening, and fall about her like a cloud,

' William,' she said, and her voice shook a little, * I want
to say something to you. Althougli I was so quiet, my lu-art
was stirred when I looLed uix)n this [)lace and thovight it was
my home. I want to be happy here, to make you happy if I
cm. I want to be a good wife to you. Will you bear with
me? and when I fail in some things, as I must and will, bo
gentle with me, and remember your wife has had no experience
of lif<i, and that she is very young.'

The sweet uplifted face shining in its purity and earnest-
ness, the wide, pleading eyes, the tr'^.mbling, eager voice, went
to the man's heart, and once more all his better nature was
roused. His arms closed about her, and he drew the sunny
head to his breast.

' My darling, make me worthy of you,' he said hoarsely.
*I will try to be and do all you wish.'

She lifted her head and kissed him of her own accord for
the first time. She was inexperienced and very young, as slio
had said, but if ever woman put up an earnest, almost agoniz-
ing prayer for help and guidance to walk the strong path of
duty, Gertrude Lundie did that night. Come what might, she
would be a true and faithful wife to this man, and if their
marriage should prove unhappy and unblessed, the blame
would not lie with her.

Clare made haste with her lady's toilet, and she was in the
drawing-room a few minutes after Miss Lundie. She wore
white cashmere, with trimmings of plush and lace, an exquisite
dress, and exquisitely becoming to her girlish face. Her only
ornament was a necklace of pearls, a gift from the work-people
on her father's estate. Miss Lundie, attired in sapphire velvet,
with ornaments of rubies and sappliires, was a moie imposing-
looking figure, —

' Like some rich exotic
Beside the lily of the vale,'

'I . • '4'

THE PATH Ot DUTY.

■■>

Tl»o dinner paasocl off pleasantly enou-^li. I^ndy T.undic took
her place witli siniplicity and dii^nity ; tliure was no ailectation
of shyness or timidity. Sir William was deli;^'lited with her
manner, and doubly dolij^dited with her fair and delicate
loveliness. He was in the best of mooas, and was most
solicitous and attentive to his wife.

Miss Lundie, noting these things, was reminded again that
lur reign at Castle Lundie was practically over. At times
Ciertrude felt conscious of a sense of discomfort in the
{(iL'sence of her sister-in-law. It was a vague feeling as yet,
an inward fear that she was not regarded with favour by
Elizabeth Lundie. She struggled against it, but she knew
sJK! would breathe more freely when she was gone. Sir
William had not yet made known to his wife the arrangenuint
tliat Elizabeth was to remain with them for some months.
He thought it of no consequence himself, and imagined it
would be a matter of equal indifference to his wife.

Immediately after breakfast next morning Sir William
drove his wife over to Me.idowtlats. He must do what was
ru(|uired of him, but he regarded it as a very disagreeable
duty. Mrs. Franklin-Mayne was astir, in close consultation
with Macmillan's dressmaker, but when the carriage from
Castle Lundie swept up to the door, she put on a becoming
cap, and with a becoming expression of countenance she
l)ustled down-stairs. Even her grief, and the presence . of
(li^ath in the house, could not subdue her airy grace of
movement, her effusive impressiveness of manner.

' My dear, my precious child, let me look at you ! let me
see my Lady Lundie I ' she exclaimed, clasping Gertrude in
her arms. ' You look so well, so charming ! but you have
been free from this anxiety, this weary watching. Oh,
Gertrude, my love, your poor father ! '

'Hush, dear mother! it is well with him,' whispered
Gertrude, in real compassion for her mother. ' His pain, his
troubles are over now.'

'Yes, yes; that is the only consolation I have in my
widowhood,' said Mrs. Mayne. ' Ah, William, how are you % '
f^hc added, as Sir William at that moment appeared. ' Little
dill we think last time we met so auspiciously in this room,
what a change would befall us ere we met again.'

• i

13°

SUNDERED HEARTS,

'T am oxtn;in(»ly sorry for you, Mrs. hfaynr*,* Raid Pir
William, rather awkwanlly. Tho rule of 8yiui»alliizcr did not
suit him.

'Ah yoa. I know you are, hut iiono can feel as I do,' snid
Mrs. Mayno. ' Is Miss Lundio not with you 1 '

*No, hut she also 8yni[)athizes with you in your hcrcavc-
ment,' said Sir William, although Elizaheth had not led liim
to behove that she was iu any way sympathetic for tlio
Franklin- Maynes. 'I have come to see if I can bo of any
service to you.'

Leaving her husband and her mother to discuss arrange-
ments, Gertrude stole away to look for Caroline. She found
her in the library, busy with the pile of letters tho muruing
mail had brought. She looked somewhat astonished to sco
her sister, not having heard the carriage drive up to the door.

' You look better, much l)etter to-day, dear,* she said, as
they kissed each other. * I trust you had a pleasant home-
coming, and tliat you are pleased with your new home 1 '

* With Castle Lundie ? Oh yes, it is lovely,' said Gertrude.
* I am sorry I spoke so wildly yesterday, Caroline. Think no
more of it. I did my husbtmd an injustice. I was selfish in
my grief. He is very good to me.*

Caroline's eyes tilled with tears. The ready confession, tlio
eagerness to make amends, tho utter unselfishness, wero
characteristic of Gertrude.

' God bless you, my darling, and make you hi^jpy in your
married life,' she said fervently. * If ever worn, .. deseivcil
to be happy, you do.'

The sisters went together again to look their last upon tlunr
father's face. And again new strength and patience seemed
to come to Gertrude in the presence of that unbroken, inell'aldo
peace, The visit was not much prolonged, and, with tlie
promise to come again to-morrow, Sir William and his wife
took their leave.

They drove home through the town, greatly to the excite-
ment of the good people of Uumford. As they passed Doct( r
Dunsyre's house, Lady Lundie looked up eagerly, but tho
blinds were all drawn, and it was evidently shut up. Sho
remembered then that it had long been their custom to spend
the month of July with their relatives at Craigcrook.

THE I'A Til Oh DUTY.

I'l

•TIkto have bcon ^reiit improvoiiK^nts nmdo iK^rn, I under
Ktiiiul,' siiid Sir Williiini, as they uciarcd llic lower end i»f tim
town. 'Theao bnui-nuw cotta^'es l()t)k vcsry well, and will
doubtless |»ay the youn<,' nuui who has made a Hpeculation of
tlicin; but to my mind the old Waler.^Mlo was the, most
jilt turesiiue part of Kumford. U was a pity to demolish it;
yoiiii^' Strathearn'a doing, wasn't it?'

Never for a moment while he

was speaking did Sir
AViiliam's eyes quit his wife's face. Conscious of his ktion
scrutiny, — conscious, too, of its hidden meaning, — she Hushed
dcei)ly.

'If you had been as familiar with the interior of the old
Watergate as I was, William, you would agree with me in
thinking that Mr. Strathearn has been a benefactor to the
town. It was a frightful place, not at all fit for human beings
to live in.'

'It is to be hoped the town Mr. Strathearn has so benefited
will sujijtort his actions as enthusiastically as you do,' said Sir
AVilliam drily.

Gertrude bit her lip. Oh, why did he try her tlms'? why
could he not keep tlie peace made between them r why was it
that something within so continually rose up against him,
urging her to say maay bitter things which would make war
between theml It seemed to her that under his influence
her very nature was undergoing a change. In the old, sweet,
])eaceful days, there had been no such bitter feelings in her
heart There was no more said until they met Doetov
Duiisyre driving in his gig towards the town. He raised his
hat, and Sir William rather stitlly returned the salutation.

'Couldn't we stop, William?' said his wife quickly. 'I
should like to speak to him, to ask for his sister. She was
my very dear friend.'

' My love, it is better not. I don't want to hurt you, but
it Avill not do for Lady Lundie to make a very dear friend of
a country doctor's sister. You will require to make friends
now in your own rank in life.'

Lady Lundie did not reply, but she turned her head away
so that he could not see her face.

' Has Elizabeth told you that at my request slie will make
her home with us for a time?' he asked, when ihey had

1 *

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13*

SUNDERED HEARTS,

.1- !, T!l- f

I : 1

passed the gates and were leisurely driving up the avenne.
ILs wife, with a start, brought her eyes back to his face

' No. Is she to remain, William 1 '

'For a time, yes. It will be better for you. There are
many things pertaining to your position — trifles in themselves,
perhaps, but all-important because they put the finishing
touches to the manners of a woman of rank, and of which you
are necessarily ignorant. In these matters my sister, lon-^
accustomed to the usages of the best society, will be invaluable
to you. On that account I have asked her to remain. She
has kindly consented to do so.'

* hxa I so very ignorant ? Have I given you cause to be
ashamed of me in any way, William, that you think it
necessary to make your sister my monitor ? ' inquired Gertrude,
with a little flash of passion in her eyes.

'My love, your demeanour is perfection, because it is
modest and unassuming, but something more is necessary.
Do not look so angry, though that flush enhances your
loveliness; but trust me to know what is best for your
interests, which, of course, must be mine.'

' Since you made the arrangement without first consulting;
me, without inquiring even whether it would be to my
comfort or liking, I have no more to say, William,' said Lady
Lundie. * Only I fear you have made a mistake.'

CHAPTER IV.

DISCORD.

W(H fel^ ^^ Countess of Devanha is in the drawing-rooni,

Jl ^y/j my lady/ said Clare, entering her mistress's
"^ sitting-room on the morning of the 13th of
August.

Lady Lundie looked slightly surprised. She had heard
that the Earl and his wife had only arrived at Wilderhaugh
on the previous evening, so that her neighbour had lost no
time in coming to pay her respects.

'Is Miss Lundie indoors, Clare?' she asked, as she rose
from her book.

' No, my lady. I saw her go out about half an hour ago.
Slie had the dogs with her, and went in the direction of the
iiil<f',' answered Clare.

Lady Lundie remembered the Countess of Devanha very
wpII — remembered, too, how sh) had snubbed her mother
and looked askance at Caroline on the night of the county
1)all Gertrude herself had been beneath the notice of the
imperious beauty, and it was with a slight feeling of curiosity
tiiat she anticipated their first meeting now.

Slie o]iened the door and advanced into the room, a composed
and graceful figure in a spotless white cambric dress, with
knots of black ribbon down the front skirt, in token of her
mourning. The sleeves were very short, and showed tho
ex(|uisite contour of the round white arms, unadorned by

133

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SUNDERED HEARTS.

ill

1^'

K I ;

bracelets or cuffs. Her appearance was simple and gitlish in
the extreme, but she was a fair picture even in contrast witl)
S()i)hia Devanlia's subtle Eastern loveliness. The visitor was
elaborately attired, and looked her best. She came furwiird
with a smile on her lips, but in her eyes keenest scrutiny of
the girl-wife.

'Good morning, Lady Devanha,' said Gertrude sim})]y, but
with perfect grace and composure of manner. ' I am ploasml
to see you.'

The courteous bow and the accompanying smile did not
a])j>ear to satisfy Sophia Devanha. She advanced stili nc^arer,
and laid one daintily gloved hand on the slender shoulder.

' William Lundie's wife must be no stranger to me,' sho.
said, in the most winning tones of an exquisite voice. ' My
dear Lady Lundie, your husband and I were old and dear
friends in India. I trust you will not regard me in the light
of a mere visiting acquaintance. I am prepared to love you
very much.'

' You are very kind. Lady Devanha,' said Gertrude quietly,
and sliglitly drew herself away from that clinging touch.
There had sprung up a vague distrust of this woman, a feeling
that, in spite of her sweet words, she was insincere. Lady
Devanha saw the slight gesture, divined its meaning, and
immediately seated herself.

' I must congratulate you upon your marriage with my old
friend, who, in spite of certain small weaknesses common to
his kind, is one of the best of men,' she said familiarly. 'And I
must congratidate Mm upon his choice. You remind me of sonic
lovely flower ; but you are so young — far too young, my dear
Lady Lundie, to have entered ui)on the cares of matrimony,'

Gertrude was at a loss what to say. She resented her
visitor's manner and speech with her whole soul, but she
dared not say so, because the law of society compels you to
endure polite rudeness in your OAvn house, and make no sign.

* I do not find matrimonial cares weighing very heavily
upon me. Lady Devanha,' she answered a trifle stittly.

Lady Devanha smiled, and showed two rows of teeth like
loveliest pearls.

* Twere a pity if you did. The honeymoon is not over yet ;
and, of course, everything must be as yet couleur de rose.

DISCORD,

135

I'ut, my (loar, T am older than you and more worldly-wise,
iiiitl on that account you will permit me to give you a word of
atlvice regarding your treatment of your hushand. Rememhor
that the best of us can be spoiled by indulgence, and do not
give your hushand too much of his own way. I knew him
long before you did, and I speak purely out of regard for you,
you are go young and so inexperienced. But be firm at first,
and you will never regret it.'

* I scarcely understand you, Lady Devanha,' said the girl-
wife, with flushing face and kindling eye. 'If you please we
will change the subject. I am not accustomed to discuss my
husband with strangers.'

' I beg your pardon. Lady Lundie ; I asked you to overlook
anything 1 might say on the score of an old friendship. 1 will
endeavour not to oilend again,' said Lady Devanha, not at all dis-
coiiC(irted. ' You have no visitors for the shooting, I suppose ? '

* None. I am in mourning, as you see, for my father,'
answered Gertrude. * Have you a number at Wilderhaugh % '

' Oh yes. The Earl has always filled Wilderhaugh with
men for the 12th. It is a bore sometimes, but has to be
endured,' said the Countess. 'Has Sir William gone out
M'lth his gun this morning?'

' Yes, he went off to the Haugh Muir with Colonel Graham
immediately after n-eakfast.'

'Oh, then, he v,A\ likely meet our party,
say they intended to shoot over the Haugh.
you will like Castle Lundie T

' It would be strange indeed if I did not
Lady Devanha,' answered Gertrude quickly,
had nearly reached its limit now. She did
this woman, who, in spite of her rank, had neither the
instincts nor the outward refinement of a lady, should thus
question her. She wondered if such were the usage? of that

I heard them
Do you think

like my home,
Her endurance
not know why

30,

she

st)ciety of which her husband so frequently spoke,
and it must be strangers to ea<;h other.

' Well, it is a fine old place. Is Miss Lundie not with you ?
I expected to see her.'

' Yes ; she has gone out, my maid told me, to give the dogs
an airing. If you are anxious to see her I can send a servant
to tell her vou are here' —

•

136

SUNDERED HEARTS,

!'i

'■it If

* Oh no, I can see her again. Is it true what she led me
to believe — that she is to remain an inmate of your hom«,
Lady Limdiel'

' Such is the arrangement/ replied Lady Lundie, and rose.
She could bear no more. The Countess rose also.

' I never heard of anytliiiig so absurd. It will never do,
Lady Lundie. That is one of the things in which you ou^ht
to have been firm. It is always a mistake to have relatives
living in the house, especially in the case of a newly-married
l)air. I know Elizabeth Lundie very well, and I fear her
presence will not materially add to your happiness. I would
advise you to try and get that arrangement set aside. Yoii
will get your husband to do anything for you at present.'

' I will bid you good morning. Lady Devanha,' said Gerinido
very coldly.

She was very pale now, but the heaving of the breast, tli^
slight trembling of the white hand resting on the cabinet
beside her, told of a tumult within.

* Ah, I see I have vexed you. My dear Lady Lundie, yon
will soon grow accustomed to our ways. We are frightfully
impertinent to each other, and we must know all about our
neighbours, so that we can maki' our comments on their
proceedings,' said Lady Devanha, with a silvery laugh. 'Of
course you are shocked, as I was when I came out first. Your
frank and unstudied simplicity is charming, like the dew on
the morning flowers. I <lun't marvel that Sir William was
enthralled. But that will soon wear away, and then it
requires diplomacy in a wife to keej) her husband devoted to
her. Of course I seem a shocking kind of creature to you
now, but I am talking common sense. Some day you will
remember my words, and admit that I was right. Will you
shake hands with me now ? '

' I would rather not, Lady Devanha,' said the fair young
wife, quietly but clearly.

' Ah, well, I am not offended. I have lived too long, and seen
too much, to take ollence at trifles. Eut I will just repeat thut
1 have not spoken out of malice, but only as a woman of the
world, if she is honest, would speak to a young, inexperienced
girl like you. I think your husband will bring you to Wiulcr-
baugh — at least I will ask him. In the meantime, an revolt'.'

i' ,,■■''

DISCORD.

137

She inoliiied her beautiful head, smiled her sweetest smile,
and left the room. But she had left a strange sting behind.
When she was alone the young wife threw herself on a couch
and burst into tears. It was very foolish — childish, perha})s —
hut her heart was overcharged, her mind filled with terrible
dread of the future, unutterable shrinkings from the world to
which her married life had introduced her.

As the caniage rolled away from the doors of Castle Lundie,
Lady Devanha caught sight of Miss Lundie coming leisurely
along a narrow path which led to the lake. She immediately
hade the coachman stop, and waited till her friend came up.

' Sophia, is it possible ? You have lost no time ! ' exclaimed
Miss Lundie in astonishment.

* My dear, I was dying to see your brother's wife, so, at
the risk of appearing rude to my guests, I came across this
morning. But I have only the Trevor girls with me as yet,
and they are off to lunch with the sportsmen on the Haugh.
And how are you % '

' Very well. You look charming, Sophia.'

'Oh, I am very well. Eric was telling me only thig
morning I look younger every day,' said the Countess laugh-
ingly. * Well, I have seen the young wife, Elizabeth.'

* And what is your opinion 1 '

Lady Devanha shrugged her shoulders.

' She is charming, as sweet and fresh as one of these daises,
but she is far too good for your brother, ma amie. She will
he miserable with him,' she answered, with characteristic
candour. * Did she care for him, or was it the actual case of
marriage for rank and position 1 *

Miss Lundie nodded.

' She has a terrible old mother who hurried it on. Lady
Lundie herself estimates rank and position very sligljtly. But
for all that she knows her position, and can hold her own in
Castle Lundie.'

' I thuLight so. These unobtrusive, insignificant women can
generally do so in a quiet but decided way,' said the Countess.
' She virtually dismissed me from her presence because I
ventured to give her a piece of friendly advice.'

Miss Lundie laughed.

* I could believe that. My sister-in-lav^r docs not care to be

^3S

SUNDERED IIE/RTS,

;|l

-I !

r!|t:l

a<l\ isod, as I have found out already. I am afraid we will
not live very happily enfamille^ Sophi.a.'

' Oh, nonsense ' 1 am sure she is very sweet and amiahle ;
and if you manage skilfully you might get everything your
own way. Make yourself amiable, — indispensable, if possilile,
to your brother's comfort, — and you will remain a fixture hove.
^len are essentially selfish creatures, — your brother particularly
so, — I have heard you say frctjuently.'

'Yes, William is not unscllish by any means; and, Sopliia,
1 think ho begins to see already that his wife does not care
about liim. She is so free from hypocrisy, you un«lerstand ;
she will aiTect nothing she does not feel, and in that she is
her own enemy.'

'You are right; but, as I told her this morning, time and
experience will make her worldly-wise. Come over to Wildcr-
haugh soon, Elizabeth. The Trevors are no companions for
m'', and until next week, when Mrs. Tremaine and Lady
Watercourt come, I am practically alone.'

' Very well ; perhaps I will come to-morrow. Must you
go % Good morning. I am glad I did not miss you.'

' So am I, though my visit to-day was to Lady Lumlie,
Well, my love, au revoir, and remember my advice,' said tho
Countess gaily, and at a word from her the coachman gave the
bays the rein, and the carriage was rapidly whirled away.

Miss Lundie went straight to the drawing-room, but Ladj?
Lundie had retired to her own apartments, where Elizabetli
had never yet dared to intrude. Although living under one
roof, these two were strangers to each other, and would be to
the end. Habitually kind and gentle though she was toward?
her sister-in-law, Gertrude could not make a friend or a con
tidante of her. They were simply at peace with each other—
that was all.

Watcliing from her window towards four o'clock in the
siternoon, Lady Lundie saw her husband coming up the
avenue, followed by one of the keepers with a full garae-ba^'
over his shoulder.

She turned away at once and went down-stairs, and met him
just as he entered the house.

'How Ir^ ' you are, William! We expected you home to
lunch. Have you had anything to eat?' she asked.

DISCORD.

139

lie IS

L the
up the.

oiue to

'Yes. Wo met Dt^vanha and his party on the TTau^'h and
liiiiclied with them,' he answered, and, bending' towards her,
L'glitly touched her cheek with his Hps. 'We had spleiidid
sport, but I feel quite fai;g(!d. I supi)ose I am not so able for
tramping over moor and fen as I was last time I shot over the
1 laugh. A good many Twelftlis have come and gone since
then. How pale you are. Have you not been out to-day 1 '

' No ; I have been busy indoors,' she answered evasively.
' I liave ordered tea to be served in the little library, thinking
you would not care to enter the drawing-room in your dusty
garments.

' I'll come, but I sh.Jl want somethinj:; more exhilarating
than tea after my hard day's work,' he answered. 'Is
Elizabeth outl'

' Yes ; she has gone to Rumford to do some shopping. She
said tliat she would not be home to tea,' re]iliod Gertrude, as
she entered the small library, a tiny snuggery opening off the
outside hall.

' You ought to have gone with her. I can't have you
moping so much at home ; it is not good for you,' he said,
with some severity.

' She did not ask me to accompany her,' replied his wife, in a
low voice. ' Lady Devanha was here this morning, William.'

Sir William's face brightened.

' Ah, I knew she would come soon, but I hardly expected
she would lose so little time ; but Sophia was always the soul
of kindliness. Well, my love, I am sure you would be much
pleased with her ? '

' She is very beautiful, certainly,' said Gertrude quietly.

* Oh, all the world knows that. That is not what I mean.
Were you not charmed with her manner, her gracious and
queenly frankness, her winning way ? Few can resist her.'

' I do not like Lady Devanl a, William,' said Gertrude
candidly.

Sir William looked annoyed.

'Why, my love, that is most extraordinary. You should
guard against being influenced by prejudice, CJertrude. WJiy
do you not like her? Is it the jealousy one pretty woman
feels of another that has poisoned your little heart 1'

Lady Lundie's face flushed.

140

I'i

I ■ ■! -1

I' I

SUNDERED HEARTS,

do not think she is a good woman.'

* ITow can you say such things to me, Wilh'am ? Laily
Dcvanlia is so much more beautiful than I that there nwx
be no compaiisMn between us,' she said quickly. 'It is tlio
woman 1 dislike, not her appearance. I do not want tu l»o
uncharitable or unkind, but I felt, and feel still, that she is
not sincere. I

Sir William's brow darkened.

* !My dear girl, you have no right to say such things about
a lady in the Countess of Devanha's position. She is lovely
and accomplished, and one of the queens of society. You
ought to be proud if she vouchsafes you her friendship. It
will be simply invaluable to you. I have known her for
years, and the lively, vivacious way and oflf-hand manner of
speech which doubtless offended your fastidious taste are only
the natural overflow of a light and happy heart. It is my
desire that you cultivate the friendship of Lady Devanha.'

Lady Lundie walked over to the window, and there was a
moment's painfal silence.

Then Sir William followed her, and, laying his hand on her
shoulder, turned her face round to him.

* You must not turn away from me every time I speak to
you, Gertrude. Do you remember now your promise, to be a
faithful and dutiful wife to me? Is this the fulfilment of
that promise ? '

* You try me very hard, William. Am I to have no wishes,
no opinions even, of my own ? '

' Now you are absurd. Upon your own showing you are
ignorant and inexperienced, and should therefore permit me
to be your guide in such matters as the choice of your friends.
Are your interests not mine % Would I be likely to ask you
to cultivate any friendship which would not do honour to mt 1
You have many things to learn yet. I ' —

The servant entered the room with the tea-tray, and Lady
Lundie breathed a sigh of relief. But directly they were
alone Sir William resumed the subject.

* Tell me wherein Lady Devanha offended your taste this
morning ? '

' She spoke as no lady ought to have spoken,' said Gertrude,
quietly still, but firmly. 'She offered me advice «»bout my
married life which I would not have received from the lips of

I i '

:lii2f£j;iL

. !

DISCORD.

141

my own mother. But what right lias Lady Dovanha to
(jiu stion me upon my most private aHi.irs ? Although she is
an old friend of my husband's, she is a stranger to mo, t ' as
such I received her.'

' Poor Sophia ! she was always so ingenuous and warm-
hearted, so ready with her rattling speech, she did not know
what a little Tartar she had to deal with to-day ! ' he said, in
a half-amused, half scornful way, which sent the sensitive
blood surging again to his wife's pale cheek. * But there, my
love, we will make peace for to-day. Why do you vex me so %
You compel me to speak sternly to you, you are sometimes so
foolishly childish. Come, kiss me, and let me see you smile.'

But the sensitive heart was too deeply wounded, and, though
she kissed him as he desired, no smile came upon the sweet,
sad mouth.

* I want you to go out of doors more, Gertrude,' said Sir
William presently. *I must take you to Wilderhaugh, I
think, to-morrow. Devanha has two charming girl-cousins
there at present, who would do you a world of good. If you
■would only exhibit a little more animation, my love, you
would be infinitely more charming.'

' I was thinking to-day, William, that if you would allow me
I wouM ask mamma and Caroline to come over for a few days.
It would be a pleasant change for them and for me. When
you are out so much I am often lonely,' said Gertrude timidly.

* My love, that is a somewhat serious request, but I have no
objections to your sister coming for a week. You can write to
her to that effect, if you like, or send a carriage for her, which-
ever you please.'

'You would not have me ask her to leave mamma at
present, William % ' said Gertrude slowly.

' My love, doubtless your mother is a very estimable woman.
I admire her diplomatic skill, but I — I cannot say I have any
great liking for her. In fact, I would much rather she
remained at Meadowflats. I am afraid my bearing towards
her would not altogether satisfy you.'

' Very well, William, there is no more to be said,' answered
Lady Lundie, but she bent her head to hide one bitter tear
which started in her eye. Verily her cross was growing heavier
every day. At times it seemed more than she could bear=

■i

1 1

»"'

\ ■: '! *

r ■'

;:i

I : i

u ;
I! Ill

^.■^ iV'il

I\- H

cnAriER V.

UNASKED, UNSOUGHT.

'"'^^^0 you want the carriiif,'c tliis afternoon, Lady
Linidiu'?' a>sk<.'d Elizabeth Lundie at liincli the
^ iulluwing day.

Tlio arrangement to go to AVilderliaugli had to
1)0 set aside, beeausc Sir William had been sniinnoned to
Edinluirgh to a meeting of a Company of Avhich lie was a
director.

'No. Were you thinking of driving out, Elizabeth?'

'Only to Runiford. I am having some morning drosses
made at Macmillan's, and ho Avas to have patterns to-day.
He offered to send them up, of course, but I said I would
call. '

' I will drive you if you like, Elizabeth,' said Lady Luudio.

ITer wedding gifts from the tenants on the Castle estates
had been a phaeton and a pair of lovely cream-coloured ponies,
which as yet she had never driven herself.

' If it will not trouble you I shall be much obliged, but it
will keep you waiting \vhile I am in Macmillan's.'

'Not at all. I can make a call, for that matter,* replied
Gertriiue. ' It is such a lovely day, we will enjoy the
drive.'

It was the first time they had appeared in public together,
and it can readily be imagined that the sight of the lovely
little equipage and its occuuants created quite a stir in

H-2

UX ASKED, UNSOUGHT,

143

Lndy
leli till'

luui to

|)1UhI tu

was a

to-day.
would

Aindio.

estiiU's
ponii'H,

, "but it

rcplif'd
|oy tlio

^rrctlicr,
lovely
Istir in

I'limfoi'd. Tt drew up at Macmillun's, where both Indies
iiliulitcd. Miss Luiidie, however, entered the shop alone,
Avhiie Lady Luudie, It^aving the pliaeton in charge of the
f( Hitman, walked rather quickly up the street to Doctor
iiiiiisyre'a door, at which she knocked.

When Miss Dunsyre's housemaid saw Lady Lundie on the
step, she looked more than surprised.

' Iluw are you, Sarah T said Lady Lundie, in the old,
fiatik, kiuiUy way. ' la Miss Dunsyre at homo? and do you
think 1 could see her?'

* Yes, miss — my lady, I mean,' said Sarah, recovering her
ffiuanimity. ' Will you please to step up to the drawing-
room ? '

'Thanks; do not trouble to am.ounee me. I used to be
quite at home here," answered Lady Lundie, and ran lightly
iq) the familiar staircase to the drawing-room.

Miss Dunsyre was sitting with her back to the door, busy,
as usual, with some wool-work for a bazaar. Work of that
kind was never out of her hands, and she was an adept in the
making of all these pretty but rather useless trifles which are
largely in request at fancy fairs. She was so absorbed that
Bhe did not hear the door open, but a light footfall crossing
the floor startled her, and she hurriedly rose. Seeing the
intruder, she seemed unusually disturbed.

' Gertrude 1 — Lady Lundie, I mean. Is it possible ? * she
exclaimed rather awkwardly.

' Yes ; since you would not come to me, I have come to
you, Margaret,' said Gertrude, with a strange, sad smile.
' May I sit down here as I used to do ? '

' Assuredly,' said Margaret, and with nervous hand pulled
in a low chair and placed a footstool for her visitor. Then
she sat down herself, and there was a minute's awkward
f>ilence. Looking at the pure, sweet face of h r old fricml,
j\Iargaret Dunsyre felt uncomfortable in the extreme to-niyht.
She had not been loyal to her, but had attributed ungenerous
motives to her actions, and pronounced judgment upon her, —
a judgment untempered by love.

' I do not think you look very well. Lady Lundie,' she said
presently. *You are so pale, and much thinner than you
were. I was very grieved when your father diju.'

iii.i M

144

SUNDEKED l/EARtS.

'Were you? I fiincied you had forgotten all ahort tno/
said (icrtriidt; simi>ly.

'No, 1 Imd not, but I romcmbured tl diiFeronco in our
positions. I coulil scarcely hopo to retain Lady Lundui'g
friendship, thou^'li I was so happy as to possess tliut of
Gertrude Mayne,' said Margaret, not gently nor humbly,
but in a clear, hard voice, which had a ring of resentment
in it.

A look of wonder and pain crossed the pale face of Lady
Lundie.

'I did not think you would speak like that. All the
world seems changed to me,' she said, in a strange, .sad,
wearied voice. ' Well, 1 must go, I think, Margaret.
Good-bye.'

Then Margaret Dunsyre's heart smote her.

* Forgive me ; I thought yoa would be changed,' she said
hurriedly. ' Stay and take tea with mo as you used to du,
and we will be friends as of old.'

'Thank you, Margaret, but I cannot stay to-day. I am
driving my sister-in-law, who is shopping at Macmillan's.
Very likely she is waiting for me there,' said Gertrudo
quietly. 'Good-bye.'

She held out her hand, and Margaret took it. Then thoy
looked for a moment at each other without speaking. They
presented as great a contrast as they had done one memora))lo
evening nearly a year ago in that same room. Yet there was
a change in the one. Margaret was the same pictur<; of
health, and womanliness, and conscious beauty; but about
Gertrude there was a strange and pathetic loveliness, an
indescribable mingling of dignity and grace, very diil'erent
from the old shy, girlish quietude. And her face was still
one to be preferred, because it had fulfilled its early promise,
and was the faithful index to the unselfish heart, the true and
faithful soul within.

'Good-bye, Margaret,' she repeated, and her eyes filled
with tears. 'Since our ways must be apart, I suppose we
cannot meet again on the old footing. But as long as I live
I will never forget what you were to me in the past. I will
never have another friend like you.'

^largaret Dunsyre's lips were sealed, and they parted in

1 1

U.V/ISA'Fn, U^SOUCTTT.

nlisolutn silonco. r>iit ATiiri,'firni'H aftornonn was apoilcnl, aiul
8lii' could fix her iniinl iicitluT upoii work, books, nor imisi''.

r.ady Lundio found her Histor-indaw siuitod in tho oairiaj^'o
uwaitinj; hur coining, and tho ponies' hiMids wore at onco
tunuHl towards lioino,. Tluiy drove in silonce, for they liad
fi!W Huhjects in connnon, and Lady Lundio's mind was en-
^Tossed with lier own thou<,'hta. Tho sight of that familiar
room, with which was associated so many bitter-sweet meraori(!s,
liad stirreil her heart in no ordinary degree. I[(!r visit had
been a mistake, and she could have wished it recalled.

'Take care, Gertrude; here is a conveyance coming. It is
close upon us ! ' cried Miss Lundio in alarm, when tlicy
sliiirjily turned one of tho windings in tho road. Gertrude
luoki'd up and drew rein so sharply that tho ponies stood
still. Th(i (bjgeart, in which were two gentlemen, the yimngiT
driving, was at onco carefully drawn to one side to allow tho
ludic^s to pass.

The driver toolc off his hat. Lady Lundie bowed hurriedly,
aTiil they i)assed on. Miss Lundio recognised them as tho
Sliiitliearns, father and son. Chancing to glance at her sister-
in-law's face as she noared tiicni, she saw it sutlusc^d with
(li'cpest crimson, and a strange look in her eyes, which reveal(Ml
something hitherto undreamed of. And, like a Hash of light-
ning, many things were made plain in a moment of time to
'•'Ji/,;ibeth Lundie's far-seeing mind.

'Who are these ladies, John?' asked old Mr. Strathisarn
when they were out of hearing.

' !Sir William Lundie's wife and sister, father,' John answered
(luietly enough, but the Hush had not <lied yet from /t/'.s' face,
und th(^ hand on the reins had lost a little of its accustomed
steadiness.

' The one in the black bonnet of course must be the wife,'
Slid the old man musingly. ' Sho has a sweet face, but sho
looks very fragile and very young. Her husband must be
double her age.'

' I have no idea,' said John. * See, father, yonder is the
new Watergate. Kovv, hasn't it an imposing appearance from
here % '

' Ay, ay, so it has,' said the old man. ' Dear me, it will be
a great improvement. I am glad 1 was able to cume and see

!.|

146

SUNDERED HEARTS.

it to-day. You soe, winter will be upon us before we know
where we are.'

' Nonsense, father ! this is only the middle of August,' said
John cheerily. 'We must not think of winter for three
months yet.'

The old gentleman had been very poorly all the summer,
and this was the first time he had been able to take the drive
to the town. John had pled that the carriage might be takon
out for him, it was so much more comfortable than the
open dogcart, but his father stoutly declined. The Kedlaiitls
carriage had never been seen upon the roads nor in the town
•iince the Sabbath day on which it conveyed Mrs. Strathearn
to tb-3 parish church of Rumford for the last time, a fortnight
befoi'i her death, and it was a fancy of the old man's that it
should not be turned out agrJn until it carried a young
mistress of Hedlands to church for the first time.

Father and son drove to the mills first, where an hour and
a half was spent in a minute inspection of the establislinnMit.
The employes were unfeignedly glad to see the old master,
for, like his son, he was greatly beloved. The bond between
tlie Strathearns and their mill hands was not only that of
master and servant; it was friendly in its nature, and was
cemented by many kindnesses given and received. Tliere
never were any differences between them, and it was rarcj
indeed that any change took place in the establishment,
except in the case of death or disability, when a younger
man v/as promoted, and an outsi^ler v°-:igaged to make the
number complete.

The old master was particular and fidgety in his inspection
of the familiar place which had absorbed the best energies
of his manhood, but John was not hasty or impatient even
with him. He explained the new macliinery and improved
modes of working with elaborate clearness.

' Ay, ay, the old concern, I see, is all right in your hands, my
lad,' said his father, in tones ot the utmost satisfaction. ' I see
you will keep up with ihe times, ahead of them, if possible, and
that too without incurring any rash or needless expenditure.'

' For which you may compliment yourself, dad, since you
trained me,' John said. ' Ay, if success in business were the
main thing, I ought to be a happy man.'

' i.

UNASA'ED, UNSOUGHT.

147

The old master said nothing, though he knew very well the
thouglit that was in his son's mind.

' Now we will drive through the Watergate and then homii,
John,' he said. *I am tired already, but I'm glad I came
to-day.'

* You deserve to be tired, dad, seeing you would noc be
advised against exploring every nook and cranny of the mill,'
siiid John, as he helped him into the trap. ' Mind, I won't
let you out to explore the new houses. You must be content
with an outside view to-day.'

The old man was not inclined to disobey, for he was already
wearied out. But he expressed his utmost admiration of the
clean, tidy rows of pretty cottages, so great an improvement
upon the old rickety houses. John listened in rather an
uniiiterested fashion. He had lost taste of his new property,
c" d seldom went up the Watergate, although it was the nearer
way to the centre of the town. Nobody knew the secret of
the Watergate scheme ; it had never occurred even to David
Dunsyre to connect Gertrude Mayne with John's interest in
improving that disreputable part of the town. Old Mr.
Strathearn's appearance in Rumford was quite an event, and
so many people stopped to speak to him, and to congratulate
him on being able to come down again, that it was nearly five
o'clock before the horse's head got fairly turned towards home.

' I'll just have time to drive you homo, eat my dinner with
you, and come back, dad,* said John. ' I have an engagement
with David at eight o'clock.'

'That's all right, John. I'll be glad enough to lie down
after dinner, so I won't miss you so much,' re[)lied his father.
' Really, I had no idea I would be so easily tired. I suppose
it's the fresh air.'

'Yes, and the long seat in this trap,' said John severely.
' You see, vou would not be advised.'

Marjorie Fleming was growing quite anxious about the old
nia.ster, and was considerably relieved when the dogcart drove
up to the door. She also severely reproved John for keeping
him out so late, just as a mother or nurse might have scolded
over late hours for a child. To me there is always something
mournfully pathetic in the helplessness and feebleness of age,
which has indeed been fitly termed a second childhood.

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SUXDERED HEARTS.

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Jolin rofle in to the town the second time, put up his horse
at the mill stables, and walked up to the Doctor's house. U
was a lov(;ly evening, the air mild and pleasant, yet bracing ;
the whole world bathed in the radiance of a full harvest moon.
A fine dry seed-time, and a long, hot summer had hasteiuMl
the harvest ; and though it was but the middle of August,
reapers were busy everywhere. The shops closed at seven in
Rumford, and there were few people abroad in Lhe High
Street — the upj)er end, indeed, was quite deserted. It was
ten minutes to eight by the town clock when John knock cm 1
at the Doctor's door, scarcely expecting to find that mhu^Ii-
occupied individual ready for him. He was right. Sarah
infcrmed him her master had been called out about a qimrter
of an hour ago, but as it was only round to the Crescent, he
did not expect to be detained. John nodded, hung up his
hat, and walked straight up to the drawing-room. He found
Margaret there, as he expected, and was somewhat astonished
to find her idle. He often teased her about her untiring in-
dustry. She rose with a smile, and they shook hands cordially.

' David will not be long, I think, John,' she said. ' Sit
down and tell me why you didn't bring your father to see mo
to-day.'

' He was too much fatigued for one thing, and we were lato
enough out,' J<din answered. 'How are you? I have nut
seen you for a week or two.'

'No. You are quite a stranger now in your old haunts,'
replied Margaret, playing with the tassels of the antimacassar
over tlie end of the couch beside her. ' Have we done aught
tooireiuir

' Don't ask stupid questions, Margaret,' said John, with a
slight smile. 'I have been occupied oneway and another, and ' —

'You didn't want to come,' persisted Maryiiret wilfully.
'If it were not for David, I would never behold you at all.'

' Well, perhajjs not,' said John a trifle absently, and turni'(l
over the pagcis of a book lying on the gipsy table at his siile.
It was not a very gallant speech, but he was out of sorts, and
he felt sufficiently at home with Margaret Dunsyre to ho
rather cfireless at times of the strict rules of politeness. Her
sweet lips curled with displeasure, and she deliberately bioke
the slender cord of the tassel with which she was playing.

UNA SA'ED, L 'NSU UGIIT.

149

*Do you know you are very rude to me, John?* she said
presently.

lie sliut the book and looked at her som(iwhat qiiestion-
inu'ly. He had never thought much about Margaret Dunsyro
at iuiy time ; but as he looked at her that night, it occumnl to
liiiu that she was prettier than he had imagined. The soft
(^rey cashmere dress, with its becoming knots of blue rib))()n,
the dainty lace and tasteful ornaments, the fair, refined face,
the haughty head with the coils of sunny hair, the whole
graceful appearance of the woman struck him, and it occurred
to him to wonder why no man had as yet found out that she
was beautiful, and had told her so.

' I beg your pardon, Margaret — I did not mean to be rude,'
he said sincerely. * Come, show me you forgive me by
singing that lovely air of Schubert's. It has been running in
my head since 1 heard you sing it last.'

'I am not in a mood for singing to-night,' said Margaret
petulantly. * I had a visitor to-day. Can you guess who it
was ? '

' It is no unusual thing for you to have a visitor. How am
I to fix upon the right one?' he asked teasingly. 'Tell me,
and put me out of suspense.'

'Lady Lundie,' she answered instantly, and the keen blue
eyes looked sharply at the face of her listener as she uttered
the words. She saw it change, and he immediately rose.

' Indeed ! Is this the first time Lady Lundie has called ? '
he asked, and he walked over to a water-colour sketch of Old
liumford, and stood contemplating it while he awaited her
answer.

' Of course it is. She has just been three weeks at home,
felio will not come again,' said Margaret quickly.

'Why not?'

* Because I showed her — told her, indeed — that we could not
be friends. I will be patronized by no woman, John.'

'Do you think it is in Lady Lundie's nature to patronize
any one, Margaret, especially an old friend ? ' asked John ;
and he turned about again and looked her straight in the face.
He did not like the manner in which she spoke; nay, \\M\xy\
to him it was perfectly inexplicable, and very unlike the
woman he took Margaret Dunsyre to be.

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SUNDERED HEARTS.

' It would be pardonable, I suppose, if she did, for, of coursp,
her position is greatly changed/ said Margaret. ' But if she i.s
not unhappy, I am no judge of another woman's expression.
It is my opinion tliat she will pay for her ambition.'

* Margaret, don't speak like that. It is unlike you. It
vexes me,' said John quickly, almost sternly. ' Lady
Luiidie's happiness or unhappiness really concerns herself
alone. If it must be discussed, leave it to those meaner-
minded people whose delight it is to lay bare the sorrows
of others to the public. It is altogether unworthy of you.'

Under his rebuke Margaret's pale face flushed and her eyes
filled with tears. It was a moment of strange weakness for
her; her pride, her reserve, her reticence seemed to be in a
moment swept away. John did not dream of the danger of
that moment. His heart, absolutely cold towards Margaret
Dunsyre, could not be touched by any kindred feeling to hers.

' Forgive me, John ; I will not vex you again,' she said.
* Only don't speak to me like that ; it breaks my heart.'

He turmid to her once more with real concern. But before
he could speak she raised her flushed face, and her eyes
looked straight into his. In a moment the scales fell from his
and the heart of the woman before him was revealed to
An answering flush rose to his brow and dyed it red.

eyes,
him.

' I will go and meet David, Margaret,' he said abruptly ; and
turning upon his heel quitted the room and the house.

But he forgot all about his engagement with David, and
turned his face towards his home. We will not follow him.
Knowing the man, having had some glimpses of his noble
nature, we can guess what that revelation meant for him.
The night hours were spent in stem self-examination. He
brought himself face to face with every action, every word he
had ever spoken to Margaret Dunsyre, and he came out of tlie
ordeal blameless. In his heart there was none of that half-
contemptuous pity for the woman who, in a moment of weak-
ness, had laid aside the veil of her absolute reserve, which in
a meaner man would assuredly have had a place. But if ever
man's heart was filled with sorrow, with bitter pain and
unavailing regret, his was that night ; and if it seemed to liim
that the pathway of life was needlessly full of thorns, he may
be forgiven.

I !'

"*!'

CHAPTER VI.

VISITORS FOR CASTLE LUNDIE.

THINK I will drive over to Castle Lundie this
morning, Caroline,' said Mrs. Franklin-Mayne at
breakfast. 'It is really perfectly disgraceful
that Gertrude has never asked us to pay her
a visit there.'

' The matter may not be in Gertrude's hands, mamma,' said
Caroline gently.

' Oh, nonsense ! If it isn't she ought to take it into her
own hands. "What is the use of a woman having a house of
her own if she cannot ask whom she likes best to it 1 She
ought to have her own way now, and can safely take it ; it
was different before.'

Caroline smiled slightly. She knew very v/ell what her
mother meant.

' If Gertrude had any proper feeling or gratitude,' persisted
]\rrs. Mayne rather wrathfully, 'she would have you fre-
quently at Castle Lundie. It is no more than her duty to try
to secure an advantageous settlement in life for you. And
among the society to which she has entrance now you would
have the best of chances.'

In times gone such a speech might have provoked a littlo
}^'0(,)d-humoured scorn on Caroline's part, but now it touched a
deeper chord. That very love whicii in a moment of foolish
pride she had put away from her, had made Caroline Mayne

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SUNDERED HEARTS.

what sho harl never been before, womanly in heart nnd feoHr,^.
Therefore lier mother's words jarred upon her, and siie
showed it in her face.

'Keally, Caroline, I have not been able to comprehend }Y>n
of late. You have chanj^^ed, and not for the better. I havo
none h.ft to synii)athize with me in my struggles for my
family,' said Mrs. j\Iayne, wiping away a tear, which was
more angry than sorrowful.

'Dear mamma, why should you struggle any longer ? ' sai(i
Caroline, ' Let (^(U'trude's great position satisfy you. Believo,
me, 1 am very well content to live quietly here with yon, I
am not at all envious of Gertnide's lot, nor have I any desire
to make what you call an advantageous settlement in life.'

IVIrs. Mayne stared at her elder daughter with something of
alarm and anxiety in her look.

'Are you quite well, Caroline?' she asked; *or are you
going to die like your poor father?'

' No, no, mamma, I am perfectly well. Perhaps things aa-n
beginning to look a little different to me, that is all,' answtM, il
Cartjline, unable to resist a smile at her mother s half-comicai,
half-serious question.

' I'm sure I hope you are quite well,' said Mrs. Mayne
rather doubtfully. ' VVill you get ready and go with me 1'

' Yes, I am quite willing. There is nothing in a mormng
call to make Sir William think us officious,' said Caroline.

'And pray, who has more right to be officious if I choose?'
queried INIrs. ]Mayne almost hystcirically. 'Am I not his
wife's mother ? I ought to go in and out of Castle Lundic as
I ple-ise.'

'Dear mother, Gertrude's husband has already made it
apparent to us that he has no desire for us to be intimate in
his house. It will be better for Gertrude that we sliould not
intrude. It might cause disagreement between them, and you
know as well as I do that there is little need for us to add to
her care.'

Caroline spoke with an earnestness which was almost
passion, and Mrs. Mayne had no more to say. But unless slie
became a power in Castle Lundie, the glory of being able to
speak of ' my daugliter, La-ly Lundie ' was shorn of its cliiif
lustre.

II. I

V/S/TO A\S FOR CASTLE LUX DIE.

»53

The morning was frittered away by Mrs. Mayne almost in
idleness, in choosing what would be the most imposin*,' garb in
which to appear at Castle Lundie, consccpiently the drive had
to be postponed till after lunch, and as they drove ro\nid l»y
che town it was nearly four o'clock before they reached the
Castle. It was to find it deserted by its inmates, who iiad
gene to spend the day at Wilderhaugh.

'Really, Caroline, 1 am not able to go back all these miles
without refreshment. I shall just go in and ask one of tlio
servants to get me a cup of tea — surely a very little thing for
a mother to ask in her daughter's house,' said Mrs. Maync ;
and, as she appeared quite decided, Caroline was obliged to
obey. But she took the asking into her own hands, and, as
she could be winning and frank enough when she chose, the
!;»>rvant was only too willing to grant her request, and they
weiu ushered into the drawing-room.

r.lrs. Mayne was in a state of subdued excitement, for this
was her first visit to the Castle, and she was rapturous over
everything. Of such a royal abode she had often dreamed,
but had never yet been permitted to enter. Caroline looked
round the magnificent but decidedly gloomy drawing-room
with a somewhat mournful interest. It was not in such a
place that Gertrade would feel at home. Her tastes were
simplicity herself, and she never had possessed any cravings
after a fine house or costly furniture, yet here the greatest
magnificence was about her in profusion. Verily, fickle indeed
are the ways of Fortune. Very shortly tea was brought in
and while the ladies were enjoying it they were disturbed by
the rattle of wheels on the avenue. Caroline rose ratfier
hastily and went to one of the long windows, not doubting
that it would be the party returning from Wilderh.augh. But
it was only a hired conveyance from the County Hotel,
wlior(!in sat a lady and gentleman, surrounded by quite a pile
of luggage.

'Visitors!' exclaimed Mrs. Mayne. 'Unexpected, surely,
or tiiey would never have all gone away. But perhaps they
are new servants. The lady is a very plain, dowdy sort of
person.'

' I hardly think they are servants, mnmma,' said Caroline.
' iind the lady is certainly not plain in appearance, whatever

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SUNDERED HEARTS,

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her dress may be. Come back from the window now, mother,
and let us be going.'

At that moment, however, a servant knocked, and then
entered the room.

' The Earl and Countess of Leybourne have arrived unex-
pectedly, Miss Franklin-May ne,' she said, addressiui^ licr
remarks to Caroline. * Will you kindly come down-stairs and
receive them V

Caroline looked rather embarrassed, and wished with all her
heart that they had driven away without seeking entrance to
Castle Lundie. But her natural self-possession and ladylike
ease were speedily restored, and both ladies at once went
down-stairs. They found the young Countess standing in the
hall, giving some directions to her maid, but at the advance of
the ladies she turned quickly a smiling, radiant face towards
them.

' This is not Gertrude % ' she said quickly.

Caroline smiled. It was impossible to resist that winning
and exquisite grace which in times gone had made Eleanor
Lundie almost worshipped in Rumford.

' Oh no. Lady Leybourne ; I am Lady Lundie's sister.
This is my mother,' Caroline hastened to explain. * It ia
unfortunate that you have arrived to find a deserted house.'

* Oh, that is nothing ! ' laughed Lady Leybourne. * We
intended it for a surprise visit. They fancy us in Spain, you
know. And of course I am quite at home here. Are you
just going ? You are not staying at the Castle at present, then V

' Oh no ; we simply came to call,' answered Caroline,
* Good afternoon. Lady Leybourne. Mamma, I see the ponies
are very restive.'

'Good afternoon. We will probably meet again, as the
Earl and I are going to make a stay here. I don't know where
he has gone, but you will see him again. Good-bye.'

She shook hands cordially with them both, and then ran
lightly up-stairs.

* Now, that's a lady, Caroline ! ' said Mrs. Mayne, who was
radiant with satisfaction. 'Now, you see, if we had gone
home, as you wished, without going in, you would have
missed that pleasure. Can it be possible that she and
Elizabeth Lundie are sisters 1 *

I ^ ■•«i^_^ .

VISJTOA'S FOR CASTLE LUND IE.

»55

* They r ve very unlike,* said Caroline softly, for her heart
hnd w .med strangely towards the bright, frank young
creature, whose very presence was like the shining of the sun.

' Mow plairdy she is dressed, yet how unn^stakeably aristo-
cratic,' said Mrs. Mayne, forgetting tliat not ten minutes ago
slio had mistaken the Countess Leybourne for a servant.
'Really, she is thoroughly charming.'

Meanwhile the subject of their conversation had taken
possession of her old rooms in the Castle, and was exploring
every corner with aflfectionate eyes. When her husband
joined her, she danced up to him and folded her hand^ glee-
fully on his arm.

* How delicious to an-ive like this, isn't it, Wilfred ? * sht
asked gaily. *It is just like coming to an empty house to
spend one's honeymoon, isn't it ? Did you see Lady Lundie'a
motlier and sister as they passed out?*

' No, my darling ; were they here % *

' Yes ; the sister is a most lovely creature. If Lady Lundie
is at all like her she will eclipse us all. Did you hear they
were all at Wilderhaugh 1 I wonder William cared to intro-
duce his wife to Lady Devanha.'

' He had always an admiration for her, Eleanor,' said the
Earl. ' But I should say she would not be the best of com-
panions for one so young as your sister-in-law.'

Unconscious of the arrival of visitors at the Castle, Lady
Lundie and her sister-in-law, with other guests, were whiling
away the afternoon in the drawing-room at Wilderhaugh, and
to one at least of the company that enforced idleness was a
very weariness. There were half-a-dozen ladies, for Mrs.
Tremaine, a fashionable widow and a dear friend of Lady
Devanha's, had arrived also unexpectedly the previous day.
The Trevors were amiable enough girls, but as frivolous and
foolish as they could well be, and they hung with admiration
upon every look and word of their cousin's wife. Evidently
she was to them a model of what they one day hoped to
become.

The conversation was frivolous, and sometimes worse. Lady
Devanha seemed conversant with every fault and failing of
each individual in her very wide circle of acquaintances, and
if there was any skeleton on the hearth, any doubtful or

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5^ •A'i9£ A' E D HE A R TS.

un|»loaSrtnt circum stances connected with family life, it vas
U|)()n tliose she; lovc^d to dwell. She related niiimtcly to lur
listeners a detailed necount of certain disa<,'reenients between
a married pair of her actiuaintancc, which arose from tho
dissipated habits of the husband.

' Poor dear creature, slie is heartbroken with him ! ' alio
said, and though the words implied comj)assion, there was
none in her heart. 'She is one of these swe(!t, angelic, triist-
ii g creatures who expected that after marriage her husbatid
would be devoted to her. I told her not long ago that .sjii;
would need to soar to a higher sphere ero she could hope to
realize such Utopian ideas of bliss.'

Lady Lundie rose, and, walking slowly over to the o])(mi
window, stepped out upon the terrace. Tho tone of the con-
versation had jarred upon her from the outset, but when Luly
Devanha talked in such a flippant and scornful way of tlio
sacred relationship of life, it was more than the gentle spirit
could bear unmoved. She saw no reason why she should not
mark her disapproval. To her mind it could be no brinich of
politeness to leave a room, if what was being said there in-
sulted tho highest and best feelings of her heart. Lady
Devanha smiled slightly, exchanged glances with Miss Lundie,
and resumed her recital.

Lady Lundie wrapped her summer shawl about her head,
and wandered from the terrace at length, crossing the ]tark to
get a nearer glim[)se of the wide and swift-rolling river, whieh
made the chief beauty of the Earl of Devanha's Border homo.
Before, however, she reached the other side of tho parlv, tho
sound of voices and the barking of dogs betokened tho
approach of the sportsmen. And presently they emergeil
from a thick copse not many yards from where she had
passed, and it was impossible for her to retire without beinL,'
seen. The gentlemen looked surprised to see Lady Lundio
there alone, and Sir William, readily surmising the cause,
looked at her with darkening brow.

' What are you doing here alone ? ' he asked, in a low voice,
when he reached her .side.

'T only came out to the terrace for a few minutes, William,
and the gleaming of the river tempted me to a nearer view,'
she answered timidly.

B';i.,"

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visrroh's /oa* castle lundje.

«S7

* Wlicre iiro tho f>tli(!r ladies?'
*In the dniwini^f-room.'

' Did it not strike you that it was mdo, and ahsiird as Avell,
to h'uve tlieni and \van(U'r about liere alone?'

Sli(^ was silent. The fair iu-ad with its gracioful wrap was
turned away from him; but the heij^ditened colour, the look
of jtain, 'vere not unobserved by the others, and contlrnieil
their opinion that Lundie and his wife were not u well-
inalched pair.

' You ou;^dit to have left me at home, William, as I desired,'
she said at length. 'I am not fit to come among your friends.
I am not of their order.'

* You do your utmost to convince me of that, Lady Lundie,'
he said, in tones which she knew conveyed his deepest dis-
])leasure, and he spoke no other word to her either there or on
their way home.

' I have again shocked your v/ixVs fastidious taste ; am I not
a reprobate, Sir William?' queried Lady Devanha, with her
most bewitching smile, as she handed him his tea. ' And yet
1 jannot for the life of me think how I have done it.
Elizabeth says I uttered nothing out of the way' —

' My wife is a spoiled child, who apparently was too early
released from the discipline of the schoolroom. As such j)ray
judge and forgive her, Sophia,' said Sir William, and she
knew of yore that his expression and tone indicated deep
displeasure.

' I fear you have sold your liberty too dearly,' she whispered.
' There are other things more desirable in a wife than extreme
youth and unsojihisticated innocence.'

' You are right, Sophia,' he said moodily, and glanced
towai'ds the slight, insignificant figure, sitting alone in a
luigliicted corner, with a forlorn and miserable look on her
face. Then he looked at the brilliant and queenly woman by
his side. . Verily there was a wide, and to him a painful,
contrast between them. Ay, poor Gertrude. Her untutored,
girlish heart did not know how to keep the too fleeting love
she had won. She did not know that a wound to her husband's
pride sank deep, and left a sharper sting than a wound to his
lu'iirt. Verily their union was the bitterest mistake of their
lives. It was with an unutterable sense of relief that Lady

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SUNDEKED HEARTS,

Lundio hpaid hov husband at length say it was time for tlum
to go home. For the Hrst time in her life she was thuiikful
for Elizuhetli's presence with them in the waggonette ; it pru-
vented any private tall: between tliem.

When tliey swept round to the front of the Castle, t]i»'y
were aoniewliat 8ur[)rised to see a gentleman pacing luisimly
up and down the terrace, smoking a cigar.

'There is Wilfred, or Wilfred's ghost, William !' exclaimnl
Miss Lundie, in tones of consternation. ' No, it is himself !
How on earth did he manage to come here "J '

The Earl can)o forward dmiling, and raised his cap from his
curly hair. He looked young, almost boyish, but his was a
truly })leasant face — open, honest, and true, like the heart
which beat within.

' Leyboume ! In the name of all that's wonderful ! ' ex-
claimed Sir William, springing out almost before the trap lunl
8toj)ped. ' How and when did you come 1 and where is
Eleanor?'

' She is here. We came a couple of hours ago by rail from
Edinburgh, and thence by fly,' smiled the Earl, ar he shook
hands. ' Is this your wife, William ?'

* This is my wife, Gertrude ; Lord Leyboume, my sister's
husband,' said Sir William.

Gertrude looked rather timidly at the stranger, and thon,
as his kindly words of greeting fell upon her ear, she uplifted
grateful, speaking eyes to his face. Wilfred Leyboume did
not like that look ; it was too full of pathos, of wistfulness,
and seemed to tell of heartache within.

* My wife's curiosity would no longer be denied,' he said
laughingly. 'Though she was too ill to come to your wedding,
Lady Lundie, she risked a journey to Scotland to see you,
against the express desire of my physician. But a wilful
woman must have her way.'

' 1 ami glad you have come. Lord Leyboume,* said Gertrude
simply, but he felt that the words were sincere.

She stole away into the house then, leaving the others
chatting for a few minutes on the terrace. She wanted to be
alone, for there was a surging wave of pent-up feeling which
must have vent.

She had scarcely shut her dressing-room door when there

'^i!Ll:

V/S/TOKS FOK CASTLE LUNDIE.

'59

For tlu'tij
thiinkful
I ; it pro-

tie, they
leisiii'i'ly

xclaiiiii'il
himself I

from his
lis was a
the lieart

full' ex-
) trap bad
where is

rail from
he shook

ly sister's

and thtm,
e uplifted
oiirne did
istfulness,

,' he said
wedding,
see you,
a wilful

Gertrude

iie others
Med to be
Ing which

len there

cnme an impatient tap to it, and a sweet, rinf^'inp voice craved
iidniittunco. 8he rose and opened it, to «ee upon the threslHdd
a slim, fraj,'ilo ti^'ure in a blue dressing-gown ; a sweet, fair
face, somewliat pule and worn by recent illness, lit by tender
violet eyes, and made eloquent by the smile which curved a
lovely mouth.

• Gertrude, I am Eleanor, your sister,* she said tremulously,
and, entering the room, shut the door.

Then these two, both young wives, but of experience how
widely different, looked for a moment at each other in absolute
silence.

* I came to love you, and I know I shall,' said Eleanor
Ley bourne's sweet caressing voice. ' How very fair you are,
and how pretty, but oh, how very, very young ! '

She wound one fair arm about the drooping shoulders of
her brother's wife, and drew her very close to her. It needed
nu second glance at that sweet face to tell Eleanor Leybourne
that there was a sorrow in the heart. Gertrude bowed htiT
head ou the prutectin^^ arm, and burst into tears.

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CHAPTER VTI.

BEARING THE CROSS.

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]\y, visit of tlic Earl and Countess of LoyLonrnc to
1^ Castle Liindie was a gleam of sunshine indeed to
^■^^^ the heart of ^Sir William's wife. She was at homo
SS)a) witli thein ; nay, more, during the tliree weeks
they ahfKle in 8cotV-.nd her heart heeanie knit to Eleanor
Leybourne m the bonds of no ordinary aliection. They iv
sendjled eaeli other in many things ; the same unselfisli spirit,
thti same deheate considcjration for others, was the mainspring;
of thei»- actions. In her after life Ciertrude Lundie never
recalled these i)eae<'ful autumn days Imt with lingerinn' and
tender pleasure. Eleanoi''s presence in the house seemed to
still all discord, to smooth away all unpleasantness, and to
strew the smishine of peare upon the hearts of its inmates.
it even softened Sir AVilliam's sternness of demeanour, and
his sister's warmly expressed admiration and growing atta(di
ment to his wife gratifuHl him not a little. It was widely
difVcrent from Elizabeth's cold criticism, from the half scornful
snide and expressive shrug of the shouldere which were at
times lier comment upon her sister-indaw's actions.

15ut it came to an end. Early in September the visitors
took their de])artnre for their own home in IJuckingliamshirc,
where, in a few months' time, was expected the advent of a
son and heir to tlie dukedom of St. Roque Gertrude hailo
them farew(dl with .-^(M'row and a little envy ot heart. Thin

rcii'

BEAR TNG THE CROSS.

i6i

pr(^at love and perfect trust in each other had ofton made her
li(3art ache, because in contrast her own married life seemed a
barren, unsatisfying, miserable thing. Yet the blame did not
lie with her ; she did her best, and if the natural impulses of
her heart did not often find vent, it was because they were
held in curb by her husband's stern coldness of ilemear.our.

' You have married a dear and precious wife, William,' said
Lady Ley bourne to her brother as she bade him farewell.
' See to it that you be good to her — that you are worthy of
her love.'

' Have you found me amiss in my treatment of my wife,
Eleanor, that you thus admonish me?' he asked, with a slight
smile.

* At times I have fancied you might be gentler with her,
"William,' she said seriously. ' Kemember, slie is very young,
and that she needs all your care.'

'It may not be so necessary to her as you imagine.. Eleanor,'
he said, and these words truublcl Lady Leybourne for days to
come.

J)uring the visit of the Earl and Coimtess there had been
very few comings and goings between Wilderhaugh and
Castle Lundie. Sophia Devanha had no liking for Lady
L('yl>ourne, and felt thoroughly uncomfortable in her presence.
Tl.is was not to be wondered at, seeing the one was the exact
antipodes of the other. But immediately the visitors left the
Castle the intimacy was resumed, and then Gertrude Lundie
was called ujion to bear that bitterest of all humiliations which
can Ijurden the heart of a wife — she saw her husbanl prefer
another woman's society before hers. Sir William Lundio
and Lady Devanha were seldom apart. After a long interval,
he returned with zest to his old pastime of playing v.dth for-
bidden fruit, coquetting with a beautiful and fascinating
woman. To Sophia Devanha this flirtation atlbrded a very
agreeable variety to the monotonous dalness of life at a
country house ; it delighted her to find she could charm
William Lundie still, for there had been a very serious flirtation
between them in Calcutta; and, though she had thrown him
over for a coronet, what ])Oor love she was capable of had been
bistowed upon Sir William. There was another reason, too,
why she found her conquest so sweet ; it was a revenge upon

\ '

1 1

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162

SUNDERED HEARTS,

I -i

I' I

Lady Limclie for tlie many unstudied but kcon sllghtr? that
insigiiilicant girl had put upon her. Sophia Devanha's luitme
was essentially mean, as well as unwomanly, and she never
felt shame or regret for an unkind or unfjenerous action. Tlie
Earl looked on in placid amusement. He was the soul of eiisy
good-nature, and his faith in his wife was only equalled liy
his boundless love for her. She had him completely in her
thfall, and was absolute mistress ; her word was law to him
at all times, and, upon the rare occasions when she had vexed
or displeased him, a sweet word or caress was sufficient to
drive the cloud from his brow. Gertrude, looking on, also
saw her husband gradually drifting further and further from
her. She was too proud, however, to show that she saw it,
only her reserve increased, the still grief grew upon her day
by day ; she never by word or look betrayed that the attention
her husband paid to Lady Devanha disturbed her in the least.
Sir William, noting that, attributed it to her absolute indiffer-
ence to him, and in his uji^^er redoubled his attentions to the
beautiful, sweet-voiced siren, who had been notorious for her
love affairs in the Indian capital before her marriage.

Elizabeth Lundie at times felt rather annoyed at her
brother — not, however, on Gertrude's account, but because
she dreaded that they might become the town talk of Rumford,
which would indeed be a great humiliation for Castle Lundie.

Early in October, somewhat to Miss Lundie's relief, the
Devanhas departed from Wilderhaugh to their place in Surrey.
It was more than a relief to Gertrude — it was as if the suu
shone after days of darkness and cloud.

*I don't know what we will do without them, Gertrude,'
Sir William said to her one day. ' Life is unbearable without
society.'

She was silent, and he looked at her keenly.

* You cannot expect me to express regret that we are again
left alone,' she said quietly.

'Why not? I am sure Lady Devanha has been most
delightful company for you. Without her Castle Lundie
would have been insufferably dull.'

For the first time since their marriage Sir William saw his
wife's lip curl in scorn.

*It is not plcasjint for any woman to see her husband

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BEARrXG THE CKOSS.

163

mnking himself conspicuous by his attention to the wife of
another man,' she said coldly, marvelling a little at her own
temerity.

' When a man sees nothing but indifference, and something
worse, in his own wife, he is glad to turn anywhere for relief,'
he said. ' If there has been anything in my behavif^ir to
displease you. Lady Lundie, you have yourself alone to thank.*

iliir face flushed, and her hands trembled. Perhaps he
was right, and she had failed in her duty as a wife.

She rose and timidly laid her hand on his arm.

' William,' she said pleadingly, ' you remember ^'Ou promised
to bear with me when I failed in some things you might
expect of me. I have tried very hard to fill my place, to be a
good and trae wife to you, but somehow it has been harder
than I thought. I do not know how it is, but I seem to have
missed the way.'

The pathetic humbleness with which she spoke might have
moved him to compassion, but the siren had dropped poison
into his ears — had turned him against his girl-wife by pointing
out plainly the reasons why she married him, and by hinting
that some early attachment alone could account for her
absolute indifference to him.

' If you would only help me a little. If you would love
me as you used to do, I am sure we could be happy yet,' she
continued earnestly. 'When that woman was here, when I
saw your devotion to her, my heart seemed turned to stone,
and I could not speak a word to you. But now she is gone,
jxirhaps you will come back to me, and help me to try and be
a better wife. Indeed, I am earnest and serious in what I say.'

Not a word of reproach, only a humble and unselfish con-
fession of her own shortcomings ! It was a wonder the man's
heart was not smitten with a fierce remorse. But he only
turned coldly away.

' 1 have made no complaint, Gertrude ; your duties as
mistress of Castle Lundie have been performed as well — better
than I could expect. Perhaps I have no right to demand
more at your hands.'

She also turned away, frozen to the heart. He did not see
the grey shadow creeping up over that wan face, telling of
hopeless desolation of soid.

\ '

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164

SUNDERED HEARTS.

Ill,

'You will need to begin preparations shortly for mir
doparture to Hertfordshire,' he said presently. ' Jt has always
been our custom to spend Christmas at Stoke Abbey, and I
should like to be settled there not later than the end of
November.'

' I expected that we would spend Christmas here tliis year,'
she said quietly. * But I will see that your wishes are carried
out.'

The next few weeks were busy with preparations for the
impending change, and Lady Lundie seldom left the Castle.
She was afraid to go to the town, for she fancied that all the
world knew and talked of her unhappy marriage. There were
not wanting those who attributed her pale and worn look to
that cause, but as yet the differences between Sir William and
his Avife were not, as Miss Lundie feared, the town talk of
Kumford. Lady Lundie seemed cut oflf entirely from her own
relatives. They had spent the month of September at an
English w-atering-place, and had lingered two weeks in London
among old friends, so that they arrived home in the last week
of October, to hear that Castle Lundie was soon to be shut up,
as its inmates were to spend Christmas in the south. Hearing
of their return to Meadowfiuts, Lady Lundie drove over in
her own phaeton one afternoon and spent an hour with h^r
mother and sister. Both expressed concern at her appearance,
but it was only Caroline who could read below the surface,
and guess that it was not physical suffering that had wrou<,'1it
the change. She came out of doors with her sister, and when
she stepped into the phaeton slie laid her hand on hers and
looked beseechingly into her face.

' Gertrude, you are not well, my darling. Tell mo what it
is,' she said anxiously. * Ought you not to see Doctor Dunsyre
before you leave? You used to think he did you good.'

A wan smile touched for a moment Lady Lundie's lips.

'My disease can only be cured by the Great Physician
when in His mercy He calls me to Himself, Caroline,' slie
said, with a strange, impressive solemnity which almost made
Caroline shiver. * I sometimes think it will not be long.'

' Hush, dear ; surely it cannot be so bad as that. Are you
not happy at Castle Lundie ? '

'Knowing what you know, Caroline, why ask such a

BEARING THE CROSS,

I6S

)r our
always
, and I
end of

s year,'
carried

for the

Castle.

all the
>re were

look to
iam nnd

talk of
her own
jr at an

London
ast week
shut up,

Hearing

over in
with her

)earance,
snrfiice,

wrou<i;ht
Ind wln'U

[hers and

what it
IDuusyre

d.'
|lips.
^ysician
line,' she
lost made

Are you

such a

question?* she said, not impatiently, but with a strange, sad
wonder. ' Mine is the misery of an unblessed, loveless wife-
hood, and there is no sorrow greater on earth.'

What could Caroline say % What words of comfort could
she offer 1 None — none.

* I dare not ask you to forgive me for my part in it, Gertrude.
It is my reproach night and day. But I did it for the best.'

' Yes, I know. The blame lies with none except myself.
I am but bearing the punishment for being false to the first
and best impulses of my heart,' she said. ' Well, good-bye,
Caroline. Perhaps we may not meet again until we return
next summer. We go direct to London from Stoke Abbey, 1
believe, and I am to be presented at Court. What a mockery,
is it not ? I wish I could see you oftener, but you see I < annot
ask who I please to my own home.'

Caroline said nothing, but her heart overflowed with an
infinite compassion, with an agony of unavailing regret. Oh
that the bitter past could be recalled !

They kissed each other then, and in silence parted. Lady
Lundie drove into the town, and, as if possessed of some strange
impulse, turned her ponies' b oads up the Watergate, and drew
rein at Katie Ruthven's door. She had only once seen the
invalid girl since her marriage, and somehow she felt a desire
to bid her good-bye before she left Scotland. There was a
strange conviction in Lady Lundie's mind, born, I doubt not,
of her indifferent health and depressed mental state, that she
should never return to Castle Lundie. Katie Ruthven was
able to be up now, sitting at the cosy kitchen fireside with
\\v\ knitting in her hands. She looked surprised and greatly
deliglited to see Lady Lundie.

' No, thank you, Katie, I will not sit down. You see dusk
is beginning to fall already, and I am driving alone,' said Lady
Lundie, when the girl begged her to take a chair. ' We are
going away from Castle Lundie for some months, and I could
not go without bidding you good-bye.'

' Thank ye, my leddy ; but are ye no' wecl ? I never saw
siccan a change on ye,' said Katie, in concern.

' Oh, I am quite well, Katie, though not so well as I was.
Perliaps it will be my turn to bear pain ; yours is rapidly
passing away, I am truly glad to see.'

I : !

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1 66

SUNDERED HEARTS.

' Ay, mem, an' I'll be a' richt sune. Maister John's gi'en
mother the north lodge at Redlands, and. we'ro to flit at the
term. Isn't that guid 1 '

'Very good, Katie, The fresh breezes at Redlands will
surely complete your cure. Well, good-bye, my girl, and
though I am away do not quite forget me,' said Lady Lundie
kindly. ' I like to be remembered by old friends.'

As she shook hands she slipped a sovereign into tlie girl's
hand.

' To assist in beautifying the new home, Kitty,' she said,
with a smile, and to avoid the girl's grateful thanks she left
tlic house. As she drove rapidly out of the town she saw in
the distance a figure she knew weU. It was John Strathearn
walking home after his day's work was done. Very speedily
tlie fast-trotting ponies overtook him. He turned his head,
and, recognising Lady Lundie, courteously raised his hat and
stood aside to let the phaeton pass. But, to his astonishment,
she drew rein, and, leaning out of the carriage, extended luir
hand. He was obliged to take it, and again, as of yore, that
gentle touch thrilled him through and through.

' We are going away from the Castle, Mr. Strathearn, and 1
thought I would like to say good-bye,' she said, in the same
simple, girlish way, and without the slightest embarrassjiient of
look or tone. ' Is your father well ? *

' Not so well as I could wish, Lady Lundie,' John answered,
his compassionate eyes noting the great and woful change on
the sweet face which was still the dearest on earth to him.

' Ah, that is bad ; but we have all our troubles, sent, I
suppose, to wean us away from earth,' she said. ' Mr. Strathearn,
good-bye.'

' Good-bye, and God bless you. Lady Lundie,' said Jolin
hoarsely, and with simple and maidy reverence he touched
with his iips the olTered hand he held, and turned to go.

She knew what that action meant ; it told her that she was
still the womai. among women to him, the one he reverenced
above all others. And somehow that inner consciousness made
Gertrude Lundie's cross less hard to bear.

CHAPTER VIII.

FIRM.

[3T0KE ALBEY excelled Castle Liindio in Tieauty of
N| situation, qiiaiutness of style, and richness of
L associations with the past. When Lady Lundie
^ saw the venerable pile in the grey and shadowy
light of a November afternoon, she was conscious of a strange
thrill of interest and pride. The remains of the old abbey
still stood, a grey and picturesque ruin of boundless and
enchanting interest to the lovers of antiquity, who in the absence
of the family were permitted to enter tlio grounds. The more
modern part of the building was a faithful copy of the old
style, and, as it too was growing grey witli the storms of many
winters, it was not in any way out of keeping with the ruins.
It was a comfortable and luxurious residence within, and, if
the rooms lacked something of the lofty magnificence which
characterized the interior of Castle I/undie it was none the less
jdeasant on that account to the young wife, who saw it now
for the first time Like Castle Lundie, it was completely shut
in by wide-spreading and venerable trees, and, as it was built
in a hollow, there was no view of the surrounding country
obtainable even from the highest windows.

It was some years since Stoke Alibey had been occupied by
the family, and it may readily he snrmis<'d that th(^, arrival of
the lord of the manor with a fair .voung wifii was anticipated
with eager interest by th«.' inhal)itants of Grey Stoke. Sir

107

i68

SUNDERED HEARTS,

111 ti'

"William Lnndic found himself a stranger almost on thosB
Englisih lauds, so many years had elapsed since he had visited
them in person. But during his long absence his allairs had
been in the hands of ?. just and prude^xii steward, who was
ready to render account to his lord even of the uttermost
fartliing. Sir Williiim Lundie was a good master in so far as
he never interfered in the smallest degree with his dependents,
but, on the other hand, he had not the slightest interest either
in his tenants or in the servants of his own household. He
regarded the tenants merely as the tillers of hi,'^ soil, for the
I)rivilege of whi 'h they paid into hi? ep / yearly a certain
sum. All matters of improvements, cv ly c«,^'>iplaint, was laid
before the steward ; only a few of the okl';jc t'«i.jiits remembennl
even having seen tlnur landlord.

His dependents Sir William regarded as automatons to per-
form the duties necessary for his comfort, that was all. Little
wonder, then, that no bond of love or friendly unity bound
them to their lord.

The weather being mild and pleasant during the early days
of DcHjember, Lady Lundie spent much of her time out of doors,
and before she had been a week in her English home she was
more familiar with its surroundings than Elizabeth Lundie
herself. The villagers noted with some wonder how very
frequently I^ady Lundie drove out alone. It was rare indeed
that either her husband or her sister accompanied her in her
long and solitary drives. She often drew rein in Grey Stoke
to speak a kindly word to a woman at a door, or to pat some
curly-headed, dirty -faced urchin, standing in open-mouthed
wonder at sight of the grand lady from the Abbey. She also
called at the Vicarage, and obtained from the Vicar's wife all
needful information about the deserving poor in Grey Stoke,
whose wants she immediately planned to relieve. It was
work' after her own heart, and, as she had plenty of means at
her disposal, — for Sir William did not grudge her a liberal
allowance, — she found witle scoj)e for all her generous impulses.
In such things Lady Lundie interested herself, with svich duti(.'s
filled up the measure of her days. And so December wore
away, and Christinas was cl(»se at hand.

One morning, when she went into tlie conservatory to cut
Bome flowers, her iiUKsband joined her there. She knew at

I'- II,! ■"

FIRM.

IC9

once ho had something to say to her, and she laid down her
basket and scissors, and turned an exjwctaiit face to liira.
Till' change of scene had evidently done her good, f(jr tl»e wan
tuid haggard look had gone from her face, and sometliing of
the old girlish bloom had stolen again unawares to her cheek.
Although she had no great happiness, her life was more peace-
ful lu^re, and of late she seemed to have succeeded in pleasing
her husband better.

' I have been talking to Elizabeth about visitors for Christ-
mas, Gertrude,' he said quietly. 'It is right that we should
kcc]) Christmas royally here, and as we cannot well do so ulono,
1 .should like you to send invitations to-day. You see this is
the twelfth. The time is short enough.'

' Very well, William. If you will tell me whom you would
like, I can write to-day,' she answered readily enough.

' There is no necessity for asking a great number, Gertrude,
for in a crowd there is no real enjoyment,' he continued. ' My
sister and I have made out a list. There it is.*

She did not think of resenting his action in consulting
I'lizabeth before her — such trifles had long since ceased ^o
annoy her. So, when we are called upon to endure grcai:
sorrows, we pass by lesser ones unmoved. She took the pa[)er
from his hand, and he watched her keenly while she ran her
eye over it. He saw the quick colour leap to her cheeks, tho
flashing of the eye, which he had learned to know and under-
stand. She took up the dainty gold pencil suspended to her
watch chain, drew it through the last name on the paper, re-
turned it to him, and, lifting up her basket, she turned hcT
l)uck on him, and calmly went on with her work. It was a
daring thing to do ; probably, if she had thought a moment,
she would have hesitated, but she acted u])on her first and
truest impulse. Her husband spoke no more then, but turned
upon his heel and left the place.

She did not see him alone again until she was in her dross-
ing-room before dinner. He came in abruptly, dismissed
Clare just as she had turned to go of her own accord, and,
looking straight at his wife, asked her one brief question.

'Have you written those invitations?'

'Not yet,' she answered, [)laying nervously with the pendant
she had been about to clasp about her neck.

1 '<!

i '

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170

SUNDERED HEARTS.

'Come down to the drawing-room now, then. There
hiilf an hour before dinner ; ample time to write the more im-
portant ones,' ho said curtly, and she at once clasped on hor
ornaments, and turned to accompany him.

In obedience to his request she seated herself at a davenport,
and took the pen in her unsteady fingers.

He laid the list before her, and told her in what terms to
couch her invitations. She wrote with rapidity and easo, and
in a quarter of an hour five dainty little epistles lay addressed
and seiilcd beside her.

'Now Lady Devanha's, if you please,' he said quietly, and
keeping his dark eyes fixed mercilessly on her face.

Up over neck, and cheek, and brow swept the red flusli of
wounded, wifely pride. She laid down the pen, turned her
head, and looked her husband straight in the face.

'Will you insist upon Lady De\dnha coming here after
what I have said, William V she asked.

' What was it you said ? ' he asked somewhat mockingly.
'Did you bring forward even the shadow of a reason why
Lady Devanha should not be numbered among my guests \ '

'They are my guests as well, William. As your wife, I
have a right surely to exercise some control over the hospi-
talities of the house. If you love; me it would be sufficient
for you that Lady Devanha's presence was distasteful to nie,'
she said slowly.

' You have no rights divided from mine. I cannot, for a
whim of your jealous fancy, break the bonds of an old friend-
ship,' he said coldly. 'Be good enough to finish the list.'

* I will 7iot^ William. Her presence here will be an insult
to me. She has already humbled me openly with your
devotion to her. She shall not come here with my consent,'
said Lady Lundie, speaking without passion, but with a strange
and resolute calm. She rose as she spoke, and stood before
her husband, fearless, because {;he had right upon her side.
His face grew pale, almost livid, with suppressed passion. To
a man who had never brooked contradiction this open defiance
in a woman was not pleasant to bear.

* So, Lady Lundie, you refuse to obey me in so small a
matter as this?' he said slowly. 'A pretty specimen of wifely
duty, wifely love, you exhibit tO' me to-day. Where are your

FIRM,

171

promises, made in tears to me, your anxiety to fill worthily
the liigli position to which I, in a moment of passion, loolivshly
raised you 1 '

' Did you not also promise to bo true to me, William ?* asked
I.ady Lundie, lifting sad, pathetic eyes to his angry face. 'God
knows I have tried to do mj' hity, to keep in the spirit and in
the letter my marriage vows. Were I not still anxious to do
so, would I feel so deeply in a matter like this ] It is because
I am your true and faithful wife that I rebel against this
woman entering our home. She is a thousand times more
1)eautiful and fascinating than I, and she has already poisoned
your heart against me. She is not a good woman, because she
is not true in thought or in action to her own kind and
generous huj?band. Oh, William, if any shadow of your early
love for me remains, grant me this request, and keep Sophia
Dovanha far away from us and our home. She has come too
miserably between us already.'

' You ask an impossibility,' he said coldly. * I have already
passed my word that they shall spend Christmas here. On
that account they have set aside all other invitations, and only
await a communication from you to join us.'

The wife's pale lip quivered.

' Then they must wait in vain. Since you have not sufficient
respect for me to screen me from being pitied and mocked at
by the world as a despised wife, I must stand alone,' she said
quietly, and without waiting to hear him speak again she
quitted the room. On her way up-stairs she met Miss Lundie,
who looked almost startled to see her.

' Wliat is the mattter with you, Gertmle? ' she asked.

'Matter^ — nothing,' answered Gertrude vaguely. 'Will
you come to my dressing-room a moment, Elizabeth ? I want
to speak to you.'

In some astonishment Miss Lundie followed her sister-in-law
along the corridor, and entered the room with her. Then
licrtrnde turned swiftly, and laid her hand on her arm.

'Elizabeth, I have had some words with William about
Lady Devanha. He wishes her to come here for Christmas,
and I object — you must know well enough on what grounds,'
she said quickly. ' I have not asked many things from you,
Klizabeth. Will you help me with this?'

'i lil i1 'I

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173

SUNDERED HEARTS,

' Really, Oortnido, you ask an almost inipnssililo thin^'. /
hav(! no husiiu'ss to dictatn to William about his visitors.'

* You have inlluonoe with him, greater, I believe, than niinn.
T only ask you to use it on my behalf. Try to persuade liim
that it would bo better for us all if they did not come,* said
Gertrude! ])leadin<,dy.

Miss Lundie shook her head.

' I ilanm't, Gertrude. I have known William lonffer thim
you, and I have proved by experience that to live comfortalily
with him you must f,'ive him all his own way,' she said. * Don't
lay things so to heart. Laugh at them. It is quite common
in society for husbands to flirt harmlessly with other women.
Take my advice and don't let it trouble you. The alTair will
die a natural death.'

Latly Lundie smiled a strange, sad smile, and her hand
dropped from her sister-in-law's arm.

' You are a woman, Elizabeth, and, although you have never
been a wife, I might expect you to have a little sympathy for
me. You were a daily witness to the humiliations Sophia
Devanha hea{)ed upon me at Castle Lundie. You suw her
proud and mocking appropriation of my husband's attentions
and society, and yet you bid me not trouble my head about it !
I wish I could do as you say, but it is imj)ossible. Will you
kindly say to William I am too ill to come down-stairs to-niglitl
Indeed 1 could not comport myself properly before the
servants.'

Miss Lundie, in a slightly uncomfortable frame of mind,
departed down-stairs.

Lady Lundie shut her dressing-room door and turned the
key in the lock.

:i
i

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;

' '!

!f:

CHAPTER IX.

LETTERS.

)E need not wait, William. Your wifo will not be
down to dinner,' said ^liss Lundic;, when she
entered the drawin<^-rooni.

'Have you seen her?' asked Sir William.

'Yes, and she is in a highly nervous and excited state.
She told mo she had some words with you. I \n)[)o you were
iKjt too hard uj)on her.'

'Did she tell you her absurd objections to the Dcvanhas
coming here?'

' Yes. I warned you of it before, "William. Delighful as
Sophia's society is, perhaps you would have been better to
(lis))ense with it for a time at least. There will })e no pleasure
if (lertnide remains in her present frame of mind. Indeed, it
is probable some unpleasantness may occur. She can be firra
enough when she likes, and her feelings appear to be deeply
hurt.'

' Her jealousy is aroused, you should say,' corrected Sir
William. ' Yes, Elizabeth, you a' ■- right ; she can be firm
enough — obstinate, in fact. The 'juestion is, which is to
Aviu— she or I?'

' 1 am afraid you are beginning to discover that your hasty
inarriago was an imprudent step,' Miss Lundie ventured
to say.

' I am not prepared to admit that yet. Gertrude is charm-

173

1 i

174

SUNDEP.r.D HEARTS.

i i '.

ing and loveahle when she likes, but she is crotchoty. I am
not without ho[)es tiiat a season in London will soften <lo\vu
these small asperities. She is too outspoken, too painl'iilly
candid for the times in which she lives.'

* And for tlie husband to whom she is bound,' supj)I('ni('nt(Ml
Elizabeth drily. ' Ihit really, William, are you goinu' to
insist upon Sophia and Eric coming just now V

* Yes; you know 1 have already asked them, and Gortnide
must be taught that / am to be absolute,' said Sir William.
*lf she continues to refuse to Wt'ite to Lady Devanha, vnu
must do it, Elizabeth, and say Gertrude is indisposed, or any-
thing for an excuse. You can easily make it all right in
Uevanha's eyes, Sopliia herself is not very particular rygarding
the minor points of etiquette.'

Miss Lundie was silent a moment. Although it woidd not
be politic to refuse her brother's retiuest, there was a lingering
feeling in her hoart, a strange compassion for the poor young
wife up-stairp She felt that she would rather not be dislciyal
to her if she could avoid it, but self-interest had all aloni;
guided Elizabeth Lundie's walk in life, and it was stnaig
snough now to set aside any more generous impulse.

' I will do it on one condition, William : that you j)roniise not
to make yourself so conspicuous by your attention to Sophia,
It really went too far at Castle Lundie, and I don't wonder
Gertrude felt it. Many women would have openly rebellfMl
against it, and shut the door upon Sopliia. / would. If you
promise me that, 1 vill write to-night.'

'Gertrude hoi,; ' .haed you, surely, with some of her prudish
notions. What narm is there in an hour's coquetting with a
pretty woman '\ It is permissible everywhere. l>ut, to satisfy
you, I will promise to be a good boy,' said Sir William, in a
slightly mocking tone.

At that moment the gong sounded for the second time,
conveying something of the butler's impatience in its tone.

' Lady Lundie is indisposed,' said Miss Lundie to that
individual as she passed into the dining-room. ' She will not
be down. See that something is sent up to her at once.'

But the servant who carried up the tray with a dainty little
repast upon it could not obtain admittance, and Clare appeared
at length to say that lior ladyship desirod nothing at priisent.

^. -.'..I

LE TTERS,

175

ty. I am

t'tcn 'lown
painfully

plcini'Mtcil
\iS)\\vi to

i Gnrtnule
r Williiiiii.
/anba, yovi
lhI, or any-
lU right in
ir riigarding

i would ni)t
a lingering
poor young
, be (lisloyiii
id all along
was stnaig

promise not

to tSoiiliia.

n't wtnuler

ily rebelled

Id. H you

jlier prudish
t,ting with a
k, to satisfy
[illiam, in a

Bcond time,
Its tone,
lie to that
Rhe will not
I once.'
lainty little
re a]»pearea
lit pre,sent.

That eveninjT Miss Lundie wrote two letters, "both addrer-?ed
to Lady Devaidia, one intended for her husband's perusal and
the other for her eyes alone. They were characteristic of the
woman who wrote tliem, and clever enough in their way.
The tirst one ran as follows : —

'Stoke Abbey, Ghey Stoke,
* Dtctmher 12, 187-.

•My dear Sophia, — As Lady Lundie it? indisposed, and
una])le to issue her Christinas uivitations herself, I am deputed
to do it for her. We expect the Courtenays, Sir James and
Lady Wyatt, Captain and his two daughters, and your-
selves. They will all be here before the twentieth, and I
write to see when we may expect Eric and you. I do not
promise you any exciting gaiety, for, as you know. Lady
Lundie's tastes are very quiet, and I fancy William and I are
hoth i>ast the gay pge. But there will be the usual festive
meetings, and, if the frost continue, the pond will be in
splendid condition. You need not bring skates, as there are
a dozen or more pairs lying in the green-room, which only
rec^uire to be worn once to make them all that could be
desired. Have you been very quiet at Treby Towers? I
always think the weeks between the close of the shooting and
Christmas the dullest in all the year. Write by return, if
possible. Perhaps you had better address your reply to Lady
Lundie, as this is only by proxy. With affectionate love to
Devaidia and yourself, I am yours sincerely,

* Elizabeth Verb Lundie.'

The other was couched in less guarded and polite phrase,
and began without date or heading of any kind : —

' Dear Sophia, — Lady Lundie is in the dumps over your
coming. William and she have had a small scene over it,
hut, as usual, ho has come off victor. I write tliis privately
to say that, if you come, — which, of course, you must and
shall, — you must really not vex the poor little wife by keeping
William dancing after you as you did in Scotland. I am
really sorry for her ; so would you be if you saw her. You
can afford to be generous, and you can easily make your
presence not only agreeable, but charming to her if you like.

it.

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176

SUNDEFFD HEARTS.

Only leave AVilliam alone. I know you will talvo tlii^ in
good part. I write this cliielly in the interests of \)v\\r<>
which 1 would preserve in the household as long as I possitdy
can. In strict confidence, I believe it is a clear case of marry
in haste and rei)ent at leisure with them both. Of course
you understand not to let Eric see this, and, if you are what
I take you for, you will be projtei'ly grateful to me for giving
you this hint, and to show your gratitude you will grant my
request — Ever yours,

*E. LUNDIE.'

These epistles, "botis enclosed in one envelope, arrived at
Treby Towers on the second morning after they were written.
The mail-bag was handed in to the morning-room just when
the Earl and his wife had begun breakfast. As her husband
was busy with his own letters. Lady Devanha had no difficulty
whatever in slipping Elizabeth Lundie's private enclosure un-
observed into her pocket after she had given it a hasty perusal.

When the Earl had looked over his own correspondence,
he raised his head and glanced inquiringly at his wife.

' Well, Sophy, anything new ? '

'Nothing of consequence but that,' she answered, tossing
Miss Lundie's letter across the table to him.

He read it over and laid it aside without comment.

' Well \ ' she said a little impatiently.

'WelU' he repeated, witli a slight smile. 'Are you
particukniy anxious to spend Christmas at Stoke Abbey?'

' Why, of course ! Didn't we j)romise before we left
Wilderhaugh that we would consider that a binding en-
gagement 1 '

'You did, Sophy. I don't think I ever passed my word
about it.'

' Well, do you want to go, else when shall I write and
refuse ? ' she asked.

'Not so fast, my dearest. I have a strange fancy that I
"would like to spend Christmas at homo this year.'

'At home! — here, at Treby Towers?' she exclaimed, h(3r
beautiful face clouding.

* Yes ; why not 1 We could make it bearable enough, could
•we not ? '

LETTERS.

177

'Oh, I daresay. If I like to exert myself to fill the house
w'ilh i)00ple, and then exhaust my strength contriviiig how
they are to be amused. I need a rest, Eric; I feel quite
Avoin out, and I was looking forward to the visit uO Stoke
Alilx'y with such pleasure.'

'Well, my love, we will go by all means; anything to
please you,' he said, with his ready good-nature. 'I can't
account for this odd disinclinntion to leave home at present.
I iK'v.M' felt aii)uiing like it before.'

' e)li, yon need a change. It will do you a world of good,'
she said, her face beaming again ; and as she rose to go to
licr escritoire, she laid one fair a/m about her husband's
neck and lightly kisscid his brow. It was such winning and
caressing ways which ke])t him so bound to her, and lie
liclicvcd in her f;iith and love as absolutely as in his own
existence. In his eyes his wife was a pearl of great price.

Lady Devanlia wrote a polite little note to Lady Lundie,
touched in these terms : —

'TiuBY Towers, December 15.

' jNIy dear Lady Lundte, — \Ve will Ije charmed t(j accept
your kind invitation to spend Christmas with you at The
Abbey. I have often heard of it as a lovely old place, and I
expect to be enchanted with it. I hope your indisfxtsition is
]i:!st. I am glad to say the Earl and I are in the lusst of
iiealth. He unites with me in thaidvs and kind retrards to
your family circle. — Believe me, dyar Lady Lundie, most
sincerely yours,

* Sophia Devaniia.'

*^ P.S. — Particulars about day and hour of arrival will follow.

'S. D.'

That epistle, like Miss Lundie's, arrived at the breakfast
hour. It was the sole communication addressed to Lady
Lundie. Her mother and Caroline were her only corre-
spondents, and they did not write very frequently.

Miss Lundie recognised the fantastic little eVivelojie even
liefore she caught sight of the coronet on the l)ack of it, ami
s<iiiiethin<r like a tremor shook her. If she coidd have franu'd
uii excuse, she would have left the room until the storm she

!• *

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178

SUNDERED IiEARTS.

•!! I ".

expected hlew over. She was mistaken. Lady Linvlie \m\\t
the seal, read the contents of the dainty, delicately-perfunifd
enclosure, and, laying it beside her jtlate, calndy went on with
her hreakfu^st. Even the expression on her face underwent
no change.

' \Vlio is your correspondent, Gertrude?' asked Sir Willi;uii,
when the meal was nearly ended.

For answer she passed him the letter, with slightly curliiiL;
lip, and, rising, left the room.

She did not go up-stairs. She caught a fur mantle from
the stand in the outer hall, wrii])ped it about her head ami
shoulders, and stepped out into the crisp, clear, frosty air. It
was a lovely winter morning. The sky was clear and hanl,
and the sun shone brilliantly, causing the hoar-frost on thu
lawn and bare boughs of the trees to glitter like precious
jewels. The earth was crisp and pleasant to the feet, tln^
robins hopped here and there on the paths, chirping tlnir
cheery morning greeting. Lady Lundie heeded none of these
things. She walked swiftly right through the cold, wet parks,
careless that her feet were only protected by her thin home
slippers. She was pursued by something to which she had
been hitherto a stranger. She was brought face to face witli
that evil self which lurks in every human heart, waiting an
o])portunity to leap to the front. The old sunnydieartediiess,
the kindly, unselfish. Christian spirit which had been hitherto
Gertrude Lundie's only knov/ledge of herself, seemed to have
gone away from her for ever, and in its place had coiiu a
black and terrible spirit of anger and hatred, which m.ide \v r
afraid. She was no longer a girl, though at her age shr ui^iit
and ought to have been; but a beaten woman, driven to tlie
utmost liii.it of her endurance. Slie walked on until she
reached the ponds — two great sheets of water shut in by la 'ch
and pine, and entirely frozen over. In the morning sun the
smooth ice glittered like burnished silver. It was a wild,
lonely spot, and there Gertrude Lundie paused under a dark
and gloomy pine, and tried to think over the tangled web of
her life — tried to map out for herself a course of action. In
the solitude and peace of that rpiiet spot gradually the tunnilt.^
died away, and again cvinqui'lity reigned in her poor riven
heart.

LETTERS.

179

ie T)r*il\»?
erfuiut'd
on with
iderweiit

William,

■y

nirling

ntle from
hcail ami
,y air. It
and hi^Til,
)st on thu
B precious
5 feet, the
•ping tlu'ir
le of tluiso
wet parks,
thin homo
ih she had
face with
waiting an
eavtedness,
en hitherto
led to have
,d coiiH a
1 m.ulo \v r
she irl^'.it
ven to the
until slu!

[in hy lii'"-l^
a sun tlie
as a wild,
Ider a dark
ded wch of
[action. 1"
,he t\>muU^
poor riven

Sir William Lnndie, somewhat to his amazement, saw his
wife seat herself at the luncheon table at the usual hour with
as serene and unclouded a face as he could desire. Nor was
she peculiar in her manner. She talked freely and kindly to
them both, only the name of Lady Devanha or any allusion
to her coming or to her letter never crossed her lips. Nor was
it mentioned until two days before their arrival, when Sir
William himself broached the subject. •

'I hope you intend to be kind and courteous to the
Devanhas, Gertrude,' he said rather uneasily, for he fancied
his wife's silence ominous.

'I shall never forget that I am a lady, William,' she
answered quietly, and somehow he dared say no more.

Evidently she had resolved to make the best of it, and Sir
William inwardly res})ected her for her absolute self-control.

On the evening of the twentieth they arrived, in company
with some other guests who had travelled by the same train.
Lady Lundie's behaviour w^as the perfection of grace and lady-
like self-possession. She touched Lady Devanha's hand,
replied courteously to her effusive greetings, but she did not
say what would have been so bitterly untrue, that she welcomed
her gladly to Stoke Abbey.

fSir William, however, was satisfied, and yet, strange as it
may seem, his wife had made him somewhat ashamed of him-
self. He had won, indeed, but Ivis victory was scarcely worth
boasting of, even to himself.

After breakfast next morning a skating party set out for tho
ponds, which were in splendid order. Lady Lundie accompanied
thi-m, and the Earl of Devanha put on her skates, and they
set off for a run together. They had always been good friends,
for, though Devanha possessed few of the higher gifts, he was
honest and manly, and Lady Lundie respected him.

They got into an earnest discussion over the condition of
the English peasantry, and Lady Lundie did not observe that
they were nearing an unsafe part of the ice.

' We had better turn here. Lord Devanha,' she said, stopping
abruptly. * This end of the pond, for some reason or other,
never freezes to any thickness, and is never safe. I spoke to
8ir William about having a fence run across it, but he thought
a warning would be suificient.'

I 1

ili:|

Ifi

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i8o

SUNDERED HEARTS.

* How curious ! That is quite a mystery,' exclaimed the
Earl, with interest, * It looks quite safe ; as much so as the
lost. I must have a nearer view. I'll go cautiously.'

* Pray don't, Lord Devanha. I assure you it is most
dangerous,' said Lady Lundie nervously.

'Oh, nonsense! I'm olf! It won't he any worse than a
ducking at the most,' he cried daringly, and sped across to
the forbidden space. Lady Lundie stood still in an agony of
suspense, and then called to some of the others to join lier.
Just then she heard the fatal cracking of the ice, and the Karl
went down. In a moment all ran to the rescue, and ropes
were at once procured. But the greedy Black Pool liad
sucked its victim inio its fatal depths, and search proved
unavailing till it was too late. The ladies went back to tb.e
house, taking with them Lady Devanha, whose power of self-
control deserted her in the hour of need. She simply went
from one hysterical fit into another, and nothing would calm
or appease her. Tb.en it was that the true, calm, womanly
nature of Gertrude Lundie exhibited itself. She seemed to
be everywhere, giving orders, making prepare ""ions for tlio
return of the others with tlie exliausted or lifeless Earl. The
chill and wintry dusk was closing in before they came, bearing
their sad burden with them.

All eljbrts were unavailing to lestore animation to the
lifeless form. Verily, in an hour's time the house of mirtli
was turned to i house of mourning ; and poor Eric Devanha's
presentiment that some evil awaited liim away from ids own
h(.i.se had found its most terrible fultihrxiit.

■1, i

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/1^_«^

i^^^r'^^

CHAPTER X.

Friends for life,

NYTHING new in tlio paper this morning, JolmT
asked Mr. Strathearn, when he entered the
breakfast-room on the morning of Christmas
Day.

' Yes, father, there are two items of interest — one of which
you ""/ill regret to hear,' answered John. ' The Earl of Devanha
has been drowned while skating at Stoke Abl)ey.'

' Dear me ! that is unfortunate. There is not sufficient
care taken to see whether the ice is perfectly safe ])f^forc people
venture on it. But, for my part, I never could see what
])leasure an able-bodied man could take in skathig. It is a
child's amusement, A game at curling is a very differtrnt
thing now,' said the old man garrulously. 'Well, does it
give any particulars?'

' No, it simply states the fact of the occurrence, and mentions
the EarFs age, and some other things concerning him. He is
only in his thirtieth year.'

' Ay, ay, a young man just your own age, lad ; and he has
a wife too, hasn't he ? Any family ? '

'No; the title passes to his brother Walter, who is a
lieutenant in the Grenadiers,' answered John a little absently,
for ].'• mind was more occupied with the other item of interest
colli..: ed in the morning paper.

'Grant Heatherlic has resigned his seat, dad,' he said

181

lS2

SUNOEKED HE A A' rs.

' II 1

presontly. 'So we will have the excitement of a county
election uhout us shortly.*

'Eh, IK), you don't say ao !' exclaimod the old man, with an
eager animation which made John smile.

Ho was a keen politician still, and he loved notliing hcttcr
than to recall the stirring times of the Keforni iJill agitation,
in which he had taken a very active part.

'I wonder who'll stand ! What's Grant Ileatherlie's reason
for his stejt 1 '

'Age and infirm health. I faiu^y the electors will be rather
pleased. We have not been very ably represented for seme
years.'

^^No. I wonder He9^^*erlie did not retire long ago. "Who
do you thinks a likely peison to stand?'

'There is iKur~-^f---Xdbci.ti pr(»[>rietor in the district, dad,
except Colonel Graham and myself,' said John jocularly.

'Graham won't stand. lie's a sportsman, and ktiows
nothing about politics. Rather than see the seat in Toiy
hands again, John, you must stand yourself — eh, lad? lluw
would you like to write M.P. after your name?'

'That is . . of much consequence, dad, but I've had more
than one thought about it lately, since I heard the first
rumour of Heatherlie's probable resignation. Would you
have any objections ? '

' Are you in earnest, John ? '

• Perfectly. If you would advise me to it, I would have
no hesitation whatever iji puiting myself forward as a
candidate.'

The old man looked in a surprised way at his son, and then
slowly a glow of pride and exultation ov<irspread his face, and
he slapped his hands on his knees.

' Good ! good ! Advise you to it ? Of course I will.
You're the verv man. You'll be sure to get in. You are
e\'erybudy's body, as the saying goes ; who could have a bctttT
cliance? Eh, lad, what wouldn't I give to see you staudiiig
in the House thundering against the Government ! I believe
it would add ten years to my life,'

John laughed outright.

* Well, dad, we'll have a thought about it ; and keep quiet
in the meantime,' ho said. ' I'll be o(F down lo the town and

FR/EXDS FOR LIFE.

i«3

5 s reason

sw wliat/s what. There'll l)e some rumours afloat lilsdy ahi)ut
llrialu'.rlii''s successor. I tliiuk 1 eoulii lay my liiig(;r on the
Coiiserviitive candidate, but I'll wait and se^i.'

*ls it Sir William Lundie? Ho is the most likely of all
the county gentlemen. But is he a ])olitician % '

' lie is the man. I don't know anything about his [)olitics,
(lad. We'll find that out when ho ajipears in public. But I
uiay be wrong. Tliat is just a surmise of my own.'

' Vou are generally rii.^lit,' said the old man. ' Ay, ay, lad,
and iHtthing less than M.P. will content you] But 1 always
thought, it was in you.'

Again John laughed. It was long since he had seen his
falluT roused to such interest, and he was glad of it, for of
lute he had noted with deep anxiety a strange listlessness and
lack of spirit, which he feared might indicate the approach of
the end. Perhaps there might be a grain of truth in his
father's joke that to see him in Parliament would give him a
new lease of life. It would rouse the sluggish energies, make
a com{)lete change in the too monotonous round of life, and
give the quiet mind a fresh and stirring interest in the things
atlecting national life and prosperity. It might indeed be
worth the trial.

In the course of the day John rode into Rumford. It was
holiday time at the mills, where there would be nothing done
now till the Monday after the New Year. But the young
master had a key of the stable in his pocket, and, putting up
his horse, he walked leisurely up the street and into the office
of ^Ir. Kilgour, the lawyer. As he expected, he found a few
of the leading townsmen there discussing the event of the
day.

' Here's the very man we want,' said Kilgour, rubbing his
hands together. ' Well, Mr. John, what do you think of the
news this morning?'

' It was hardly a surprise,' answered John. * And what
are you all saying to it ?'

'Saying to it? Why, that it's the best thing ever
ha[)pcined, and that it ought to have hapi)encd long ago,' said
]\h\ Lockhart, the banker, a putTy, self-satistied old man.
' When a man can't keep up with the tinu's, sir, it's a duty he
OWLS to Lis fellow-men to retire from pubhc life,'

' I

!•

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iL.

! *i

184

SUNDERED HEARTS,

'"Wlicn old age begins to steal unawares upon oursolves,
Mr. Lookliart,' said John, ' I (|[U(\stion if any one of us will Im
found ready to admit that we are falling hcdiind the ago,.
We'll have a i)retty strong contest this time, likely.'

' Yes, if we can gel the candidates to come forward,' smtl
the lawyer. ' Wo were just g')ing over a few names IjoIuiv
you came in, Mr. John. Perhaps you could suggest a likely
person ?'

'There is no lack of eligihle enough Conservative men in
the county, Kilgour,' said John, with a laugh.

' We know that, Init we are ri[»e for a change, and we've
come to the conclusion that tjoii are the man.'

John's face flushed.

' I am very sensihle <jf the honour, but there are others Avho
can advance more powerful claims upon the county, Kilgour,'
he said quietly.

' That may be ; l)ut if the seat is to be contested you are the
man,' repeated the lawyer, while the others signified their
a[)[)roval with a sonorous ' Hear, hear.' ' You own considerable
property in the county, you have the ability, and you have
what is sometimes of more consequence in an election, tlie
ailV'ctions and respect of the entire community. Then 3-Ju am
a young man, possessed of unlimited means, and you have
plenty of time at your disposal.'

' And wliat of the Earn Mills V asked John, with a smile.

'The Earn Mills, my boy?' repeated the lawyer. 'Every-
body knows th(iy can carry on themselves, you have got the
concern into such splendid working order. It's a duty yuu
owe to your native town as well as to your party.'

' Well, well, I'll leave myself in your hands in the mean-
time,' said John good-humouredly. ' Has there been any
movement in the Conservative interest yetT

' We have not heard,' said the lawyer. ' That is a very sad
affair about poor Lord Devanha at Stoke Abbey.'

'Very,' said John, and he knew at once that he was not
alone in considering Sir William Lundie a likely person to be
put forward by his party.

' We can wait a bit,' said Mr. Lockhart, 'and in the mean-
time we can be working quietly, you know. What does your
father say to this new turn of all'airs, Mr. John % *

FA'IE.VDS FOK LIFE,

i8s

♦ My father is aa kcnn a politician as ho was in thr days
wIkju you and Kil^'our and he were in the very lieat of tlio
Kt'form Ijill excitcnicnt/ John answered, with a smile.

♦Ay, ay, that makes us all old men. Eh, Kilgourl' said
the banker.

♦ Well, I was seventy last November. What is your father's
ager

'Eighty-seven,' John answered. 'And I'm not sure but
that he looks as young as either of you.'

♦ lie never had to work like me,' said the lawyer. ' Well,
arc you oil, Mr. John ? Tell your fathtjr Lockhart and I will
l)e 11]) one of these days to ask his consent to make his son
cm M.P.'

' All right ; you'll find him quite of your mind,' laughed
Joliu. 'Good afternoon; Ell see you to-morrow.'

So saying he sauntered out of the ollice, and, by the foree
of a long habit, to seek E)avid Dunsyre in any engrossing
matter, he turned up the street towards his house. As usual
bis friend was out, but Miss Dunsyre was at home, would he
Btep in ? Sarah asked. John hesitated a moment, for he had
never seen Margaret alone since that memorable, and to him
painful, evening in Octol)er. He sauntered up to the draw-
ing room, but found it empty ; however, he seated himself
very contentedly in David's own chair, and took up the
number of the Lancet which that gentleman had tossed aside
when he was called out. But John was not deeply ijiterested
in matters medical, and he scanned with a languid and very
absent sort of interest the first pages of a very scientific article
n the germs of cholera. l£e had been thus engaged for
about ten minutes when Margaret entered the room. She
hail been making her evening toilet, and, as she had come
straight from her dressing-room, had not been made aware of
the presence of a visitor in the drawing-room. Her fair pale
face Hushed deeply red, but she spoke with an admirable self-
|»usses.sion. How bitterly Margaret Dunsyre regretted the
strange weakness which had betrayed her that October night,
perhaps you may guess. She was a proud woman, and her
jiiide had sustained the keenest of all humiliations which a
Woman can endure.

' John, how long have you been here ? I did not hear you

\ .

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iS6

SUNDERED HEARTS.

come in., Really Sarah presumes too much upon licr (>\vn
piivilc^'es and my indulgence; she ought to have come to ww.
at once.'

' Don't blame Sarah, Margaret. She has not been a( fiis-
tomod to observe ceremony with me,' said John, with liis
pleasant - ile. ' I came seeking David, but as usual in vain.
He does nut bestow too much of his com})anionship on you.'

'No; but I have grown accustomed, and ceased to exiMft
it,' Margaret made answer. *How does your father stand the
cold weather?'

' Wonderfully, thank you,' answered John. • David would
be interested in the news this morning?'

* Yes ; he was wondering if you would be down. Ilavo you
heard of the honour they are talking of bestowing on you % '

' Yes ; it was of that I came to speak to David. Tlu-y liavo
extracted a half-promise from me that I will allow myself lu
be nominated. What do you think of it?'

Again Margaret's face faintly flushed. There was no
dilference in his demeanour to her — the sa.iio friendly,
brotherly way ; the same old confidence seemed to bo betwuoii
them still. Not many men could have so bridged over and
swept away the delicate barrier which that October night had
for a little time raised between them.

'Oh, I am very pleased, and David is just wild with
delight. I hope you will win,' she answered.

' Thanks ; I knew you would, Margaret,' John said a littlo
quickly, and, rising, he began to pace restlessly to and fro
the room.

Margaret knew of yore that something was troubling him
— that something was coming. In ohl times she had often
seen him thus when he came to her with all his troubles.

' Margarcit, may I tell you something ? ' he asked suildenly.
* You always used to help and comfort me with your advice.'

* 1 am as ready, nay, readier than ever, John,' she said softly,
and she raised true, earnest eyes to his face.

He did not know with what gratitude unspeakable her
heart was filled at this proof of his unabated confidence in,
and honour for, her. Margaret would not have exchanged tiio
rcdicf and exquisite satisfaction of that moment for a lifetime
of happiness.

.1 'i

FRIENDS FOR LIFE.

187

•It is prohal)l(3, Margaret, that had this ha])poii-(l a year
ano 1 should not have accepted it — not even have (Mitcrl.iined
fi»r a moment the idea of entering Parliament,' he- l)t'gan.
' Hut things are ditferent now, and 1 am anxious for somctliing
which will occupy my tlioughts and fill up the measun; of my
liiiys. 1 am beginning to find the round of my life too
monotonous to be borne.'

He paused a moment, and Margaret, looking on, saw an in-
(Icliiiable change come upon his face. She knew then what
was coming, and prepared herself for it.

' You have always been my sister in everything but name,
M:irgaret,' he continued. 'And only I can know what your
sisterly love and care have been to me since my iiKjther died.
It almost unmans mo to think of it. It is because of all that
you have been to me that my heart craves for your syni[>athy
in what has proved the bitterest trial of my life.'

Tiiero was another brief silence, and then John, resuming
his walk, continued in low tones, telling of deep emotion.

* I do not know when I first began to love Gertrude May no.
I believe it was that day I met her hert for the first time.
Perhaps you can remember it ? '

No need to ask. Ay, Margaret remembered it very well
as the beginning of her own bitter pain.

' I had never thought very much about love except as an
experience which might come to other men, but never to me.
Ptirhaps that was why it took hold of my innermost b»!ing
Avith such intensity. I cannot tell, only I know the time
came when I would willingly have laid down my life for her,
or even to save her a moment's pain. I was in no hurry to
si)eak. I dreaded thai my dream would be rudely ended, and
so, by putting oif and waiting for a convenient season, I dealt
tlie death-blow to my own hopes. When I did speak it was
too late. She was already the betrothed wife of Sir William
Lun<lie. I knew she loved me, or I fancied she did, Margaret,
hut when I heard of that for a time I lost my faith in woman-
kind. It was only when it was too late, the night before her
marriage day, that I learned the truth from her own lips.
Slie loved me, but to retrieve her father's fallen fortunes she
married as they desired. They sold her for a title and a long
rent-roll; and I, but for my cursed procrastination, might

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SUNDJiRED HEARTS.

have prevented it. When she was married I thouili, [
would be cured. I liad never thought it a j)ossil)l(; or
probable thing that a man could cherish any feeling of interest
in the wife of another man. Margaret, I have proved my
mistake. At this moment I love Gertrude, Lady Luiidie, ius
dearly and truly and passionately as ever I loved Gertruile
Mayne.'

He paused again, and the woman listening to him turned
away her pale face, praying for strength to endure.

' It is that which has decided me not only to allow my
nomination as a candidate for Parliamentary election, but to
throw myself heart and soul into the struggle. It is only in
hard, engrossing, and incessant work that peace can coim; to
me. Margaret, forgive me if I have wearied you with so
much talk of self. I gave you my excuse. My oidy j)le:i is
to be found in your bygone love and patience with me, going
back even to the troubles of my boyhood.*

Margaret rose. Never had her face been so beautiful, be<
cause now it shone with the unselfishness of noble, generous
feeling. John Strathearn had touched the deepest chonls of
her heart, had awakened again the nobler womanhood whicli
a little jealousy and soreness of heart had for a time kept in
the background. Had he not given her the utmost proof of
his reverence for her? had he not confided to her keeping the
deepest and most sacred emotions of liis heart? It was like
the man, this noble, delicate, almost wonderful consideration
for his friend.

'John,' she said, and her voice shook, ' I cannot tell you
how I thank you for this confidence, and I will never forget
it. It will be to me the most sacred and })recious token <>f
our old love and friendship. Only say you forgive me for my
hardness towards you and her. God help and comfort yuu
both. I can say no more.'

* My heart is lighter already because you share my secret,
just as it used to be long ago,' said John, with a sunny smile,
though his eyes were dim. *Then we are friends again,
^largaret — firm, warm friends for life 1 '

' Not for life alone, please God, but for eternity, John,'
^Margaret ansAvered, and their hands met. John hel<l here
a moment in his own, then reverently raised it to his lips.

«J^

CHAPTER XT.

JOHN STRATHEARN, M.P.

jN the last day of tlio year instriK^tioT^!* vrr»- Torr^ivf-.l
by the servants left in c.liar^'t^ of (.as-.lc LiuiihC to
make preparations ior The ininunli;.t»^ return ((f the
family. The news spread at once, and before
ni<j;I)tfall John Strathearn knew it in Kntnford. He met
James IMackwood — tlie younger monibcr of the firm of Black-
wood & Son, solicitors in Runiford, and wi»o had been tho
legal advisers of the Lundies for years. That genthiinan —
who was about John's age, and liad a warm, frieiuUy liking
tor liim — at once told him that it was Sir William's intention
10 stand.

John smiled. * I expected it, Air. Blackwood,' was all ho
said.

* You will have a pretty tough battle for your seat, if you
g 't it,' laughed young IMackwood, who, though a thorough
('■luscrvative, admired John Strathearn's moderate and clear-
h.!,ided VKiWs on ])oIitics.

'1 expect that also, but tho \ictory will be all the sweeter
on that account,' said Jolm, and with a laugh passed on.

Tho 2.20 train on the afternoon of the 4th of January
brought distinguished travellers back to Kumford. Tho
Castle carriage was in waiting, also Sir William's horse — an
ord(»r lie had been jnirticular .should be remembered.

Tho ladies drove oil' to the Castle at once. Sir William,

189

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iH \\

; n 1 1 1 1

w i''^

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i|K !

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190

SUNDERED HEARTS.

followod l)y Ill's groom, rode to tlio office of Uic "^^ossTs. r.l.uk-
wootl and entered it. His visit was so prolonj^cd, tliat tho
groom — a raw yoim^:^ fellow, reared in sunny Sussex — st.xiil
sliivering in tlie bleak and bitter air, inwardly and outwanllv
anatbeinatizing the vile Scotch climate.

Ycu may be sure all these proceedings were keenly watclmd
by the townsfolk, who were on the qui vive for any elect iiu
news. It was the first time the seat had been contested in
the county for fifty years.

Neither Lady Lundie nor Elizabeth were sorry to return to
Scotland. The unhappy d«!ath of [)oor Lord Devanlia had
cast such a deep gloom over Stoke Abbey that it was with
relief they left it. His widow, apparently inconsolable, and
snl)cred by the suddenness and awfulness of the bereavenifiit,
had n^turncd to Treby Towers, where she was to be joined by
tiie Trevors to somewhat enliven her dreary solitude. In
these sad days every vestige of bitterness against the Countess
had died out of Gertrude Lundie's heart, and she had proved
herself most devoted, tenderest, gentlest friend and consoler
to the new-made widow. Wliether siie made any impression
on her rival's heart time would t(dl. Ljidy Lundie and iier
sister-in-law had a cup of tea together in Gertiiide's dressini,'-
room, and discussed the election. Neither had yet heard of
any opposing candidate.

*I am very glad William has decided to enter Parliament,'
said Miss Lundie. 'It will interest him, and keep him in
occu])ation, which he sadly needs.'

' He has plenty of interests in his estates, Elizabeth, if ho
cared to bestir himself,' said Gertrude. ' There are iimiinier-
able things requiring redress, many wrongs which oidy a
master's intervention could right. At Stoke Abbey things
seem right and just enough, but here the tenantry are slianio-
fully neglected. Mr. Macdonald is neither a just nor a
consci(mtiou8 factor.'

'Really, Gertrude, I think you jump too hastily to conclu-
sions. The Macdonalds, father and son, for generations have
served as factors for Castle Lundie. You will hardly be
a good supporter of William's politics, when you would so
ruthlessly sweep away all old institutions.'

'Because they are old they are not necessarily good, Eliza-

JOHN STRATHEARN, M.P.

t^I

hcili,' said Gertrude, with a slight sniilo ; thon thrir talk
(hifted to other matters, cliiefly feminine, ami so the aftcrnoou
wore away. Dinner was served at six that eveiiini,', and,
th(High both ladies noticed a cloud on the mastin's lHow, it
was not until the servant left the room that they learned its
cause.

* I think I heard in Rumford to-day about tlie most auda-
cious ])iece of presumption it has been my lot to encounter,'
said Sir William.

'Indeed! What was it? Anything about the election]'
asked Miss Lundie.

* Yes. As you could not possibly surmise it, I will tell you.
Young Strathearn, inflated with his own egregicus conceit and
]>r('sumj»tion, and incited by tho idiots of his i>arty, intends to
oppose the return of a Conservative monibor for the county.'

Miss Lundie laughed and shrugged her shoulders. Lady
Lundie's face flushed, and she bent low over her plate to hide
it. iJut those at the table noted it, and Elizabeth Lundie
glanc(Ml significantly at her brotlier.

'The puppy!' exclaimed Sir William, with intensity of
contempt. * He will require to be taught the folly of oppos-
ing a gentleman, and a Conservative, in shire. As he

lias plenty of means, I understand he will be pre])ared to
spend freely, over and above what his party will sjjond for
him. The more the better; they richly deserve to pay for
their folly.'

' Isn't he pretty well thought of in the neighbourhood,
William 1' asked Miss Lundie; while Ge.-trude, having re-
covered her momentary confusion, sat up erect and calm, and
apparently an unmoved and uninterested listener to their
talk.

' Among a certain class whose favour can be bought. Yes ;
but that won't return him to Parliament,' said Sir William
savagely.

' D<m't be too sure. If I were you I would spare no energy
or expense,' said Miss Lundie. 'Don't you remember, ten
years ago, how Sir James Wyatt, through the very same
contemptuous heedlessness, was worsted in Herefordshire.'

' Really, Elizabeth, you are too absurd ; but women cannot
be expected to talk sense on matters political, I suppose,' he

i =:

192

SUNDERED HE ARTS.

ij.'

■ '

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fJMid, nml the nintlfr (Ii-ojijxmI. But tin; time camo wlicn lio
r(*in('iiil)«'n'(l, witli l)ilt('r chagrin, tlio warning he liml mt
c<tiitt'iiij>tu<nisly passed hy.

In the cruise of the weirk the slierifT received the writ for
the n(^\v eK'cti(>n, and the polling was tixed for the 'I'MA
(»f .lanuary. Then the fight hegan in earnest. John tliivw
Itiiiiself into his work with all his might, so did his ()i>iionriit
in his own way. As the days wont by, thti exei lenient
increased, and ev(m tin; kecaiest, ni<»st inipartitil ohscivcr
c(tul(l iKtt have saiil whicli way the win<l blew. There wt nj
advantages on both sides. The majority of the county
fainilicK supp(^rte<l Sir William, and these necessarily cuin-
iii.'Muh'd a wide influence on those artnind and beneath tlicin.
Ikit, on the other hand, John Stratliearn was emph;itir;illy
the man of the people. He had been born and broui^^ht up
among them, had not onl}' made, but spent his monc^y freely
in Kunifiinl. and was literally the 'peoi)le'8 friend.' Many
of his townsmen possessed a vote in the county, and tliesn
would considerably swell the number in his favour. Then lie
was an eioijuent orator, and not only eloquent, but moderate,
yet dec^Jed, in his tone. He was a man who knew what lir
liad to say, and said it freely, frankly, and opeiily, without,
heMtation or shame. He made no great promises, but tlmse
who listened to John Strath<Mirn knew that he would perfnnii
in the sj)irit and in the letter every promise made and pieilge
given, because they knew the nature of the man, and li.id
proved him to the core. On the other hand, Sir William
Lundie had come among them almost as a stranger; his
oidy claim upon them being his name and lineage. He was
not popular either as a landlord or as a neighbour; his over-
iK'aring and haughty matnier, his contempt for all things
plelteian, as evinced by his public utterances regarding his
opponent, did not go down very well with the electors. Even
some of his own 8Upi)ort(^'-rs could not but admit the bad taste
(tf some of his remarks ; and though the secret was not told till
long after, there were some old Blues who recorded for John
8trathearn simply because they honoured and respected the
man. Sir William was no omtor, his voice was indistinct
and monotonous, and his listless and indidcrent manuor
seemed to admit lack of interest in the cause he was advocut-

yOIlN STRA TIIEARN. M.P,

193

orv of Tnn'os, and it

iiit,'. Yet that whs not so. Ho was a T

was a laatL'T of iiilciiso inoincnt to liini iliat his party .>linul(l
not hti defeated. Pally feeUii^' ran lii^di. Tlie usnul amount
uf elucti(»n stjuihs and cartoons — thu majority of wliich wen;
more forcihle tliaii ele<;ant— were issued, and every ilead wall
in Rumford was brilliant with llaiiiiL,' po.-ters. Aito.LTetiier it
was a time of unpreeedenttid excitement and stir in the town,
and (piiet people lived in a species of nervous terror, and
M ished the 23rd were over.

There was very little [)ersonal canvassinL,' ; on John's side
none at all. Both candidates, however, visited the outlyin;^'
liandets and villa^'es and addressed the electors, and their
u^^ents — Blackwoods for Sir William, and Lockliart for Strath-
t'.arn — worked with indefati^^'able zeal. Joinis own personal
friends were of infinite service t(» him, especially Doctor
Dunsyre, whoso influence in the district was very extensive.
In fact, he did himself damage professionally })y his zeal for
his friend, and the doors of stneral houses were closetl against
hi.n ; only, however, he knew very well, until some ailment
reipiired his attention. A trusted and skilful physiviian is a
little- king in his way wluui he has succeeded in making
himself necessary to his patients.

The Macdonalds, father and son, with true Iligldand
(loggedness and persistence, worked late and early for their
laird ; and, as the time drtiw near, it was whispered ahi'oad
that coercion had been brought to bear upon the Castle
tenantry. But the majority of them had the courage of their
opinions, and the secret of the ballot protected them.

The morning of the 23rd broke grey ami stormy, with a
coM, wet drizzle blowing in the wind. Voters were early
astir, as the booths opened at eight. Both candidates visited
tlie town in the earlier part of the day, and drove to the out
lying ])olling places later.

Between three and four in the afternoon old Mr. Strathearn
(hove into the town in an open dogctart, and that was the
liist sight which met John's eyes when ho too drove up
the High Street in David's gig. He shook his fist good-
humouredly at his father, for it wais not a day for him to be
out. Surely he had managed to steal a march on Argus-eyeil
I^larjorie Fleming. Shortly iliereafter a carriage from Castle

194

SUNDERED HEARTS,

Liiiidie, containing I-^dy Lundie, Misa Lnndie, ar>l Mr«. and
Mi'is Franklin-Mayne, drove through the town. Tho y.«ni;,'t'r
laiiJL'S were bhie, and Mrs. Mayne liad a blue rosetto pinned
to lier dark sealskin mantle. At sight of Gertrude LuiuHc's
B.vcet face, which looked harassed and worn, the first nervoiia-
noss crept over John Strathearn, and he turned his troultlej
eyes away. Perhaps liis victory might mean sorrow for licr,
for Sir William Lundio would not 8cru])le to vent his chai^rin
upon those of his own household. However, having put his
hand to the plough, he could not now turn back, even if ho
desired. At half-past four the booths were closed, and tli«
ballot-boxes removed to the Sheriff Court-room. Then John
and his father went to dine with his chief supporters at the
Doctor's house, while Sir William waited in his committ(!B
rooms, anxiously anticipating the result of the poll. Shortly
before seven o'clock a horseman rode away at a hard giillop
from the back entrance to the County Buildings, The echo
of a deafening cheer followed him, for at that moment the
result of the poll was exhibited at one of the windows.

Strathearn (L.),
Lundie (C), .

Majority for Strathearn,

789

700

U:'

CHAPTER XTL

A DIVIDED IIOLSE.

VDY LUND IE '.vas alono in tlie draw In*:* mom
when she heard hf-r liusl)and ride iij) to tl»e door.
She had dined alone with her sistcr-in law, nnt
expecting tlu't Sir William would he lioniu till
late. His early return looked ominous, for the successful
candidate at an election does not very easily free himself from
his admiring and congratulatory supporters. Lady Lundi*',
however, was not long left in suspense. She heard her
husband enter the house, and almost dir»'ctly his footstep on
the stair. She rose and turned her face expectantly to the
door. Whenever he entered she knew the result. Defeat
was written on his scowling face, fierce anger and chagrin
Hashed in his piercing eye.

* You are very early home, William,' she said timidly.

'Early! was it likely 1 shoiUd stay to he made tin; laugh-
ing-stock of a drunken and idiotic mob 1' he asked savag'-jy.
'You will bo pleased to-nijdit, Lady Lundie, that }our lover,
instead of your husband, has won success.'

Lady Lundie looked at her husband's frowning face with
proud wonder on her own. She did not quail beneath his
look, nor did even the faintest colour tinge her ])ale cheek.

'I think you forget what you are .^aying, William,' she said,
with gentle dignity. ' AVhy sIk.uUI I be j)leased at your
defeat? It is a great and unex[)ectcd disapp»»iutment tome,

li>6

196

SUNDERED HEARTS.

I i

I I

\^.

for you had imlmcHl nio with your own sanf^uino hnpos u\
"blMULT succ^!^Jful.'

* Vou can usc! vory fiuo and flwcct-soundni;^ ])1«raH«'s, niy
hidy,' ^^aid Sir William, allowing' his jKissiou to ^'ct the iMitcr
of his ju(l;;:ni('nt. 'But, let nu; tell you, it is actions wliiih
speak the truth. What did you do to lu'l|) my cause? l)i.l
you hestir yourself in the smallest de.L,'reo on my hehalf ? Nn !
you did m)t ; and more, you would not havo raised your little
lin^^er to ensure siu;ct;ss.'

She stood perfectly silent, looking him in tlio face with
wide, clear, unfaltering eyes. Slui would hear with him still,
helieving lie was hut venting the hitterness of his defeat,
lietter, perhaps, that he should humiliate her than humilialo
himself in the eyes of strangers. Therefore she stood still,

* Had 1 had any other woman but you for my wife, 1 should
have taught that plebeian pu])l)y a rlillerent lesson,' he went
on, in the same hoarse, passionate tones. ' Know this, madam,
that in clecti(m times it is the habit for the highest ladies in
the land to go among th(5 i)eopie, and by their infinite and
matchless tact turn tln^ ]ioj)ular' favour to the husband, son, or
brother, who may be striving for the seat.'

* Had you but told me that, William,' said the trend)ling wife.
in low tones, ' you know how willingly and gladly I should have
done my utmost for you. How could I know that it is tlic^
custom for lailies to do as you say? At school we were not taught
what might be exjtected of us as wives in election times.'

'The time was when your plea of igiun-ance might have
blinded me, Lady Lundie,' he said slowly. 'l*ut that time
has g(me. You have had every oj)i)ort unity for studying tlie
recpiirements and duties of your positi(m, and you have wil-
fully ))assed tlitiui by. You thwart and annoy at every turn.
Y^m show me every day you live my vast folly in making you
my wife. I would I had left you that night I found y<»u
with your plelxnan lover in your father's grounds. You would
have been a litt(!r mate for him than you are for me.'

'William! William! spare me! AVhat have I done that
you slK)uld taunt nu- thus? Ask your own conscience. Havo
1 failed in any duty I owe to you? If I have, the fault is
yours, because you have not helj)ed me in the stony way 1
have had to walk since I married you.'

.1 ; '

A DiVIDED HOUSE.

»S7

'I iv..., / too well N'/n; yon Tiiarriotl mn. It is no iinronitnon
ihiu'^ for a woman in this (lr;^M'!i(rat(! aj^'n ti> ^'ivr li.Msrlf in
('Xclian;,'o for such sulistantial ^ifts u.s 1 ln'stdwi'd upi.n ynii.
Only tlicro are instances in which the nuM'picnt of tho i^ifts
lias cxhihilcd nioro gratitude; tlian y(m have donii to nic. It
was tlu; h'ast I coidd expect that frfu-n you married me you
slioidd at least bury out (»f si'^lit your oilier love, and not
make it so puhlic a thin;^' that all who Innked miudit read it iu
your face. You could not even hide; it from Klizalx ili, who
haw spoken of it to mv mon; than once.'

Jiady Lundio raised her nerveless haiuls and pn^sscd them
to her throbhin;^' temples. Pr<!sse(l and hemmed in «in every
side, she had no nioro to say. The inner and most sacred
instincts of her nature so cruelly outraifed hy tlu; hushand who
had vowed to love, honour, and cherish her, what couM sho
say in selfMlefencel Knowing' herself hlameless, yet knowinj:,
too, that sho could never convince the an;^'ry man lu-fore hei-
that she was blameless, she would be silent and waif. Perhaps
time would be her most merciful avenger. Slie turned about
in a slow, dazed way and glided from tho room, her wiiite
robes trailing noiselessly behind her, her hands clasixMl before
her, so that her rings cut deej) into the ten<ler llesh.

Lady Lundio was seen no more that night 'oy tho inmates
of Castle Lundio — oven faithful Claro, a sympathizing but
dumb witness to all her lady's sorrows, was denied admittance,
llow was this miserable tragedy to end 1

IJcfore breakfast next morning, Sir William Lutidie, busy
with some correspondence in the library, was interru))ted l)y
the entrance of his wife. She was deadly pale ; even her
lips matched the hue of her white morning robe. The purple
shadows round the sweet, pathetic eyes, tho cruel and sad
lines about the mouth, told of a sleepless night.

Sho advanced to tho tal)le, and, laying one hand upon it,
waited till he laid down his pen.

'Weill' ho said, in a coldly inquiring voice.

* I have come to say, William, tliat, as I cannot expect that
you should still desire one you think so unworthy to remain
under your roof-tree, I am prepared and willing to return to
my mother before you go to London, as Elizabeth tells me you
intend to do next week.'

li: !'

('1

' I

I9S

SUNDERED HEARTS,

Sir William did not at once meet that calm, clear, question-
ing gaze. The passion was off him now, and, if he would own
it, he was ashamed of his violence of the previous evening.

* How can you suggest such an absurd and impossible thing,
Gertrude ? ' he said. ' Although we are not a happy or a
well-matched pair, and though we have both discovered our
mistake, there is no occasion for a public scandal. It is our
duty to deceive the world to the best of our ability as long as
we possibly can.'

' Unless you retract your words of last night, spoken perhaps
in the heat of passion, I must hold to the decision made in
the silent hours of a sleepless night,' his wife made answer
calmly.

He pushed back his chair and rose. He foresaw that, to
avert dreaded publicity, he must make some sort of an ap.ol(\gy
to the white and resolute woman he had insulted in his wrath.

* Don't let us have any more heroics, Gertrude. You nuist
make some allowance for a man who was annoyed as I was
last night. I admit I spoke as I should not have spoken.
Let us kiss and be friends again, and for my sake don't do
anything which can make the world talk, or procure for us tlie
uiienviable notoriety of a paragraph in the society journals.'

A smile, something scornful, dawned upon his wife's pale
face.

* To avoid the publicity you so much dread, I will accom-
pany you to London, on condition that you will not again
forget the respect due to me. I have hitherto borne much
and made no sign, but the limit of endurance can be reached
at last,' she said slowly, and left the room. But though she
had conceded so much for him, she was changed, and never
again would be to him the Gertrude of old. Husband and
wife must henceforth be strangers in everything but name.

Owing to the urgent nature of the affairs dem.indin^^ th',^,
attf^ntion of Her 1 (ajesty's Ministers, Parliament reassemblea
at an imusually early date, the fifth of February, so the West
End was full before the year was very old. The Lundies had
been at Liindie House, Piccadilly, a fortnight before the Earl
and Countess of Ley bourne arrived at their London house in
Carlton Gardens. A son and heir had been born to the old
and honourable houso of St. Roque, and, though the young

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A DIVIDED HOUSE.

199

mcither was still somewhat delicate, their return to town conld
he no longer delayed, lore Parliamentary business demanded
the Earl's attention. He was a keen politician, and, as the
representutive of one of the oldest Whig families in the State,
took his seat for his native county. The day after their
arrival Lady Lundie drove alone to Carlton Gardens. Her
heart was hungering unspeakably for the one being in the
great wilderness of London she could truly call friend. ' Yes,
Lady I^ey bourne was at home, lying down for an hour in her
dressing-room, where she would be delighted to see Li.dy
I'lndie at once.' Such was the reply given to Gertrude's
inquiry, and she was at once ushered uj)-stairs. Whenever the
door closed, leaving her alone with the fair young motlier,
Gertrude crossed the room with rapid step, and, kneeling
down, took the fragile form in her arms. And for a brief
moment they held each other close, and there was no word said.
Now let me look at you, Gertrude,' said Eleanor at last.
' Oh, my darling, you are greatly changed ! Have you
beenilir

'Not physically,' answered Gertrude hurriedly. 'How well
you look, and what a lovely colour you have ! '

' Oh, that is the joy of seeing you. I am not getting well
very fast. Wilfred wanted me to remain at Leybournr Park
alone for another month, but of course that was out of the
question. I could not bear to be parted from my husband so
long, Gertrude, and I am such a keen politician that I am
never content unless I hear the latest intelligence from hia
lips. William's defeat in shire \70uld be a great dis-
appointment \ '

' It was, especially as lii was so unexpected,' Gertrude
answered rather briefly.

' Would you believe that I, a descendant of such an ancient
and loyal Conservative house, should have so readily changed
the colour of my coatT said the Countess gleefully. 'But
my excuse is that a wife must be subject in all things, you
know, and of course Wilfred's opinions must be the ones for
me to hold.'

Gertrude laughed. It was impossible to resist the charm of
that bright and happy spirit, whose influence was as genial as
that of the summer sun.

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SLuVDERED HEARTS.

* Seriniiply, though, I helieve that the siiccpssful oaTididate
will very ably iei)R!sont your interests in the House,' said
Lady Leybourne. 'Of course you would hear he made bis
maiden speech last night, and created a most favouralilo
imitression ? Wilfred came home charmed, and told nie bo
had never heard such an able, thoughtful, and quietly elocpioiit
speech on the vexed question of Colonial interests. Ho also
had some conversation with Mr. Strathearn in the lohbv, and
predicts a most successful future for him. He is going to ask
him to dine with us some day soon.'

Gertrude had walked over to the window, and she hoard
her sister-in-law's remarks in silence. Ay, the Earl's prognos-
tications were correct enough. John Strathearn would make
his mark in any sphere of life.

' Of course you Avant to see baby 1 ' said the Countess
presently, thinking Gertrude was iiot absorbingly intoivsted
in politics. ' Oh, Gertrude, he is such a beauty ! — such a
lovely, precious b?by ! '

' Of course he is ! and of course I want to see him ! Where
If, he?' asked Gertrude, with a smile.

'In the nursery. No, don't ring. I am quite able to walk
there with you. He may be asleep, you know, and it woidd
be a pity to awake him by having him carried in here,' said
the Countess ; and, rising, she opened the door and led the
way across the corridor to the large and luxunous nursery
which had been fitted up for the son and heir.

The nurse, a pretty, pleasant-faced girl, was sewing in the
window, and the child was asleep in his dainty cot. Tlie
young mother stepped lightly across the floor, and with tender
hands drew aside the costly lace-trimmed coverings, revealing
a sweet baby face hushed in the beautiful repose of sound and
health-giving slumber. Gertrude's eyes filled with tear.s, and,
stooping down, she touched with her lips the little p:nk hands
lying outside the coverlet.

* May God keep him and make him a joy and a blessing to
}ou and Wilfred, Eleanor!' she said earnestly; then they
stole back to Ihe room they had left.

' His grandmother, the Duchess, is wild with delight over him.
She was with me all the time,' said Eleanor. ' Oh, Gertrude, I
have found a mother indeed in Wilfred's dear, kind mother ! '

A DIVIDED HOLSE,

20t

)lei^siiiu to

* I do Tint marvel at that. It would be impossihlo to be with
you and not love and care for you, dear Eleanor,' said (Jertru lo.

' So Wilfred says. I am so Iiappy sometimes, Gertrude, I
r :n afraid lest it cannot last. But there, I am too selfish in
my talk ! I am concerned to see you looiviuf,' so worn, and so
—so unhappy,' said Lady Leylioume, with a sli<,'ht hesitation.
'Could you not tell me a little about tlie trouble? It eases
WW always to tell things to Wilfred.'

'It can all be told in one sentence, Eleanor. You know
tlie old Bible words, "How cm a luis1)and and wife vvalk
together except they be agreed ? " That is true of us. Ours is
a divided home, and, like the one referred to in Scripture
also, I fear it cannot stand. Dear Eleanor, whatever tiio
future may be, will you try and believe tliat I tried humbly
and faithfully to do my duty ? I do not know how it is that
I seem to have missed the way.'

*My darli.ig, I shall never believe anything but what is
noble, and true, and good of you,' said Eleanor Leybovu-ne,
with filling eyes. ' !May God help and comfort you, and, if it
is His will, give you happiness yet.'

At that moment the Duches : of St. Ro(iTi.e was announced,
and Gertrude rose hurriedly to go, but Eleanor detained her.
The baby's grandmother was a stately and striking-looking
woman, retaining in her later lif i much of the beauty which
had distingaished her in youth. It was easy to see that she
loved her son's wife with a mother's love.

' This is William's wife, grandmamma,' said Lady Leybourne,
and the Duchess, after one keen look at the slight, girlish
figure, bent her stately head and kissed her cheek.

' I am pleased to meet you. Lady Lundie ; my daughter
has talked to me so much of you,' she said, with a kind and
gracious motherliness exquisite to see.

Gertrude uttered her hurried words of thanks, and almoi^fc
immediately took her leave.

That it was no fleeting impression she had m.ade on the
mind of the baby's grandmother may be gathered from the
following, announc(^ni"nt, which a})]i('ared in the list of i)re-
sentationM to Her Majesty at the 1 )rawing-roora held early in
March : —

'Lady Lundie. on her marriage, by the Duchess of St. Koque.'

n\\

CHAPTER XIII.

1 .\ i I

THE SHADOW OF THE PAST,

!! •

|i;l,

ADY Lumlio was admired, but was not what is
termed a success m society. She was one fitted
■j^ rather to make the sunshine of some quiet and
hapi)y liome tiian to be a brilliant leader of fashion.
Her manner was (juiet in the extreme, her whole demeanour
retiring, and there was also about her a listless indiifei-enco
which indicated a lack of interest in her surroundings. And
yet never had the hosiritalities of Lundie House been dis-
pensed with such a royal and gracious hand. Her first
dinner was one of the assured successes of the season, chiefly
owing to her consummate tact, and exquisite though un-
obtrusive effort to make each guest feel thoroughly at home.
Those who were ]>rivileged to gai i a few minutes' private
conversation with Sir William Lundie's girl-wife, went away
charmed with her intelligent and thoughtful remarks upon
the topics of the day, and charmed with her frank, gracious
manner and engaging sweetness of disposition. But these
were the few ; among the many Lady Lundie was passed by
as an insignificant and not at all a striking woman. But tlio
fact that ihe Duchess of St. Roque and the Countess of
Leybourne were her dearest and closest friends, gave her at
once a very decided position in society. The Duchess, nott-d
for her ex'dusiveness, must have found something to love an^l
honour in Sir William Lundie's wife, else she would not be
seen so frequently in public with her. Indeed, her love and

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THE SHADOW OF THE PAST.

8O3

attention seemed to be divided between Lady Leybourne and
Lady Lundie. What unspeakable strength and comfort tlie
love and friendship of these two true-hearted women gave to
the desolate wife I cannot tell you.

Elizabeth Lundie missed her friend Lady Devanha very much
that season. She possessed no other intimate companion, for
she was not of a nature to attract or make friends easily. She
was inwardly rather galled at the marked favour with which
(Jertrude was received in the very best circles, and again the
n ean and jealous mind was kindkid against her.

One April evening the twain were sitting together in the
spacious drawing-room at Lundie House, Elizabeth visibly
yawning over the latest three- volume novel, Gertrude sitting
in one of the long windows, alternately watching the throng
passing and re-passing, and feasting her eyes upon the wealth
of spring beauty and promise in the park across the way.
Even so a year ago Elizabeth had sat in that very window
weaving her schemes and plans for the future.

' Where is William to-night, Gertrude ? ' asked Miss Lundie,
tossing aside her book at last in evident disgust. ' I wonder
if he will be home in time to take us to the Playmarket 1 The
new play gets such a glowing critique in the Murning Pud
to-day, that I feel curious to see it.'

'I believe he has only gone over to Wilfred's, Elizabeth,
on some business matter,' replied Gertrude. ' Here he comes
now. It is iust seven ; there is ample time for you yet.'

Sir William, entering the house, came straight to the
drawing-room. Both ladies were already in evening attire,
half-past seven being the dinner-hour at Lundie House.

* Have you been to Wilfred's 1 How are they all to-night 1 '
asked Elizabeth.

' They seem well. They are entertaining to-night. Eleanor's
first political dinner, under the supervision of her mother-ni-
law,' said Sir William, with a curl of the lip which told that
something had annoyed him.

' Oh yes, of course. This is the 13th. I forgot about the dinner,
or I should have reminded you. Have thi y many guests?'

*I did not inquire about the quantity; the quality was
sufficient for me, seeing I met a specimen of it in the shape

— shire, so I left the house,' said Sir

for

of the member

William drily, and looking straight at his wife.

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Elizabeth laughed. 'There is a policy in "Wilfred's
hospitalities,' she said briefly.

' Of course. Were it not in the interests of his party, thore
is no man more particidar abont his associates than LeylxiurnM.
lie admitted to me tliat Strathearn supported liim so alilv m
his Afghan motion, that he felt obliged, against his inclination,
to ask him to dinner as a sort of reward. Of course, tlio
honour of being asked to dine with Lord Ley bourne wmiM
ensure Strathearn's support in any measure.'

Lady Lundie brought her eyes back from tbe glowiiv^f
bloom of a hawthorn tree in the park, and fixed then) calmly
on her husband's face.

'I think you are mistaken, Willinm,' she said quietly. '[
have heard Lord Leybourne reiu-atcdly express the warmest
admiration and frieiulshij) for Mr. Stratliearn, and KltMiiDr
herself told me Wilfred lias made no such intimate friend
enice tbe death of his cousin, Lord Francis Hcatlicote.'

Sir William bowed. 'I stand corrected. With so many
noble friends and supporters, Mr. Strathearn is as likely to Im
successful in political and social life as he has hitherto been
in the working of his mills.'

Slowly Lady Lundie turned her head away. The covert
eneer brought no flush to the pale cheek now ; the outward
])anoply had grown accustomed to such thrusts, and had ceased
to make any sign. But the inner being was not invulnerable,
as the shadowing eyes, these mirrors of the soul, betrayed.

'Eleanors assembly will not be a party aflair, Williiiml'
said Miss Lundie inquiringly.

' How can I tell to what lengths Leybourne's party sjiirit
may lead him? and Eleanor is his abject slave. She imb'ed
presents a tine and unique example of wifely obedience and
duty in this most degenerate age,' he said indolently, and
sauntered away to his dressing-room.

No man in London lived a more purposeless and indolent
li'e than Sir William Lundie. He had no pursuit, no hobby,
nothing in which he was absorbingly interested. And yet he
was not without ability, only the springs of his nobler man-
hood had been sapped and poisoned by the dissipations of his
youtli. He was one of those who, by some reason or other,
miss completely the aim of their existence, and who make, no
mark upon the times in wliicb thoy livA.

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205

course, tho
lunie would

Lfidy Lcybonrne'a assomMy was the, ovont of the first wook
ill May. The spacious aud priuccly mansion in Cirltou
(lanli'us was eminently fitted for .such an ent.'rtainiiicnt, and
though many a gay and brilliant throng had assemhlcd in
these beautiful rooms, Lady Leybournc's first ball bade fair to
e(lii)se them all. Aparliiom their liigh .social position, the young
couple wore gr atly beloved, and the majoiity of those asked
to share their lavish hospitality were tried and true friends.

The Ducht .ss of St. Koque, though .so fondly attaclu;d to
the gentle girl her son had wooed and won, had not been free
from certain misgivings regarding her ai)ility to ujihold the
ancient honour and preMige of the house, but before she had
been many weeks in London these fears were all dispelled,
and she saw with the utmost satisfaction that her daugliter-in-
law bade fair to outrival her in society.

Invitations had, of course, been sent to Lundie House, but,
owing to a whim of Sir William's to ait out a dreary play at
the Court Theatre, the party did not arrive until nearly eleven
o'clock.

Miss Lundie was amazed, but Gertrud(>,'s face wore that
look of supreme and beautiful composure whicli was not now
to be ruffled by trifles. Wh.-.n she entered the room, she
became at once the object of much admiration and remark.
Slie was indeed a vision of pure, pa?'^. loveliness, like the
iiar(3issus which looped up the drapery of her dress. It was
of exquisite and costly white lace, unrelieved by any colour
whatsoever. It came high and close about the graceful
throat, where it was fastened with a huge bunch of the white
flowers she loved. The sleeves were short, and it was upon
tliC round, fair arms, quite visible through the delicate laco
mitts, that her only ornaments were, — diamond braccdets ol
ex(iuisite design and purest lustre, which at every gesture
shone like little points of flame.

She was quite unconscious of the sensation her appearance
created, and when Eleanor whispered to her by and by how
fair she looked, and how^ proud she was of her, Gertrude oidy
smiled, and shook her head.

' And now come. I have wanted so often to introduce to
you Mr. Strathearn. He is here to-night. Our circle is not
coni])hito withor.t him now. You can have no idea how
Wilfred loves him, and I am glad of it, for he is a good and

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noble man. I am glad, too, that Wilfred has found aomo one
at last to fill the blank left by Cousin Frank's death. A wif»;
is a great deal to a man, you know, dear, but it is a go id
thing for him to have one true friend of his own sex,' sinM
Lady Leybourne, with a ]>retty air of wisdom. 'Ah, thei. js
Mr. Strathearn ; I see Wilfred is bringing him here.'

' It will not be necessary to introduce us, Eleanor,' said
Lady Lundie faintly. *Mr. Strathearn and I have niLt
before, as was natural, living near the same town.'

' Have you % How odd that you should never have mentinin'J
it to me,* said Lady Leybourne. * Well, that being the case,
1 will not wait, but leave you to renew an old acquaintance.'

So saying, the haj)i)y hostess llitted away to some oilier
guest, and presently John Strathearn took her place.

*Good evening. Lady Lundie,' said the grave, sweet, pleasant
tones. ' Am I permitted to renew an old friendship, and to
express the pleasure I have in meeting you in London 1 '

Every word was studied, and the polite expression of
courtesy at once restored Lady Lundie's fleeting iciiqxisure.
She raised her eyes to the noble face bent slightly towards
her, bowed graciously, and made answer calmly.

* The pleasure is mutual, Mr. Strathearn. Will you accejit ctf
an old friend's congratulations upon your success in public life?'

It was admirably said, and seemed to indicate that Lady
Lundie was learning her society lessons very well. Again it
was but the outward cloak, for at that moment the room and
its assembled throng had passed away from her view, and she
was standing alone at the stile looking across to the Running
Bum, and the same fac3 was before her, but not wearing the
polite and inditferent worldly mask.

*Lady Lundie, will you do me the honour? The music is
tempting,' said the deep and manly voice.

She rose at once, laid her cold hand on his arm, and they
joined the dancers. She knew that somewhere her husband's
cold eyes were watching her ; she felt them in her inmost soul.

• How is your father ? Is he with you in London ? ' she
asked presently.

'He is. My public life is a great source of gratification
and pride to my father, which gives it a greater zest for me,
Lady Lundie.'

'Indeed ! Then, have you rooms or a house in London T

THE SHADOW OF THE PAST.

207

le music 18

'Rooms, in the meantime, in Curzon Street; but, if my
fiitlior is s|)ared to come to London with mo another year, it
is my intention to take a house.'

•Ah, that will be pleasant! Do you hear sometimes from
your oM friends in Rumford?'

' Freijuently. Doctor Dunayre came up last month to hear
I>>rd Leykmrne on the Af<;lian question. Mar^'arei is well.'

' Do you remember the last hall at which we danced together,
Mr. StrathearnT asked Lady Lundie suddeidy.

John made no reply, because he dared not say how well he
remembered it, and its n, ny memories, bitter and sweet.

' I trust you enjoy your London life. Lady Lundie ? ' he said
at length.

'Enjoy it?' she repeated wonderingly; then her face
flushed. 'Oh yes; some parts of it very much. Will you
kindly take me to a seat now 1 I am quite giddy. I do not
thinl: I am so strong as I was.'

'I fear not, indeed, Lady Lun^lie,' said John, in tones of
infinite compassion. As he turned to lead her to a chair. Sir
William Lundie came up and held out his arm to his wife.

'Sir, I will relieve you of the care of my wife,' he said,
with imperious contempt. 'Lady Lundie, be good enough to
remember that I do not choose that you should again dance
with this genUeman^* he added, with a deep and peculiar
emphasis on the last word, which John felt in his inmost
soul. He took no notice of the insulting word, however, but
simply relinquished the fair hand he had held on his arm,
and, with a bow, turned upon his heel. He had ignored
completely the presence of Sir William, and did not even
allow his eyes to travel to his face.

The words, happily, were inaudible to those standing nearest,
but the scene was observed by many, who were not slow to
comprehend its meaning. It was observed, among others, by
Lord Leyboume, and when John very shortly intimated his
intention to leave, the Earl in a few words apologized for his
brother-in-law's behaviour, and pressed him to remain. Bu^
John, pleading a desire to spend an hour in the House of
Commons, begged to be excused, and, bidding his hostess
farewell, left the house. But his colleagues saw none of hira
that night, and he paced the moonlit glacles of St. James's
until the light was dawning in the eastern sk}'.

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CHAPTER XTV.

FAREWELL.

HAVE a loii^' letha* from Lady Pevmilia tlii.s
morning, William,' said Miss Lundie at breakfu^t
one June morning.

'Indeed! and wliat news has Sophia? Doof?
she say anytliing of lier phins for the future?' asked tiir
AVilliam, without Hfting his eyes from his i)aj)er.

' Yes, it all relates to her i)lans. She has tinally deeided to
rejoin Mr. and Mrs. Uordiilion in Calcutta. Tliey wn)to
urgently desiring her to do so, as her sister is far from strong,
and seems to long very much for her society.'

'I am more than astoni.shetl to hear it,' said Sir AVilliaiii,
and he s})oke the truth. lie had not imagined that her
bereavement could have taken so firm a hold ui)on Sojiliia
Devanha's frivolous heart, as to makc^ her willing to resign all
the i)leasures she could command in English society of the
first rank.

' She has no intention of ]>ermanently remaining in India,'
continued jNIiss Lundie, with the open vsheet before lur.
* She speaks of spending a year or so, and then returning to
England. At the end of two years Mr. Bordillion's term of
cilice expires.'

' I am astonished at Soi)hia, when she is so handsomely

left.'

*I am not. She is rather young to be set aside as tlio

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FAREWELL.

209

Powagor Countnsa ; and then, you soe, it is not very plcasiint
for hor to 8«!0 Walter's wife reigning at Treliy Tow.'is and
Wild«'rliaugh.'

* Where does she write from V

* Westbrook Hall, in Kent— that small place left specially
to her in the will. It is her only residence, unless she ciio.ist's
to purchase an estate for herself out of the fortune Eric settled
ui»<tn her at their marriage.'

• J)oes she mention any definite date for her departure?'

♦ Yes; she sails in the PeHhawar on the 9th of August, and she
desires me to spend the intervening time with her ut Westbrook.
1 shall probably go next week.'

' Yes, go by all means. I am very sorry for poor Sophia,'
said Sir William. 'You can tell her when you write that wo
hope to see her at Castle Lundie before she goes. I intend
that we shall return early in July.'

Lady Lundie was at the table, but she had not been included
in the conversation. She was interested in Lady Devanlia'a
l)lans, however, as she still felt sincerely sympathetic for her,
and she thought she understood the feeling which made her
desire to leave England. But Gertrude did not know that
the widow's fleeting grief had passed away, and that it was
simply to make the required time of mourning hiss dreary
that she had decided to revisit the scenes where her early
womanhood had been spent, and where she had been wooed
and won.

' I did not know we were to leave London so soon, William,'
said Lady Lundie. * I accepted the invitation f jr the Duchess
of St. Roque's dinner on the 10th.'

' Her Grace must accept an apology instead, then,' he re-
torted ungi-aciously. 'Not even the felicity of dining at
Leybourne House will induce me to spend another month in
London. It is a weariness alike to flesh and spirit.'

Lady Lundie was not sorry at the prospect of leaving
London. Her eyes, grown weary of the heat and glare of a
London midsummer, were longing uns]jeakably for the green
and lovely solitudes of Castle Lundie, for the heather-scented
air and the free winds of the land she loved. She was also
craving for a sight of her own kindred, from whom she had
been parted so long. Neither her mother nor sisLer had ever

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"boon nslcnd to spend u iii,L,'lit l)ono.'ith lior rooftroo, nrnl tl.ry
hini only once bcci foniiJilly asked to «lino at Castle Luii<li«»,
Rir William, iinli't'd, \\\u\ Ihth true, to his word, and had k.-pt
Ills wife's relatives ai, arm's len'_jth. The following' wetk Miss
Luiidie jnined her friend ut Westhrook, and almost iinmo-
diately Sir William raused preparations to bo set on foot fur
till' retnrn of his honsehold to Scotland.

\\y the middle of July Lundic' House was «liu*"- up, and its
inmates out of town. To Laily Lundie the heauty and peace
of Casth' Lundie (hirim; these l(»n<^' gohhm summer days were
sweet and ndreshin^ and nearly all her time was spent nut
of doors. She drove out a e;reat deal alone; often, of an
afternoon, to Meadowllats, to take tea with her mother and
sister.

Mrs. Franklin-Mayne, Inivinj; been at length convinced tliat
lier daughter's marriage had not, and n<*ver would, bring her
liny nearer to Castle Lundie, nor to the high rauK it repre-
pent«!d, had ceased to fret over it, and endeavouHMl to ho
conttuit with such society as was open to lier. And she con-
tiived to make her life i)ass pleasantly enough; and, if her
talk about Lady Lundie's success in society, her presentation
at Court, and o^her items with which the fashionable journals
suiiplied her, was rather "wearisome, her listeners, though a
little bored, excused her motlierly vanity and pride. Caroline
was relieved to see that (jertnule appeared in better health
an<l spirits than sh«; had done in the early part of the year.
The first year of her married life, with its many trials and
sorrows, had passiid away, and, though it had aged and
changed her, h(!r girlish heauty was now more fully matured,
and had received the last iinishing touches of grace and
elegance.

One afternoon, returning from Meadowflats by way of the
town, she met I^Iargaret Dunsyre not many yards from her
own door. Remembering the cold restraint of their last
meeting, Lady Lundie simply bowed, but ditl not ofl'er to
draw rein, until Margaret stepi)ed from the pavement to the
side of the phaeton. Then Lady Lundie saw a look in the
fine blue eyes she had nii.^sed for long, and involuntarily held
out her hand.

'Dear Lady Lundie,' said Margaret, *Avill you forgive mc

FAREn'hl.L,

211

for tlio i).ast,? I profcsst'd ^rrciit fricn.Mni) fnr y<ni, l.iit i-iy
iictioiis lt('li(Ml niy \V(.r.ls. 1 am truly sorry Ini'ii; will y.-u
I'nrL^ivt' iiH' tor tin' x:ik(^ of oM tliiys?'

'SiMvIy, Mar-an-t,' said (Icitnnlf, with tlic siuuiy siiiil.' ..f
ynrc M colli. I iiol uii.lcrslatid, but 1 still loved. 1 do not
ruiidily for^'ct an old friend.'

'Tliimk you,' was all MjiijLjaret said, but she lidd nertriitle's
liaiid Htill V(!ry dohely in h«!r own, and lier eyes were <!lo(jiiriir,
•1 am truly ^dad to see you look so well. Vou are K''''='''y
chiin^^('(l ; how, 1 could not describe. You look so distinj^uisUeil,
(uul — and '—

(Itrlrude's lau,L,di interrupted her.

'You use niannna's very words, l^^ar'4a^et. Ay, a season in
London must of necessiiy work sonu^ change. It is a straiiu^i
exjierieneo, lialf-sad, half-happy. Your friend has greatly
distin<i:uished hiiiiself in Parliament.'

' 8o 1 understand, but so we e.Kjiected,' ^fargaret answered.
* You would not meet him often, 1 suppose?'

'Not often, altliough he is a constant visitor at my sister-
inlaw's houso. Lord Ley bourne and he are close and dear
friends.'

'Indeed!' ^fargaret looked sur])rised. 'Then our John
has been successful in nion; ways than one?'

Gertrude nodded. She did not dicain thnt her oM frieiKl
])oss(!Ssed the s(!cret of .lohn Sli-atlieai n's life and hers, anil
that it was that knowledge which had awakened the bygone
love into new and beautiful life.

' Well, I will be going. I am very glad to have seen you
to-day, dear ^Margaret, and to find you unchanged once more,'
said La«ly Lundie. 'Good-bye.'

'Oo()dd)ye, and God bless you, Gertrude!' Margaret said
earnestly, and they i)arted on the. old friendly teians.

In the last week of July Miss Lundie wrote to say that
Lady Devanha diil not think of coming to Scotland before
she sailed, but would be glad if Sir William could make it
convenient to cinue to London and l)id her Inni I'mjimf- on the
Dlh, and then he could escort Elizabeth home to Castle
Lundie.

Gertrude did not see that letter, nor did her husband tell
her his intention, but simply said that business called him to

I •.(

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M.A

212

SUNDEKED HEARTS.

London in tlie second week cf August. But al^e was shrewil
enouL^'h to guess the nature of tlie errand.

' If you see Lady Devanha in London, William,' she said,
as she bade him good-bye, 'please give her my kind i^egiirds
and sympathy, and tell her I very heartily wish her God-
speed.'

' I will not fail to deliver your message,' he answered, rather
taken aback to find his wife so penetrating.

She was left alone for some days, then Sir William and
Miss Lundie returned on .the 10th. The following day a
party arrived for the shooting, and Lady Lundie's time of rest
and solitude was over. For a fortniglit she had to dispense
the hospitalities of Castle Lundie, and, though none of the
guests were friends, she did her utmost for their comfort and
enjoyment. Sir William seemed pleased with her eflfurts,
and never since their marriage had he appeared kinder or
more solicitous for her welfare. The gentle, unselfish heart,
ever ready to appreciate kindness, was not slow to respond to
liis unusual care, and she came nearer being happy in tliat
autumn time than she had ever been before, and in after
years that time remained fixed upon her memory as the
lia]>piest period of her life at Castle Lundie.

After his guests separated. Sir William seemed restless and
out of sorts. He paid frequent visits to London on the plea
of public business. Lady Lundie, puzzled to understand his
new-born interest in public affairs, spoke of it to her sister-
in-law.

'Well, to tell the truth, Gertrude, I believe William is
anxious for an Indian appointment under Government,' said
Miss Lundie. * He said as much to me months ago, when
we were in London in spring. With his experience of
Indian affairs, he will have no difficulty in obtaining what
he seeks. He gave great satisfaction, I know, in his last
ofiice.'

In the intensity of her surprise, Lady Lundie grew pale to
the lips.

' Is it possible he is seeking such an appointment without
my knowledge? I cannot believe that he would not have
6poken to me fir.«t ! ' she exclaimed.

* My dear, I thought you would have learned by this time

FARFAVELL.

213

that it is not William's hahit to consult any one ahout his
plans,' said Miss Lundie serenely. 'You will see I am (iiiite
ri-ht/

Elizabeth Lundie knew very well Avhat she was talking
about, because she was aware of her brother's intention uj) to
the very day he had put it into execution. A day or two
later the daily papers announced the appointment of Sir
William Lundie to a lucrative and responsible Government
post in Calcutta. It was added that the appointment gave
general satisfaction, for Sir William Lundie's knowledge and
experience of Indian affairs were well known. Lady Lundie
was not only shocked and surprised, she was deeply pained.
To her the step pointed to but one meaning, — her husband's
desire to be again near Lady Devanha. Then she was not
prepared, on so brief a notice, to go to that far land, — to leave,
perhaps for ever, every tie which bound her to the land of
her birth. On the afternoon of the day upon which the
announcement appeared, Sir William returned home. His
wife received him somewhat coldly, but did not broach the
6ul)jcct until he spoke of it himself.

* The announcement in to-day's paper would be a surprise
to you, Gertrude ? ' he said.

' It was, although Elizabeth had somewhat prepared me foi
it,' she answered briefly. ' What h;id I done that I was not
fit to be trusted with plans which would so materially affect
my future as well as yours ? '

' Well, you see, Gertrude, I had not much hope of success,
and I did not want to speak until I was sure,' he said, in
conciliatory tones.

' When do you enter upon your duties?' she asked.

'As soon as possible, though there is no date fixed. I
think of leaving England before the end of the year.'

'And this is the 17th of November,' she said slowly.
'There is not very much time for me to prepare, William.'

' Well, Gertrude, the fact is, there have been no arrange-
ments made for you to acc;ompany me,' he said slowly.

There was a ibrief silence, then his wife looked straight at
him with wide, clear, searching eyes.

'Then it is your intention to leave me behind, William?'
was all she said

214

SUNDERED HEA R TS.

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'It will bo infinitely bettor. You are not stronff, the,
climate wouM kill you in a month, find a year or two will
soon pass,' he said quickly. 'I have made every arran^cnicut
for your comfort. You can make your home either here (ir nt
the Abbey ; and whether Elizal>eth remains or not, yon have
Diy liberty to have your mother and sister residin;^' wilh you
all the time. You will have every freedom and liberty. I
will i>lace no restrictions upon you, and 1 will write to you
regularly.'

'Yes, jou have made every arrangement for my comfort,'
she repeated quietly.

'Why do you look at me like that? I fancied you would
be grateful to me for ridding you of my presence,' he said a
trifie bitterly. ' It is not so long ago since you spoke of a
separation. Here is an opportunity, and the world, even in
its most evil-s]ieaking mood, cainiot nuike a scandal of it.
It is quite common for the wives of Indian ofiicials to remain
at i.>)nie when delicate health forbids them to risk the trying
climate.'

' As your plans are all made, and as you so evidently desire
that separation, William,' said Lady Lundie slowly, 'I have
not] ling to say, except that I thank you for your kind con-
siileration for mo.'

Tln^re was no more said upon the subject. I>ady Lundie
never of her own accord mentioned it again, and the days
WMjnt by till ihe time of parting came. lie asked her to
accompany him to London, but she declined.

' I can wish you God-speed just as well here, "William,' she
said, with quivering lip, which told of a burdened heart;
* and as I^lizabeth is going, you have no need for me.'

It was on a grey and cheerless December afternoon that
husband and wife stood together in the library at Castle
Lundie to bid each other farewell. The carriage was at the
door, jMiss Lundie already seated therein. As they stood in
silence, the events of the past eighteen months strangely
juissed in rapid succession before the minds of both.

' My heart is heavy with a strange presentiment that we
shall never meet again, William,' said the young wife, in a
low voice. * If it is I who am called hence first, will you
keep a corner in your heart for mo ? I did you wrong when

FAREIVELL.

215

'onrr, the
two will
iiii^-i'iin'iit
iiiie or at
y(jii hiivo
wilh you
Ijeny. I
Le to you

comfort,'

''on w(

.nld
lie s^uid a
(poke of ii
[1, even in
idal of it.
to remain
the trying

ntly desire

y, ' I have

kind con-

I marriod yon wilhont that love which is tlio mof:f, f?acred
necessity in married life; and the shadow of tliat wrouLj has
been with us ever since, and has hindered me in my earnest
endeavours to fulfil my duty to you. But when you are far
away from me, perhaps all my sliortcomings will fadf away,
and you will oidy think of me kindly as a poor, disappointed,
and unhappy wife.'

William Lundie turned his head away, and for a little did
not speak. Agaii\ at this parting momtmt the good in him
sjirang to the surface, and the impulse was upon iiim to
snatch his wife to his heart, to hid her come with him to
keej) him from evil, to he his guiding star to a better life.
A knock at the door, conveying something of his sister's
impatience, swept that imj)ulse away for ever. He took his
wife in his arms, and for a moment held her very close.

* Gertrude, forgive me the past,' was all he said, ' and try
to think the best of mo when I am gone.'

* Yes, yes,' she said, through falling tears. * And ])erhaps,
if we are spannl to meet again, it may be to find that this
separation was best for us both. Good-bye, my husband, and
God go witli you. That is my earnest jirayer.'

So they parted, to meet again on earth no more.

idy Lundie

the days

ed her to

lilliam,' she
led heart;

tnoon that

at Castle

kvas at the

ty stood in

strangely

\t that we

wife, in a

., will yoii

Irong when

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CHAPTER XV.

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^EALLY, Gcrtrnde, I think it was your duty to go
with Sir William,' said ^Irs. Franklin-^rayne
pensively. * I know that I never would have
allowed your poor dear father to go away to
India alone ; but people are different.'

'You forget, mamma,' said Lady Limdie quietly, *I was
quite willing to accompany my husband. It was by his
express desire that I remained behind.'

' That is extraordinary, and, I must saj , most unkind. Your
position will be peculiar in the extreme, almribc like that of a
widow, in fact,' said j\Irs. Mayno. ' And what does the m;ui
suppose is to become of you, living in that great house aione,
with no companionship but that of your — ahem — rather
disagreeable sister-in-law 1 '

' It was about that I came to speak, mamma,' said Lady
Lundie. 'I have a letter from Elizabeth this morning, saying
she intends spending Christmas with the Trevors at I'pbridge
Hall. They are connections of the late Lord Devanha. She
also says her return to Castle Lundie is indefinite, if, in fact,
she should return at all. It was my husband's desire that
you and Caroline should take up vour abode with me during
his absence. "What do you think of it?'

Mrs. Mayne immediately got into a flutter of pleasurable

216

WON.

217

excitement. After all, Sir Willinni's solitary sojourn in India
might prove to be a very fortunate thing for her.

' I am glad he had so much sense, Gertrude. I must say I
scarcely expected it, seeing he has not aliown his wife's relatives
much courtesy. And, of course, you are so absuriUy observant
of his slightest wish, that you never would have asked us
without his consent.'

Gertrude smiled slightly.

*I have thought it over, mamma, and I think the best way
would be to let Meadowflats for a year or two, and make
your home for a time entirely with me. When we weary of
Castle Lundie we can go to Stoke Abbey or to Lundie House ;
and Sir William has been so generous with me, that we mi^^lit

:^o

often

take that Continental trip together of which I have
heard you speak.'

' Why, my love, that will bo charming ! won't it, Carohne]'
asked Mrs. Mayne in delight.

'Very, mamma,' Caroline answ-^red quietly, yet with
unmistakeable pleasure, for the proir-pect of being constantly
beside Gertrude was very sweet.

These plans were accordingly carried into immediate execu-
tion, and the new year saw the ladies from jS'^eadowflata
domiciled at Castle T.undie. It pleased Rumford gossips to
approve of these arrangements as the very best that could be
made, for, of course, it would not be a good thing for Lady
Lundie, when she was not strong enough to bear the voyage
to India, to live in loneliness in Castle Lundie.

The first weeks of the new year were full of quiet peace
and happiness to Lady Lundie. It was like the calm after
the storm, and recalled to her heart many old, sweet memories
connected with her girlhood. January was exceptionally mild,
and its brief yet genial sunshine surprised into life many tiny
blades and buds a month before their time. Caroline and she
spent much of their time out of doors, and their intercourse
now was that of sisters indeed. It was during these pleasant
outings that Gertrude confided to her sister all the trials and
sorrows of her married life, and the elder sister was deeply
touched by the spirit of unsellishness in which slie spoke,
always blaming herself rather than her husband, but Caroline
was not deceived. The whole sad story of a mistaken step

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if!'

ill!

S i

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218

SUNDERED HEARTS,

was sinjnlnrly plain to her, and if she felt, a little "bittcrnoRs
in iicr liiiMi't against tlie Lundios, she may be forgiven. It
was during tlicsc; pleasant moments of sisterly eonli<lenee, too,
that Gerti'ude broached to Caroline the subject of her own
brief h)ve-airair.

' 1 have often wondered, Caroline, whether therr was no
more of it,* she said gently. ' Have you never seen l)oct(jr
Dunsvre since that time?'

'Seen him! Yes, frequently, but what of that?' askod
Caroline, with a half sad, half bitter smile. ' He is not a man
who will sue twice to a woman, and I am not the woman to
betray by word or look that I would be willing to listen.'

' You are as proiul as ever, Caroline,' said Gertrude, with a
slight smile ; but Caroline shook her head.

' Nay. There was a time when I was too proud even to
admit to myself the possibility that I might exi)erience that
strange thing called love. Life looks very ditterent to me
now, Oertrude. I believe this has come to me to show mo
the world was not made for me. I used to think that because
1 had a fine face and figure, my fortune was made. Your
marriage convinced me of the folly of that idea, and then it
was too late, for I had put away from me for ever the love
which could not offer me, perhaps, the highest things of the
world, but which was my best and happiest destiny.'

*Not for ever, Caroline,' said Lady Lundie gently. 'It
may — nay, must — come all right yet.'

'Not in the way you think,' said Caroline quietly. *I
have frequently heard the rumour, and my own ol)servation
has confirmed it ; he is to be married some time this year to
his cousin Ellen Carter, at Craigcrook.'

'I have heard it also,' Lady Lundie admitted. 'What a
strangely ravelled skein life is, Caroline ! Sometimes one's
faith in a Higher Power is shaken by the mysteries and the
apparently needless sorrows which encompass poor humanity.'

' I do not know, Gertrude. It seems plain enougli to me.
The Bible says, "As ye sow, so shall ye reap." "VVliatever
sorrow may be mine, I have mysidf alone to blame for it. I
might have been to-day the ha{>j)y wife of a good and noble
man, but my pride stood in my way.'

• You are right,' admitted Lady Lundie again. ' During

PVOX.

219

tho past yo.ir T Imvp ahiindnTitly prnvod tlio liollowiio«s of
what the worlil calls her hi,u'licst";,'ii'ts. Uv^h [.ositidji and a
iioblo name are too ofu-n synonynKuis with arrogance mid
deadly pride; and I have condiuLHl tliat, though' there are
some beautiful exceptions, the happiest state is that in which
there is neither riches nor poverty, hut a mediocrity of
usefulness and worldly prosperity.'

•I cannot understand yet how you did not Avin your
husband's heart so completely that he could he nothing but
generously kind to you,' said Caroline presently, expnvssmg a
thought which had often troubled her. 'All who come' in
contact with you love you.'

Lady Lundie shook her head.

' I wronged my husband when I married him, not loving
him. Nothing could atone for that, lie knew it from the
first, and it was a perpetual shadow between us, daikcuiiig
even our happiest moments. His nature was suspicious and
jealous, and he did not believe that it was possible I might in
time learn to love him. Another thing I have often tliouirht,
though it seems unkind to say it — I believe Eli/,abi«th came
between us. It was a mistake from the beginning to have
her an inmate of our home. I could not steer my way very
well between them. Trying to keep peace with hot' I
entirely missed the way, and at length grew careless, thiidung
it was impossible my husband would ever believo in the
earnestness of my desire to fulfil in the spirit and in the letter
my marriage vow. Perhaps when he comes back, if, indeed,
I live to see that time, the past may be forgotten, ami oppor-
tunity granted for the beginning of a new life based upon our
foith in each other. That, at least, is my present hope.'

' God grant that it may be fultilled, my dearest,' said
Caroline, with a strange imjnilsiveness.

* Let us go in now,' said Gertrude, after a moment's silence,
during which her eyes wandered across the wide stre^'h of
landscape intervening between Castle Lundie and her old
home. ' This talk has done me good. What an inestimable
comfort it is to me to have you with me!' she added, and they
turned to go.

'I hope we have not lingered here too hmg,' said Caroline
anxiously, observing her sister shiver slightly, and draw tho

220

SUNDERED HEARTS.

;!''{

i ■ H

folds of ner wrap more closely about her throat. ' The air is
uiiusuall}^ chilly this morning, and in our talk we stood still
instead of moving about.'

* It is chilly. I may have caught a slight cold/ Gertrude
answered. ' I have always been susceptible since I caught a
severe chill after an assembly in London last spring, but I
daresay it will be nothing.'

Lady Lundie had evidently caught another chill, for when
evening came she was quite feverish and ill, and the following
morning Mrs. Franklin-Mayne despatched a groom for Doctor
Dunsyre. It was a great and boundless satisfaction to Mrs.
Mayne to reside at Castle Lundie, to be waited on by men-
servants and women servants, and to have no whim or fancy
unfuUilled. It was indeed the life after her own heart.
At noon Doctor Dunsyre's gig entered the Castle gates for
the first time since he commenced practice in Kumford. Ilis
politics had made him obnoxious to Sir William, and when
any medical attendance was required at the Castle, Dr.
IMtcairn, a practitioner in the neighbouring town, had been
sent for. Doctor Dunsyre was immediately shown up to
Lady Lundie's dressing-room, where he found her lying on a
couch near the fire. She turned and stretched out her hand
with the bright, familiar smile of yore.

' I am glfid to see you. Doctor Dunsyre. You see I have not
been taking good care of myself,' she said frankly.

' I see that,' he answered cheerily ; ' but I used to have
some skill when you were concerned. Lady Lundiis. You
have caught a feverish cold, probably in going out in thin
shoes, a very prevalent habit with my lady patients.'

* You are right ; that's exactly what I did. Doctor Dunsyre,'
she said, smiling. 'I place myself in your hands. Oh, I
know all you are going to say ! Just sit down first, and tell
me all about everything. How is Margaret ? '

* Margaret is always well. She does credit to my skilful
supervision,' he answered, and drew in his chair, nothing loth,
for a talk with his old friend.

Ke had never forgotten his former admiration and respect
for Gertrude Mayne. He knew a great change in iier. The
round, fresh, girlish face, with its lovely bloom, had grown
thin and worn, and the innocent eyes were surrounded by

WON.

231

10 aiT la
Dod still

ertnulo

cauglit a
ig, but I

:or when
following;
DV Doctor
L to ^Irs.
L hy nieii-
, or fancy
vrn heart.

gates for
ord. His
and whon
astle, Dr.

had been
wn up to
lying on a
1 her hand

I have not

d to have
die. You

it in thin

Dunsyre,'

oil, I

|t, and tell

ly skilful
thing loth,

id respect

Iher. The

lad grown

)unded by

deep Hhadows; also the swcot lips dmopod a little at the
corners, telling that they luui n(»t siuilctl much these in;iny
months, Lut there was a rctiiidd and exipiisitti <fract', a
strange and pathetic charm, about her which (iertrude Mayne
had never possessed. Keen student of human nature as' he
was, David Dunsyre read th(!S(3 signs correctly, and could have
truly told the story of her exitc.'ricuf^e as a wife.

They were talking cosily, both enjoying it to the full, when
the door opened and Caroline entered. Had sIk; been aware
of Doctor Durtsyre's prese7ice in the room, it is needless to say
she would not have apj^eared. Gertiiule, watclimg keenly,
saw a swift look cross the proud, pale face as she returiiLHl
Doctor Dunsyre's bow with (me as courteous, but as still" as
his own. Then she glided round to the otlier side of the
couch, adjusted with gentle hand the invalid's wraps, and
turned towards the window.

Doctor Dunsyre did not resume his seat, nor ditl Lady
Lundie press him to do so.

'It is Caroline you ought to scold, Doctor Dunsyre,' she
said, as he held out his hand at parting. 'She it is who
tempts me out of doors. It is so exquisite for us to be
together again ; we have been parted so long.'

The Doctor bowed. What answer could he make to such
a speech? Caroline, seeing he waited, turned from the
window and expressed her readiness to show him down-stairs.

' There is nothing seriously the matter with Lady Lundie, I
hope % ' she said, detaining him a moment in the hall,

'Nothing. With care and attention she will speedily
recover,' he answered. ' As I have n<jt seen Mrs. Mayne, will
you kindly see that my directions are carried out?'

' I will. Good morning, Doctor Dunsyre,' said Caroline, in
a low voice, and, to his astonishment, she held out her hand.
He took it a moment in his own, and th(^ touch thrilled him
as it had done of yore. He had deceived himself, int'eed, for
the old love was not dead in his heart. At sight of that
beautiful face it flashed into new and passionate life.

'Good morning. Miss Franklin-Mayne,' he said, in tones
which his supreme effort made cold as ice. He took his hat
from the stand, opened the door, and abruptly left the fiouse.
And it was remarked by several of his patients that day that

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222

SUNDERED HEARTS.

the Doctor was not quito himself. Altlioiioh the prcf^crihed
directions were ciirt'lully earned out, Lady Luiidie's recovery
was not so s{)eetly as Doctor Duiisyre had predicted, ami his
daily attendance was necessary at Castle Lundie. Soinetiiucs
he saw Caroline, ainl when she did not ai>i>ear he lifted
liimself for the feeling of keen disa|ipointni(Mit it caused.
"Watching her keenly, he could not hut he strnck hy ilu3
cliange in her, as marked in its way as that visihle in Lutly
Lundie. But it was not a physical change; it was only a
gentleness of h)ok and tone, a gleam of tenderness in the
])roud eyes, a sweet pathetic curve in the perfect lij)s, which
the man who so passioiintt.'ly loved her had never seen hefoic.
The meaning of these things never for a moment struck him.
lie had fancied her refusal of him and Ids love a thing }*o
ahsolute as to admit of no recaU. At the end of a week he
was on friendly terms with her, and their talk extended to
other suh)(H',ts than the sick-room and its dear inmate. Lady
Lundie watched these two with an interest almost painful in
its intou'iity. Ihit she was too wise to say anything to either,
oidy she would have given much to know whether tliere was
any truth in the rumour concerning ^L'ss Carter of Craigcrook.
The desire of her heart came to her one morning in a very
unex,ected way. Dr. Dunsyre had called as usual, and as
she was progressing so favourahly as to he ahle to sit u]) nearly
all (lay, he had just said he would probahly not be back for
several days.

' Why not ? I quite look forward to y^ur visit, Doctor
Dunsyre. If yoa are going to desert us altogether, I shall he
sorry to get well,' said Lady Lundie, with a smile. David
Dunsyre laughed, and unconsciously glance<l at the queenly
figure standing in the shadow of the rich hangings at the
window,

' You must not encourage idleness. Lady Lundie. I am
temj)ted t(j spend too much time here,' he said. ' But I
cannot come to-morrow, as I am pledged to escort my aunt
and cousin to town on a very interesting errand.'

' Indeeii %' said Lady Lundie, and her eyes asked the question
her lips did not.

' rrol)alily you have heard the rumour of my cousin Ellen
Carter's approaching marriage to my old friend and fellow-

iruN,

2^3

recovery
, [UkI lii.s
oini'tiiiics
be hatvil
t cuust'd.
k by tlio
) in Liuly
as only a
!ss in tlni
[pa, wliich
len l)L'f<«i(\
truck him.
I thing so
a week he
ttenJed to
ite. Lady
painful in
y to either,

there Wiig
Draigcrook.

in a very
lal, and as

up nearly
le back for

^it, Doctor
I shall be
lie. David
le queenly
tigs at the

Hie. I am
'But I
It my aunt

[le question

lusin Ellen
Ind fellow-

student, Professor Laurence of Edinburi^Oi ?' he said. ' It takes
l»lace in the lirst wccik of April, and the ladi(vs are going house-
hunting, I believe, to-morrow.'

Doctor Dunsyre wondered to sco tlui sn.idrn radiance wlnCh
overspread the face of Lad> Luinlic i'ni.aps it was v.'.-lj ho
did not see also the d(!ep, strange llu^h which overspread llie
face of the woman at the window.

'In that case we must excuse you. Pray convey to Miss
Carter my sincen; congratulati(.ns and good wishes,' said Lady
Lundie. 'Must you go? but you will coiiie backT

'Once, perhaps, unless I hear any bad news. lean leave
you in Miss Mayne's care now. She is the pattern of nurses.
In the meantime, good-bye.'

They shook hands, and Caroline, as was h(!r wont, turned
to j)recede him down-stairs.

When she held out her hand to bid him good-bye he looked
at her very keenly.

'1 doubt yuur strength has been overtax«Ml. >bjy I be
permitted to prescribe absolute rest for you now, Miss Mayne V

'For me? Oh, I am quite well,' she .said, with the shadow
of a smile.

'So you say; I do not think so,' he said ^rindy. 'Lady
Lundie seemed surpriseil to hear of my cousin's apjiroaelnng
marriage. It has been the town talk of Ivnmford tor wei ks,'
he added, simply to prolong these moments of dangerous yet
exquisite sweetness.

' We had heard of it, but ' —

*What?' he asked.

'Instead of your friend, it was yourself who was spoken of
as the bridegroom,' she said nervously.

David Dunsyre's face Hushed, and he buttoned his greatcoat
close up to his throat.

'No, thanks. No man cares to be fooled more than once
in his life. JNIiss Franklin-Mayne, good morning.'

Strong in his righteous indignation, he looked siraight and
clear into the lovely eyes tixed upon his face, then he
deliberately opened the door of the little library, and they
entered it together.

' I verily believe I have lost my senses, Caroline, Mayne,' he
said, folding liis arms and sjjcaking in a voice of curious culm.

I'N

V.J"'"':

■1

&.,'..

iS4

SUNDERED HEARTS,

* Had any man told mo an hour ago tliat I wonld auo twice to
any woman, least of all to you, I would prol)iil)ly have knockol
him down. 1 liavo tried to outlive my love for you, to crusli
it down with the memory of your contempt. It is proof of
my uttiT faihire that I stand before you ajjain offering you my
hoiK^st and unaltered love.*

N(it a word fell from the pale lips of Caroline Mayne, hut,
tnauhling from head to foot, she took a step towards him.
But he stood immoveable as a rock until the tirst faltering
word passed her lips.

• Forgive ' —

It was enough. With words of passionate love David
Dunsyre took to his heart the only woman for wliom he hud
ever cared, liecause he loved much he forgave much. It
was suilicieiit for liim that he had won at lust.

CnAPTER XVT.

BROTHEU AM) SISTER.

jIIAT (lay snmo of Doctor l)uii^yn>'s ])atipnfc! wnifo'l
for him ill vain. I'ortuiiatcjy he liad visitcl tlic
more urgent cases on liis way to Castl(> Jaindie,
else the consuciucnccs might have been serious.

Margaret took her lunch alone — no uncommon occurrencp,
however, for he was often away from dawn till dusk in thesn
short winter days. Alutut live o'clock she heard the familiar
rattle of the gig wheels, so she would liav(> his cciiipauy to tea.
lie waited to hear from Sarah what messages had been left for
him, and then cume up to the drawing-room.

' You have surely had a busy day, David ? ' his sister said.
•IIow did you find Lady Lundie — better, 1 hope?'

* Yes, Lady Lundici is almost well,' he answered, ami,
striding over to tiie hearth-rug, he stood there in silence,
looking down on Margaret's golden head lu'iit f)Ver her wnrk.

His sister was very dear to him ; he had never met ii"r
equal, not even in Caroline Mayne. although he love(l lier with
the love a man bestows on a M'oman he would make his wife
He was wondering in what words he woulil tell Margaret of
this new element which had crei)t into his life — wondering how-
he was to say that another woman would s-onu; day so.mi
supplant her in his heail, and home. Presently she uplifted
her fair face to his and smiled upon him.

'You are very quiet, David. Is any serious case troubling
you 1 ' she asked gently.

ij i!|

in J

22t}

SUNDERED HEARTS,

There were times when, woigherl down with the crire8 and
responsibilities of his profession, Doctor Dunsyre was seldom
heard or seen in the house. These things took a very firm
hold upon him, and there was no man more rigid in liis con-
scientious performance of even tlie smallest professional chity.

'No,I have not troubled my patients very much to-day, 'he said,
with an odd smile. ' Will you put down your work a moment,
Margaret, while I speak ? I have sometliing to tell you.'

She did so at once, her face betraying sometliing of her
surprise.

* You can't guess, I suppose ? ' he said.
She shook her head.

* How could I, not having the remotest idea of what nature
your communication may be ? Does it concern Lady Lundie ? '

'No — at least very indirectly. I am going to be married,
Margaret.'

Swift as an arrow to the mark, Margaret's thoughts flew to
Lady i-<undie's sister.

' To Caroline Mayne ? ' she asked, in a perfectly unreadable
voice.

* You have said it,' he answered briefly.

Her eyes filled with tears, and her nervous fingers again
sought their work. There was a moment's painful silence.
At length she spoke again.

' Of course this is a surprise, perhaps a blow to me just at
first, David,' she said, trying to speak cheerfully. 'That is
but natural, seeing I have nobody in the world but you, and
we have be-^n together so long. But you believe, do you not,
that I wish you every haj)pines8 ? You deserve a good wife,
beciuse you have been the best of brothers to me.'

David Dunsyre was not a demonstrative man, rather tlie
reverse. But at that moment he was deeply moved, and,
bending down, he put his arm about his sister, and drew her
very close to him.

'Bless you, Margaret. You have made a painful duty
almost pleasant. I cannot speak of what you have bc^en to
me for years. It makes me feel that I am acting a little
hardly and unjustly to you, and ' —

' Oh, nonsense, David ! Though we have been happy and
comfortable together so long, I have never regarded myself as

BROTHER Ayp SISTF.R.

227
'It i<5 a

a fixture hero,' she said, with a littlo nervons lanph
very foolish woman who will expect a broiher to remain
unmarried for her sake, however good a sister she may \w to
him. f liave always wished you to marry, knowing perfectly well
it would widen and Increase your nscifulness in your profession,'

* You are a noble woman, Margaret, and a thoroughly
unselfish one as well,' he said warudy. Never had lu; so
admired and loved her as he did at that moment. 'Are you
pleased with my choice ? '

' I know v^.ry little 01 Caroline Mayne, except that she is
the most beautiful woman I ever saw,' she said. ' liut y(ju
will forgive me if I say she is not the wife I would iiave
chosen for you. But there ! what sister is ever pleased with
her brother's choice?'

' I think you will change your opinion when you know her,
Margaret.'

* 1 hope and desire to do so. I will love her if she will let
me, though I shall be a little afraid of her at first,' said
^Margaret calmly. 'Will you tell me one thing, David? How
long have you been engaged to Miss Mayne ? '

A comical smile touched the doctor's lips, and he took out
his watch.

* Since about one o'clock to-day. Miss Mayne has been my
promised wife for four ho\irs.'

Margaret caught the humour and lauglied too. She w^as
well pleased that he had lost no time in telling her ; it was a
tribute as sweet as it was unexpected.

' Of course you are very fond of her, David ? I fancy you
are not a man to marry for anything but love.'

'I have cared for Caroline Mayne since the first time T saw
her, three years ago. She is greatly changed since then.
You will be the first to admit it,' lie said, but wisely witlihcM
from Margaret the fact of her first refusal of his love, lie
knew very well it would prejudice anil perhaps h.uden his
sister against her.

'Well, David, we will have ]ilcnty opportunities to talk this
over. I su]tj)ose you will not be in haste to marry?' she said,
rising and folding up her work.

'Oil no; there will be nmple time, as you sny. You can
trust me to do what is right where you are cuuceiued.'

is ,

'''■'4

.J t

1 ■

III ^

228

SUNDERED HEARTS.

'Surely. I know that I shall receive the utmost con^idctn-
tion at your hands, David. You have taught me to (expect it,'
she answered quietly.

* ^Margaret, I don't like to ask it ; and yet, will you go to
Castle Lundie with me soon — very soon ? '

' Of course I will — to-morrow, if you like. I want you to
believe, David, that there is no bitterness in my heart about
this. If only I am convinced that Caroline Mayne is the wife
for you, that she truly loves you, no one will more sincerely
rejitice over your happiness than L'

' God bless you, ifargaret ! ' said the Doctor once r^'^ro,
dee])ly moved. ' It is women like you who preserve the old
faith in the an'j;el nature of womanhood.'

^largaret smiled a little, and stole away out of the room.
In tlie solitude of her own chamber the bright, unscUish com-
posure gave way, and the overcharged heart found vent.
These tears were natural, and none could blame her for them.
For it seemed to her that everything was slipping from her \
even the home wliere all her life had been spent would soon
be no longer hers. Ay, that was a dark hour for Margaret
Dunsyre , Imt her nature, purified already by another sorrow,
rose at length brave and heroic aljove this new trial, and slu3
was enabled to look forward calmly, in perfect trust that the
way wherein she should walk would be made plain to her feet.

Several days elapsed before Doctor Dunsyre claimed the
fuKilment of his sister's promise to accompany him to Castle
Lundie. She expressed her cheerful readiness to grant tiiat
re(piest, and accoi'dingly they drove the familiar way together
one afternoon early in the following week.

Doctor Dunsyre had not prepared his betrothed for this
visit, judging, perhaps wisely, that antici})ation might have
placed a restraint on their tirst meeting. The servant, seeing
the lady with the Doctor, hesitated what to do. He could
scarcely usher both into Lady Lundie's sitting-room. lUit
!M.rs. ^layne, hearing voices, came down-stairs, and relieved
the awkwardness of tlie moment.

'How do you do. Doctor? You have brought your sister?
Yery kind indeed ; and we are very pleased to see her,' she
said, with her usual efiusiveness. Then she kissed Margaret,
somewhat to that damsel's discomfiture. ' Since we are to be

i'i

BROTHER A.VD SISTF.R.

2?()

',xpuct it,'

rou go to

lit you to
:art about
s the wife
I sincerely

nee r^'^ro,
^e the oil I

the room,
i'ltish coni-
und vent.

for them.

from her f
/ould soon
[* Margaret
ler sorrow,
^1, and sluj
3t that the
jO her feet.

aimed the
to Castle

grant that

y together

|d for this
liight have
|ant, seeing
He could
lom. l>ut
Id relieved

four sister?
|e her,' she
Margaret,
le are to be

relatives, we must be friends first, I suppose,' she aihlod, M-jth
a smile. ' Come away up to tlie drawing-njom, and I will
send for Caroline. I believe Lady Lundie will be al)le to
come down to see you too.'

Doctor Dunsyre was a trifle annoyed. He would much
have preferred Mrs. Mayne to be absent when his sister and
his promised wife met for the first tiuie. lie was relieved to
hear that she sent no message by the servant, howevur, exce]»t
the simple request that she would come (hiwn to the drawing-
room. Mrs. Mayne, however, restless and tidgety as of yore,
did not wait for Caroline's appearance, but, with a smiling
apology, ran to acquaint Lady Lundie with the arrival of the
visitors. She was not many minutes gone when the door
opened, and Caroline entered. She wore a gown of sweeping
black velvet, which showed every curve of the ex(piisite figure
to perfection. Her face, transfigured by the love in her heart,
seemed to David Dunsyre ten thousand times sweeter than it
had ever been before.

' My sister is here, Caroline. She has come to see you,' he said.

A deep flush overspread the beautiful face, and she drew
somewhat hesitatingly back. Then Margaret approached her
with a grace of manner exquisite to see.

* We must be friends, if we are to be sisters by and by,' she
said, smiling, and took both the white hands in hers.

Caioline Mayne did not speak ; but, with a swift gesture
of humility and grace, she lifted one hand to INLargaret's
shoulder, and looked straight into her eyes. Thr>,t look
seemed to satisfy both ; for they kissed each other then, and
from that hour were friends for life. Presentlv Mrs. Mavne
returned with Lady Lundie, and in the flow of hai)])y greetings
which followed, the last atom of restraint was sw{>pt away.

That night David Dunsyre wrote a long letter to John
Strathcarn, who was housedumting in London ))rc])aratniy
to resuming his Parliamentary duties on the 28th of FfbiiunT.
As was natural, that e})istle glowed with h;q>piness and bright
hopes for the future. In contrast with the ])rogr('ss of Jolni's
own life, barren of all home-ties except his father's love, it
was bright indeed. He read it through to the end, and
then, folding his arrrLs on the table, he leaned his head on
them, and sat thus for many liours. There were times when

! : I

230

SUNDERED JJEAKTS,

his heart grew sick within him, when his young manhood
would cry out bitterly for all the lovely hopes and blessed
realities which brightened the lives of his fellow-men. There
was nothing for liim but work, of which at times tlie soul of
man grows weary unto death. It was the crucible of |t;iin,
indeed, through which John was passing. It has ultcn
appeared a mystery to me why the best of men seem to be
chosen to bear Ufe's heaviest burdens. It is one of tliose
inexplicable tangles r.i the warp of life which will have its
full unravelling by and by.

I^atly Lunelle's strength returned to her very slowly — so
slowly, indeed, that Doctor Diinsyre was anxious, even alarmed
about her. Fearing the bitter east winds which in March
swept wildly over the hills and dales of the Border county,
he strongly urged upon her the advisability of journeying l)y
easy stages to Stoke Abbey. He believed that she would be
in less danger from the fatigue of the change than she would
be remaining a prisoner in Castle Lundie. He urged it upon
her, even though he knew it would sejiarate him from hia
darling — another proof of the Doctor's absolute unselfishness
where professional duty was concerned. It was somewliat
hastily decided to remove for the months of spring and early
summer, at least, to Herefordshire ; and in the second week of
^March the Castle was left to the care of a couple of servants.

Lady Lundie had received several letters from her husband,
written on the voyage, and posted at the various ports at
which they touched. But it was not until she reached the
Abbey that a letter came conveying the intelligence of his
safe arrival at Calcutta. It was evidently written in the
best of spirits; but it saddened her somehow. Caroline
wondered what it contained ; for it was several days before
her sister seemed quite herself again. Although sincerely
rejoicing in Caroline's happiness, there were times when a
kind of rebellious envy took possession of Gertrude's soul.
"Why were others so blessed, when she, a desolate, unloved
wife, must bear such a heavy burden? A si)ecial gleam of
sunshine to her heart was a brief visit Laily Ley bourne i»aid
to her in April, leaving London one afternoon, and returning
next day. She brought the baby with her, eager in her
motherly pride and delight to show what great things a year

BROTHER AND SISTER.

231

had done for him. Ho was now sixteen months old, mikI
could toddle unsteadily on his fat little legs, and w;is in evtuy
respect as fine a little fellow as you could wish to see. Lady
Lundie, scarcely able to lift him in her fragile arms, l(K)ked at
him with filling eyes.

' I envy you, Eleanor. If he were my son, I should not
be so des(jlate as 1 am.'

' He would be a comfort to you, I know; and I hav(; often
wished to see an heir to Castle Lundie,' said Eh^mor. ' liut
these things are not in our hands, an<l everything is wisely
ordained for us, Y,"hen are you coming to town ? Grandmamma
bade me specially inquire.'

' Not this year. Tell the Duchess, with my ^.jve, I fear my
first season is likely to be my last.'

'Oh, nonsense, dear! You must not grow morbid and
fanciful,' said Lady Leybourne. 'I was angry and vexed
with William when I heard he had left you behind. I am
doubly so now. It is the most extraordinary and unheard-uf
thing Wilfred and I have ever known.'

Lady Lundie held her peace. Not to her husband's sister,
even though she was her best friend, would she whisper a
suspicion of the truth, that it was the siren eyes of So[)hia
Devanha which had tempted him across the seas.

Lady Leybourne returned to town somewhat saddened l)y
her visit. It was painful to her to witness the lonely sorrow
which she was powerless to help.

At midsummer the ladies returned to Scotland, Lady Lundie
apparently considerably improved in health. She had not
heard from her husband by the last two mails, and Avas
growing anxious in the extreme. She fancied somehow that
news of him would reach her quicker at Castle Lundie. The
first news came ominous and swift in the shape of a telegraphic
despatch. It was addressed to ^liss Erankliu-Mayne, and had,
of course, beenbrought at once to Castle Lundie. AVilh trenihiing
fingers Caroline tore open the envelope, and read the brief but
fatal words, —

Miss Franklin-]\Iayne,
Kumford, Scotland.

Letters follow.

' Robert Bordillion,
Calcutta,

* Sir William Lundie died yesterday of fever

;i 11

'Vo^

CHAPTER XVIL

BEYOND RECALL.

^ U

It!

GREY and cheerless October day was nearing to
a close. The sky was bleak and lowering ; heavy
masses of cloiul hung low on the western horizon,
boding a coming storm. The tidds were bare and
desolate ; on the high loads and imkept bypaths the fallen
leaves lay sodden underfoot. All nature seemed mourning
over the departed summer.

Recent rains had swollen the Running Burn beyond its
utmost limit, till it overflowed on the low-lying lands skirting
its banks, and the footpath between it and the j .rk at Meadow-
flats lay three inches deep in water. There was scarcely a leaf
on the trecis surrounding tlie old house, and the wintry wind
wailed sadly through the naked boughs like a living thing in
pain. Out of doors it was dreary indeed that October day,
and the inmates of the house were j?lad to avert their eves
from the windows and keep close to the fire. In the drawini,'-
room, towards the close of the afternoon, were Lady Lunilie
and her sister Caroline. You may wonder that they should
be together again in the old house ; but, during the past three
monthi^, one event had followed close upon I'nother in Lady
Lundir's life, and slie ha<I now practically no home save that
which slndterod likewise her mother and sister.

It had turned out a blessing that Meadowflats had failed to
find a tonant when it was advertised to let. The heir to Sir

*^1

BEYOND R fa: ALL.

233

"Williani Lunrlio's title and estates— a scnpop^rane cousin, who
liad married beneath him — had made very indecent haste to
claim his own, and had shown scant courtesy indeed to tlio
young widow of his cousin. But slie was as ready to go as
they were anxious to see her quit the halls of Castle Lnndi(\
She was so utterly prostrated, indeed, that it was a inailt r of
little moment to her where or when she went. She was lying
on the couch that afternoon, her fair cheek resting on her
white hand, which showed in sharp c(jntrast against the
sombre folds of her widow's dress. She had been rending;
but the book of poems had fallen unheeded to tlie tloor.
Caroline, sitting close by, busy with some sewing in which
were woven many sweet and lovely hopes, thought slie li;id
fallen asleep, for her eyes were closed. But presently she
stirred and looked up.

' I hear a carriage coming, Caroline. No visitors to-(lay, surely,
unless it be David and Margaret,' she said. ' Doesn't it rain 1 '

*Very heavily. Yes; there is a carriage coming up tlie
avenue,' said Caroline, turning to the window. ' The horses
look uncommonly like the greys from Wilderhaugh.'

There was a new reign at Wiklerhaugh as well as at Castle
Lundie ; but the new Earl and Countess were dear friends of
the inmates of Meadowflats.

'Has mamma gone to lie down, Caroline?' asked Lady Lundie,

' Yes \ but if it is Lady Devanha I wdl siMid Barrett to
awake her, and have tea up immediately,' said Caroline ; and
at that moment the servant kno(;ked at the door.

' Lady Devanha is in the library. Miss Mayne, and would
like to see you for a few minutes,' she said.

Caroline looked much surprised.

* WouLl she not come up to the drawing-room, Mary ? Is
there a lire in the li^^ary % '

*No, ma'am,' said the girl, and was about to add somotliitig
else, but ]\[iss Mayne passed her, and ran lightly down-staif.^.

AVhen she ent(?red the library, instead of the dainty, yctUn
figure and laughing blue eyes of Lord Devanha's young and
winsome wife, Caroline Mayne, to her inex[)ressible amazement,
saw a tall, commanding figure, closely veiled, and robed iu
black from head to foot. A(; her entran(;e, however, the veil
was lifted, and she recognised at once the familiar and beautiful

;l 1

... I

i; I ■;

k \

234

SUNDERED HEARTS.

features of the Dowager-Countess, the late Lord Dcvanha's
wiihnv.

' You are doubtless surprised to see me, Miss Franklin-
Mayne ? ' she said, without greeting of any kind. ' I have
just arrived from India, and have come to see your sistor,
Lady Liindio. Can I see her?'

'Lady Lundie is in extremely delicate health, Lady
Devanha,' answered Caroline. 'I fear a meeting with you
would greatly agitate her. Unless you very particularly desire
it, might I ask you to ])ostpone your interview with lu^r until
she is a little stronger?'

Ladv Devanha sliof)k her head.

*I must see her. Miss Franklin-Mayne. I have brought
home her husl)and's last messages, and, as I leave Scotland
again to-morrow, I cannot postpone tlie interview. But I will
willingly wait here till you have prepared her to see me.'

Still Caroline hesitated. She feared the sight of Lady
Devanha, recalling as it must many painful memories, would
prove too exciting to Gertrude's already over-strung nerves.

' Why do you hesitate % ' asked Lady Devanha impatiently.
* The nature of my business with your sister is not likely to
hurt her, but will rather calm and soothe her. Pray let her
know at least that I am here, and give her the option of
refusing to see me if she desires it.'

Caroline bowed, and returned to the drawing-room.

'Are you alone, Caroline?' asked Lady Lundie, in surprise.
*Has Amy gone away without coming to see me? '

Caroline came down to the couch and laid her hand
caressingly on the sunny head.

'Gertrude, are you strong enough to bear a great and
perhaps agitating surprise?' she asked a little hurriedly.

'Yes. What is it? Tell me it at once,' said Gertrude
quietly, but. with slightly heightened colour.

' It is not Amy who is here,' said Caroline then ; * it is the
former Lady Devanha. She has just returned from India,
and riays she bears to you William's last messages. Will you
see her?'

'Certainly. Let her come up at once,' Lady Lundie
answered ; but Caroline saw what a supreme effort it was for
her to speak and act with calmness.

Hi','1

BEYOND RECALL. -).;

* You will try and he calm, dear Ctortriide. Kcnioniher how
anxious I shall bo,' she .said, as she loft the room.

She found Lady Dcvanha paoiiii,' i. jcssly up and duwu
the library, apparently in a fever of impationoe.

• Will she 8«!e nie % May I go up now 1 ' she aski^d oaijoily.
*Yes, Lady Devanha. jNIay 1 entroat you to remomlHT my

sister's lack of strength and extreme nervousness^ Can 1
trust you not to agitate her needlessly?'

'I would not willingly hurt a hair of your sister's lioad,
Miss Franklin-Mayne,' rei)lied Lady Devanha. 'You nuiy
trust me to remember your recpiost.*

Caroline opened the library djor, and preceded the visitor
up-stairs, leaving her at the drawing-room threshold with
another entreating glance and a word of warning. Tlien she
retired to wait with what patience she might the issue of the
interview.

Lady Devanha opened the door, closed it again, and
advanced swiftly up the long room to the couch where sat
the woman she had come to see.

*I bid you welcome back to Scotland, Lady Devanha,' said
Gertrude Lundie, and with franl: courtesy extended her
hand. But the haggard, dark-eyed womun, wltose V>eautiful
face was ploughed deep with the furrows of pain, shook her
head, and slightly drew herself away.

' Not yet,'she said. ' Child, child, how changed you are ! You
look ten years older than you did when last 1 saw your face.'

' Will you be seated. Lady Devanha 1' said (iertrude kindly,
* You look weary. You also are very much changed' —

'So they tell me. No, I will not sit down until I say
what I have come to say. Your sister would tell you my
errand here to-day?'

Gertrude bowed ; and the momentary Hush of excitement
died out of her face.

' I promised her to be brief with wh.at I had to say, so I
will at once begin at the beginning. Probably you guessed
long since that it was at my instigation your husband sought
to return to India ? '

Again Gertrude bowed.

' You knew, too, of course, that we were old friends there
during the time he held oflice in Calcutta before. We were

236

SUXDERrw ilEA R TS.

L J;

more than that, Lady Luiidic ; we were affianrod lovers, and
ou^'ht to liave been husband and wife.'

She turned away then, and began to pace restlessly up and
down the long room. She appeared to forget for a moment
the presence of her listener. Gertrude shaded her eyes with
her hand, and sat absolutely still.

' You have doubtless heard or read of a love which takes
absolute possession of a woman's whole soul, changing tlio
very current of her being. Such was the love wliich came
to me when my first youth was past — such was the love I
felt for William Lundie. I worshipped the very ground on
vhich he trod. I would have laid down my life for him at
any moment ; and when he asked me to be his wife I was
delirious with happiness. The very nature and intensity of
my love made me jealous ; and it was his delight to tease
me, and try and torture me with his affected attention to
others. Had his love equalled mine, of course such a thing
would have been impossible for him ; but it wasn't in his
nature to love another being better than himself. In a fit of
passionate jealousy, roused by another love affair of his with
which I need not now trouble you, I became engaged to Lord
Devanha, married him at the end of six weeks, and came home
vith him to England. Although I was not happy I was at peace ;
and I had everything wliich the heart of woman could desire,
except one thing — the love which was the bane of my life.
I heard of Sir William's return to England, of his marriage,
and I came, as you must remember, to see you. When I
looked upon your sweet face, and knew that you were by
nature so far removed above me ; when I saw his devotion to
you, — for he did love you in these days, — I hated you in my
heart, and vowed I would make dispeace between you. I
told myself I would spoil his dream of bliss as he had spoiled
mine ; for your happiness or misery I cared nothing. I
dropped poison into his ears, whispered to him that your heart
was wholly given to another, though they had given your
hand to him. I taunted him with your ignorance, your
awkward school-girl ways and prudish notions, and made
your very charms hateful to him. Before very long I had
him in my power again ; the old sweet chains, all the sweeter
because they were forbidihm, bound ua toiiether. W« lived

BEVOXD RECALL.

237

for each otlior, and for tlic tiiii.; wlu'ii a kind fato would nmkd
ns freo. Jt sccnicd as if wu wcni to Ik- favoiinMl when my
lnis]>and died. J will not speak of liini, because his memory
is Uio reproach and remorsi; of my wakiiit,' hours, the haunting'
f^poctre of my dreams. Then I'decidcd to <^ro to India; ajid
1 whispered to him that it was in the hope that he would
follow me, which he did, leaving' you biihind. My si.^ter
Lucy, Robert l>ordillion's wife, who ia as ditlerent from me
as day from ni,i,dit, was shockiul and pained when he arrived
in Calcutta without you. And when she saw us constantly
together,— riding, driving, boating rdone, just as if no l.ady
Lundie existed, and as if we were betrotlied as of yore, she
took the law into her hands, and forbade liim her house.
She said to me Fje could not make me welc(«me to renii'.in
with her either, uidess I ceased my wicked tlirting with
another woman's husband. Little I cared. 1 had thousands
at my disposal, and I could ])rovide a rooftnie for mys(df.
However, things were unaltered, except that all our meetings
were stolen ; wdien, in the month of June, Sir AVilliam was
seized with fever. Then my sister showed h(;rself a true
woman. She had him removed to her house, and nursed
him with her own hands. 1 took part, but I was so
prostrated with my agony of fear lest he .sliould not
recover, that 1 was of little use. It was during his illness,
listening to his ravmgs, that I learned in how little estimation
he held me. Your name was always on his lips. His ituie
and words breathed a dee]) and yearning love for you ; he
would entreat you to forgive him, he called you by every en-
dearing name, and bemoaned his own utter unworthiness of
the i)riceless treasure he had wt.ii. That was my punishment.
Lad}'' Lundie — greater almost than I could bear. The fever
ran its course, and at length he opened conscious eyes u})on
the world. It was the hour 0/ sunset, and I was watching iu
the room alone. He iixcd his eyes on n)y face and s])oke my
name. In a moment I was by his side. He knew he had
been long ill, and exi)ressed to me his conviction that his hours
were numbered. Then he laid upon me his dying charge. It
was that / would journey to England and tell you tlu' whole
story. He charged me to convey to you his undying love, to
say to you that he had discovered, when it was too late, the

«38

su.\nF/:F.r> //f.a/^ts.

' 1

valuo of hifl wifo. Ho also Imdo mo say that, liis dyinp wish
and prayer was that no inoniory of him should stand in flu;
way of your happiness, ami that all the share he would cimvo
in your future lil'e, was in your lieart onc^ kindly and for;^M'viii;^'
thou;j;lit. Ho tliouLjht it woidd not ho vtiry hard f(ir you to
grant his prayer, for you wore over tho soul of anj^^d ^'oodiiess
and unsellishness. That ia my message, Lady Lundio. That
is what I eamo lioro to-day to say.'

The calm, intense, passioidcss voice ceased, and tho mn^jjui-
ficont eyes looked down with mingled tondern(^ss and compas-
sion upon the golchm head bowed low on tho end of the
couch. There was a moment's deep silence.

' I)ofore I pass away from your sight for ever. Lady Limdio,
I ask you, — though I have done you tho greatest wrong one
woman can do another, — I ask you to forgive me. Knowing
you as I do, I am not afraid to crave even vso much, because
you are nobler than any woman I have ever met. One word
to take with me to my solitmle, and I am gone.'

Lady Lundie rose slowly to her feet. Her face, oven in its
absolute paleness, shone with the light of a generous and
noble soul.

* Because of the unspeakable joy you have given to me to-
day, even though it is mingled with bitterness, 1 forgive you.
Lady Devanha, as I hope to be forgiven.'

She extended her hand once more. Lady Devanha rai '^d
it to hor lips and left a tear upon it.

'Although I am a stranger to the language of prayer. Lady
Lundio, I speak from a sincere heart, — (lod bless you and give
you tho happiness you deserve,' she said, and the proud, calm
voice faltered now. ' Farewell.'

Lady Lundie would liave detained her a moment, would
have asked concerning her future life and plans, but in an
instant she was gone. A few minutes later the whirl of tiio
departing carriage told Caroline that tho interview was at an
end. In fear and trembling she stole to the drawing-room
door and looked in. She saw her sister on her knees, and
there was the sound of sobbing in the room. She shut the
door again and stole away, knowing there was nothing to fear.

There could only be pcMce and healing in the first tears
Lady Lundie had slicil since her widowhood.

■AA

Tifj wish
(I ill tin'

\{\ CVIIVC

r yt»»i t(»
^oodiU'rtH
3. That

mnj^iti-
conipas-

1 of the

' Limdie,
rong one
Knowinj^
I, because
jiie word

ven in its
rous and

, to me to-
give you,

iha ral "d

yer, Lady
and give
oud, calm

it, wonld

)ut in an

irl of the

was at an

v^ing-rooni

nees, and

shut the

g to fear.

lirst tears

'>»..

CTIAPTER XVI [T.

AT LAST.

jGAIX it Wf'.rs the sumnier-iinio, again loaf and flower

were in fullest, loveliest bloom, again the song of

bird and ri] i)le of brook made musiit in the summer

woods. At Meadowflats in those golden days Lady

Lundie abode with her mother and sister, and it was a home

where happiness and jjoace dwelt continually. The groat

fortune which at h(!r husband's death had fallen to Lady

Lundie, had reli(5ved the mind of Mrs. ^Mayne for ever from all

sordid cares. Then the constant companionship of Gertrude's

sweet and wholesome nature had done much to tone down

the mother's oddities of character, a-nd she Avas improved

in a thousand ways. The prospect of Gertrude's constant

companionship had reconcileil her to Carolina's marriage, for

which, however, no definite time had been fixed. It was

understood that on her brother's marriage ^Margaret should

take up her abode i)ermanently with INlrs. Carter, her widowed

and now solitary aunt. Ellen's marriage had made a great

blank at CraigciDok, which only j\Targaret, who resembled her

closely in many ways, could adequately fill. Caroline, in the

serenity and fulness of her contentment, was in no haste to

marry, but Lady Lundie's ([uick eye detected in iJoctor

Dunsyre the desire of his heart to have his darling always by

his side. She managed the affair in her own quiet way,

without any one suspecting she was even interested in it. First

2ay

ij •; . 4

Mi ..

240

SUNDERED HEARTS.

!■ \ 1

^n^'M

\\\

-iHM

i:l!l 1 «

of all she spoke to Doctor Dunsyre. Knowing he Tvas ex-
pected one evening at Meadowflats, she walked to the end of
the avenne to meet him. He was on foot also, and when tlipy
met she turned down a little path which led by a romidabout
way to the house.

' I came out on purpose to meet you, David, because I want
to speak to you,' she said, with a smile. ' Will you let me
appropriate ten minutes of your valuable time ? '

'kSurely,' said the Doctor readily, and looked with undis-
guised admiration at the bright, happy face, to which all the
bloom and girlishness of yore had returned.

' It is about your marriage I want to speak. How long are
you going to wait 1 Are you not of age yet ] *

' Kather ; but ^hat can I say to convince Caroline that my
patience has a lir.iit?' he asked good-humouredly.

* Well, David, J. have quite decided that mamma and I are
to winter abroad, probably at Nice or Mentone, and we waiit
all the bustle of the marriage over first. Why should it not
take place in September 1 '

' If I can convince Caroline of the expediency of the step,
it shall take place then, Gertrude,' he answered promptly.

' Surely our coml)ined efforts will win the day,' said Lady
Lundie, with a sunny smile. 'And Margaret will help us.
She is on our side, I know.'

'You are a very good friend to me, Lady Lundie,' said
David, with a comical smile.

'Very. Not alto^^ctuer disinterested, I fear. I think
Caroline is waiting on my account. Of course we must miss
her ; but though she is your wife she will not be lost to us,
David,' answered Lady Lundie, with full eyes.

' Surely not. I hope that, instead of thinking you have
lost a sister, you will prove you have only gained a brother,
Gertrude,' said the Doctor warmly.

'You have long been a brother to me, David,' said Lady
Lundie frankly and truly. 'Well, here we are. Don't tell
Caroline I spoke, mind, or she will take me to task.'

' Not a word,' laughed the Doctor.

Then Gertrude, leaving him to enter the house, continued
her walk round to the stables, called Lion, and took him down
for a dip in the burn.

' .f- i

A 7 LAST.

241

T^as ex-
le end of
hen they
uiid about

se I want
)U let me

ith undis-
Lch all the

iv long are

le that my

and I are

d we waiit
ould it not

3f the step,
niptly.

I said Lady

II help us.

mdie/ said

I think
must miss
lost to us,

you have
a biother,

said Lady
Don't tell

continued
him down

Doctor Dunsyre did not find his heirotlied very difficult to
persuade. All she said in j)rotest was that she must first speak
to Gertrude. Knowing,' what the result of that would be, the
Doctor was very well content.

'And now about our house, my darliup:. I have an idea in
my mind. Wilder Grange is in the market ; if you say the
word I can purchase it at once. I fancy I would not like to
take my wife to the old High Stn^et house.'

Caroline was silent a moment, leaning her head on his arm.

'Do you not like the old house, David ? ' she asked.

'Of course I do. "Wasn't 1 born in if? It would be a
great change for me,' he said frankly. 'But my darling is
first with me now, and, as I am more than able, why should I
not make her the mistress of the (arrange ^'

'If you would let me, David, I \vo;ild rather go home to
the old house. I have a fancy that I shoiihl like just to step
in there and make a part of the old life in the old ho. a 3. I
should not like to feel tiiat in marrying me you mu.L make
Buch a sweeping change. I have no desire to be great or
grand any more, David ; that has gone away for ever, and it
is enough for me that I am the happiest woman in the world.'

* My darling, it will be as you say, then, for a little while ;
but some day, when you have grown tired of the old house,
we will look for another,' said the Doctor tenderly. ' You
know now, my dearest, that every word you say is law to mc'

Ay, Caroline Mayne was clianged, inth'cd, and Kuinlord
would have cause to bless the day the Doctor brought his wile
home to the High Street house.

As was natural, the Doctor asked John Straihearn to be
groomsman at the quiet wedding to take place at IMeadowflats
in the first week of September, but to his disappointment and
])ainful surprise his request was dciclined, without any reason
being given. He was deej>ly hurt, so much so, indeed, that
he neither wrote nor spoke of his marriage to John again.
The time came, however, when \w umlfrstood the reason of
that refusal. But there was sent from Kedlands a present for
the bride, the loveliest and most co«tly of all lu>r bridal gilts.
it was a necklet and pendant of exquisite design and wtirk-
manship, set in every link with a diamond of the purest water.
The pendant had her initials wrought in diamonds. A letter

J —

iRi!l!^

!i \ ^!

I, i

24 a

SUNDERED HEARTS.

accompanied it, conveying in a few manly words the writer's
deep and lieartfelt wishes for her happiness, and asking as a
special favour that she would wear it on her wedding-day.

No quieter marriage had ever been known in Rumford,
and many felt aggrieved that the greatest event in the popular
Doctor's life should pass off with so little display. There
were no strangers present, and Professor L.iuience and liis
wife were the only relatives immediately outside the family
circle. But the spirit of peace and love was there, and it was
a union of hearts and lives as well as liands.

The newly-married pair went away for a week together to a
southern watering-place, and then came home and very quietly
took up their abode in the High Street house, just as if nothing
unusual had happened. But the Doctor was more popular
than ever, for his marriage had made him even brighter and
cheerier than of yore.

In the first week of October Mrs. Mayne and Lady Lundie
went to winter at Nice. Since her former illness Doctor
Dunsyre always feared the east winds for Lady Lundie, and
urged her to seek a warmer clime until the early spring was
past. After their departure the winter dulness settled down
on Rumford. The Doctor's wife missed her mother and sister,
but she found a substitute in the ladies at Craigcrook, who
often looked in upon her. Mrs. Carter was charmed with her
nephew's choice, as was every one who met Caroline in her
new character of a happy and idolized wife. John Strathearn
came sometimes, as of yore, to see his friend, and was
thoroughly at home with his lovely wife. But he was often
dull and out of sorts, and it was a common remark with the
Doctor that Strathearn was not the man he had been. He
attributed it, however, to his father's failing health, the old
gentleman being rarely able now to leave his bed. There was
no disease, only the failing of physical organs consequent upon
extreme age. But the faculties remained clear and unclouded
still, and, as is sometimes the case, his mental vision was
keener than it had been in health. One afternoon towards
the close of the year, father and son were alone together in
the wide and pleasant chamber which the old master never
now expected to quit in life. Jolin had been reading to his
father, but had laid his book aside, thinking the closed eyes

AT LAST.

24J

writer's
Jig as a
day.

I,umfor(l,

I popular

There

and his
e family
id it was

)ther to a
:y quietly
f nothing
) popular
"hter and

ly Lundie
ss Doctor
indie, and
pring was
bled down
[and sister,
frook, who
with her
ne in her
itrathearn
and was
was often
with the
•een. He
L, the old
'here was
^ent upon
unclouded
ision was
11 towards
:>aether in
ster never
ling to his
llosed eyes

indicated sleep. He loaned his head on his hand and fixed
his eyes on the fire. His attitude was one of extreme, dejec-
tion, his expression weary and sad. Presently his father
stretched out one hand and touched his arm.

'John, my dear hid.'

' Yes, dad. 1 thought you were asleep. Shall I go on ? '
he said, lifting his hook.

' No ; 1 want to s})eak to you. John, you have not been
yourself for a long time, my lad.'

' Perhaps not. Under the circumstances it is hut natural,
father,' 4ohn made answer quietly.

' My lad, I know what is the matter, and I am going to
speak very plainly,' said the old man, with a slight smile.

'All right, dad. That has always been your habit,' said
John, with an answering smile.

' You are fretting after the woman you love, my lad,' said
the old man. 'She is free. Why not try your fortune
again ? '

John sprang to his feet. He did not imagine his father's
penetration would be so unerring still.

' What of that ? I must just fret and begin again. Tliat is
out of the question,' he answered gloomily.

' Why, it is only pride that is keeping you back, John.'

' Perhaps you are right. But she is the widow of a baronet,
and inherits a great fortune in her own right,' ho said. ' You
know what the world would say of me.'

' The world ! ' repeated the (>ld man, wnth mild scorn. ' ^ly
lad, I always gave you credit for common sense. Would yi^ii
spoil both your lives for such a i)unctilio 1 If all I hear of
Lady Lundie be true, she is worthy even of you. (lO ami
take my blessing with you. I would like to kiss your wife
once before I die, and to fall asleep at last, knowing you
would not be left alone in tliis desolate home.'

John, standing in the window, with his back to tlie bed,
felt the blootl leap in his veins. His [lulses thrilled, his heart
throbbed at the very thought. He had l)ut needed this ; one
word was enough to set all the current of his lioing towards
one object. He turned to his father at length, and gripped
his hand like a vice.

' I will do as you say, father. At the worst I shall but be

:;!l.^

lis ! ' i

1- ii,;(

hi' I' i

liiHi

I 'IB!'

244

SUNDERED HEARTS,

where I was before,' he vsaid ; and the old man rejoiced to see
something of the old tire and resolution in his son's honest
eye.

That night John Strathearn rode into Rumford, and, leav-
ing his horse with a lad on the street, kno(;ked at the Doctor's
door, and asked for ISIrs. Dunsyre. lie was shown up to the
familiar drawing-room, which was more magnificent than it
had been in old days, having been entirely refurnished for the
young wife. She rose from her chair, a womanly and graceful
figure in sweeping black silk, and expressed as usual her true
pleasure to see the visitor.

' Sit down, Mr. Strathearn,' she said pleasantly. ' David
will not be many minutes. He was sorry to miss you yesterday,
but there is a good deal of distress in the town, and he is
much occupied.'

'Xo, thanks, I will not sit down. I don't want to see
David co-night,' he said, with the most unusual abruptness of
manner and speech. * ]\h's. Dunsyre, will you be so good as
to give me Lady Lundie's address in Nice?'

In the greatness of her astonishment Caroline for a moment
stood absolutely still, staring at the resolute face of the man
before her. Then, with a tremulous smile rippling about her
perfect lips, she turned aside and unlocked her davenport.

' It is Villa Froebelle, I think, but I am not quite sure of
the name of the lady with whom they are boarding. Ah,
here it is, — "Madame St. Maron, Villa Froebelle, Nice," ' she
said ; and, lifting her scissors from her work-table, she cut the
address from the letter and handed it to him. He put it in
his pocket-book before he spoke.

' Thank you. I am going there to-morrow ; doubtless you
can guess upon what errand. Good-night and good-bye, Mrs.
Dunsyre.'

'Good-bye. May I wish you God-speed, Mr. Strathearn?'
asked the young wife tremulously. ' Ijelieve me, 1 have often
wis! led for this, rightly or wrongly I cannot tell'

' Nor I ; but your earnest wish sends me on my way with
a better heart,' he said, and raised the white hand reverently
to his lips. When Doctor Dunsyre came in he found his wife
ap})an'ntly in a brown study.

' Mr. Strathearn has been here, David,' she said.

AT LAST.

245

d to see
! honest

id, leav-
Doctor's
ip to the

than it
[1 for tlio

graceful
her true

♦ David

csterday,
ud he is

at to see
iptness of
3 good as

a moment
; the man
about hei
iport.
,e sure of
Ah,
ce,"' she
e cut the
put it in

Ijtlcss you
Ibye, ^Irs.

lathearn ? '
lave often

[way with

Reverently

his wife

* And where is ho now ? What does the follow mt\ifi by
appearing and disappearing in that fashion? I am afraid it
must be you he comes to see,' quotii the Doctor, in his oil-
hand way.

' It certainly was me he came to see to-night. He is going
to N^ice to-morrow, David.'

Doctor Dunsyre favoured his wife with a prolonged stare,
and then gave vent to his feelings in a long, low whistle.

' It's in the air, my darling. I told you our example would
be followe4. It will be jNIargaret next,' he said. ' So that's
what's been the matter with Strathearn this long time, and
I was too much of an ass to see it.'

The young master of Kodlands left Eumford by the first
train the following morning, reaching town m time for the
ten o'clock Midland express. On the afternoon of the s(^.cond
day he arrived in Nice. He had never been in the favouriti;
health resort before, and he marvelled at the blue skies and
balmy air, and thought it strange indeed to see the gai'dens
gay with flowers at Christmas-time, remembering the Ixire
boughs and barren hedgerows he had left at home. These
thoughts only flitted through his mind, engrossed as it was,
however, by one absorbing hope, fie dined and refreshed
himself at the Hotel d'Angleterre, and then set out leisurely
to find the Villa Froebelle. Now that he was so near, he felt
no immediate haste to learn his fate. After half an hour's
walk and some questioning, he found the place, a sweet and
desirable retreat in one of the loveliest suburbs of the town.
The house stood in a wide and pleasant garden, and commau'led
an exquisite peep of the blue and shimmering sea. He
entered the rustic gate, walked up tlie trim path, and knocked
at the open door. The most dainty of maidens answered liis
appeal, and, in response to his request for Lady Linidie,
violently nodded her head, smiling and gesticulathig all the
time. Understanding that she desired him to enter, he
followed her through the cool, pleasant hall and into a front
salon. He heard the rustle of a dress in the adjoining
room, a swaying curtain was swept aside by a white liand,
and they were face to face. There was a moment's intense,
painful silence. Involuntarily both took a step towards
each other.

246

SUNDERED HEARTS.

!| ,. . 1

I. t

* Am I welcome, my darling ? ' John said hoarsely, and the
dawning light on the lovely face did not say him nay.

A bird trilling noisily on a rose branch at the window
ledge suddenly stilled his song, the whispering breeze stirring
the leaves seemed to hold its breath, there was a great jind
solemn hush of expectancy in the flower-laden air. But it
passed, and, mingling with the renewed music of the stirring
outside world, were the whispered v/ords he caught, —

' John, John, why did you stay so Vm^i % '

And so love, strong, beautiful, and free, bound theae
sundered hearts once mure.

\ :

*i.'

'XA

'\ '<

1 i

J«^

CONCLUSION.

I ^^HE old master lived to hold his son's wife in his
1^; arms, and to see the sunshine of a woman's
"l||^ presence in Kedlands once more. They were
^^ married before the year was out, and their
first Christmas was spent at home among all the old
friends. Before the reassembling ot Parliament the old
master ♦fell asleep, with his daughter's hand in his, and
her name the last upon his lips. A month later John and
his wife went to London, to their town house in Prince's
Gate. The world had its say, of course, concerning Lady
Lundie's second marriage, and for a time the tongue of
society wagged very freely. Both were censured by those
who, out of envy or bitterness of soul, grudged them the
happiness they so richly deserved. Elizabeth Lundie elected
to be bitterly displeased and scandalized. Needless to say,
she broke off all connection with her former sister-in-law,
and declined to visit her. But with such names as the
Duchess of St. Roque, the Countess of Leyboume, and
many others as noble, on her visiting-list, Lady John Strathearn
could very well afford to dispense with Miss Lundie's coun-
tenance. Iler best friends rejoiced sincerely at her happiness,
and paid both her and her honoured husband every attention.
Her first season as Lady Strathearn was necessarily very
quiet. But with such a home she needed no gaiety. Of its
happiness I cannot write, because my pen is too weak.

•247

248

SUNDERED HEARTS.

Lady Dovanhn did not appear af:jainin English Rorioty. 8he
took up her residence in AVestbrook Hall, and there ul)ides in
eolitiide. It is said she devotes her life to doin^,' ^good witli
her wealth. Mrs. Mayne is still to the fore. MeadowJl;its
is nominally her home, but she divides her time between the
High Street house and Redlands, where she is e(nially
welcome. She is a grandmother now to Caroline's lirst-born
son, but as yet no heir has been born to Redlands.

Doctor Dunsyre's prediction regarding his sister had an
early and unexpected fultilment. Visiting her cousin Ellen
in Edinburgh, she met at her house a famous London
physician with a title to his name, and who numbered royalty
among his patients. And, greatly to the surprise of his many
friends, the well-known physician, in course of time, brought
home a Scotch wife. So Margaret found her happiest
sphere at last, and her marriage forged a firm link between
the English capital and the Border town.

Perhaps Redlands is the happiest of these three hap])y
homes, because the pair had reached their blessedness through
much tribulation.

The member for shire is one of the most able and

eloquent speakers in the House. He is spoken of as a^ rising
statesman, and his labours point to a seat in the Cabinet.
His wife is one of the most popular ladies in society, and is
his true helpmeet in every way. The bitterness of the past
is swallowed up in the happiness of the present, and her
former married life seems almost like the shadow of a dream.
But is it not through sorrow that we reach the higher heights
of bliss ? Is it not the darkness which comes before that
makes so sweet the breaking of the day 1

Olip/iaut, A)iflrt\s(»i, (C- Frri'K rx Pnhiicnt'unis

New Edition, crown 8vo, cluth, 45 cents.

Across Her Path, IJy Annik S. Swan, Author of ' Ald.r.
syde,' 'Carlowrie,' etc.

' The deservedly popular shilling novel Htill holds its own, and bids fiiir fi
exerciHo a yet wi(h;r sway in titue to emu;. Aiiioii)^'.st the niowt .siucessfnl n)
these ventures in cheap literature may he rnuked a new novel by Miss t^waii,
a story almost as powerful as it is hewilehiuK. It possesses, anion^'st otiier
virtues, the ratlier unusual one of l>ein^' entirely free from padilint,'. present -
iuf,' no temptations for skij/pin^', even to the ■ lost frivolous reader. A Htth-
moralizing would nevertheless have been pardoned readily in so ex''ellent a
tale, and would have imjiarted to it a solidity it does not now possess ; yet let
it not be suppoJfed that an alteration in tliis respect would iiave been aiivan-
tap:eous — we do but marvel that Miss Swan could have had the strcnjith and
good taste to suppress herself for the sake of her nrC— Literary World.

* As to skilful construction of the j)h)t, is one of the most successful efforts of
itsailUioress, a youn^r lady who has, in a remarkiibly lirief space uf time, j,^aiii(Ml
a national reputation by her story of " Aldcr.syde." The interest is sustained
in her new story with remarkalde skill ; and few readers, when they have
taken up the book, will be able to lay it down upiin until they have reac^hed the
denouement. The scene is laid for tli(^ nu>st part in London, and it must be
owned that Miss Swan shows herself about as much at home in that Modern
Babylon as in her native Lothians.'— A'/Vy/iurnoc/t standard.

•Written in a clear, terse, crisp style, it is at the same time » full and
lively portraiture of the phases of Kijglish society with which it deals.' —
Brechin Advertiser.

* Has a good plot, and the characters are well sketched.' — Scotsman.

* A story that no one should miss reading. Although published in the now
popular shilling edition, it has nothing of the " sliilling horror "about il —
indeed, the name of the authoress is a sufficient guarantee for thdt. The plot,
although interesting, is far from being sensational, and it is not worked out
at any cost to the character painting or to the descriptive writing. Miss
Swan s literary style is graceful, and she can write really good dialogue. The
authoress of " Aldersyde" is certainly at her best in " Across Her i'ath."" —
Fifeekire Journal,

* The story is well and forcibly told.' — Christian World.

♦Much originality is seen in the conception and in the development of the
plot. Miss Swan, in her narrative, also shows a marked improvement, it is
free from restraint, and it is not encumbered with the verbose commonphices
which too frequently are made to take the place of dialogue, and which -ire
genei'ally irrelevant besides. The gifted authoress of "Across ller Path " lias
successfully avoided ouch blemishes, and has turned out a story which, for its
interest and for its style, ranks -vith the most famous of her works, and in
some respects exceeds the best of the rapidly lengthening list.' — Daily Review.

'The interest is cleverly sustained throughout, the plot being constructed
with the skill of the practised story-teller; it is indeed a tale diflicult to lay
down until it has been Guitihiid.''— Christian Leader.

IH.

Ofij)/i(t.ui, Ainlciiton, it' Ftrriers Pi(/>lic(Ui<>)iM.

Small crown 8vo, with Frontispiece, cloth, 50 cents.
A Door of Hope. By Jane T. 8toi>i)art.

' A pretty story is " A Door of Hope." ... It has genuine interest, and is
thorouj;lily h(*iiltlij'.' — Scotsman.

' Tjike tlio trf)ul)ln to cot the book and read it.' — Olasfjow Herald'

' A bright and healthful story of Scotch people in England.' — Christian
Herald.

' The writer hns not only produced a pleasant, well-written, and intorestiiin^
story, but hiis woven into it the great principles of religion in an unobtrusive
and natural manner.' — Peoples Journal.

' Tlie story is full of incident, with which high teaching is interwoven.' —
British Wetkhj.

' This is a vory ably written story.' — Airdric Advertiser.

' A good moral tone nnis through the volume, iind, as we hnve read it from
beginning to end, we have no hesitancy in recommending it as suitable for
young i)e(»))le.' — Home and School, Toronto.

'This is a mai-vellous book, and proclaims the writer to possess groat
literary powers, which may yet gain for her a distinguished place among the
litem ry fraternity. ' — Preshiitcrinn Messemjer.

' We have read it with gn^at interest, and have found it worthy of high
commendation. "A Door of llope" is a good title for a good book.' — KeL^o
Mail.

' In tlie true sense of the word, this is a popular little work.' — Canada
Preshi/terian.

'Tlio interest of the story is well sustained throughout.' — Dundee Courier.

'Alike as regards qiiality and quantity, it is splendid value for the money.
It has the further charm of not likely to lie thrown aside after being once
read. Those wlio go over it once will find fresh thoughts awakened on a
second reading.' — Huntly Express.

' The tale is well coustructed, and told with much feeling.' — Perthshire
Constitutional.

' Merits high praise for originality of ideas, cond)ined with probability,
the lack of which renders many brtoks un rend a hie. " A Door of Hope " will
take its place with the highest class of modern literature.' — Dublin Eveniv(j
Mail

' The chief chnrncters in the book are evidently life studies, and ex-
ceedingly well drawn, the individuality of each being full and striking, ns
woll as perfectly preserved throughout the story. No healthier, pleasantor
reiiding could be put in the hands of young people' — Aberdeen Free Press,

' We have nothing but praise for the work, wliieh we hope may meet with
snrh a reception ap will encourage its talented young authoress to favour
the public with other books. The high moral and sjiirivnal tone which
pervades " A Door of Hope" will cpen the doors of every Christian house-
hold to her succeeding books, and will make her not only a successful
writer, but a power for good.' — Kelso Chronicle.

*Many beautiful passages scattered throughout the volume would well
bear quotation did space permit. The chapter entitled " To the West,
Three Gntes," reveals a reserve of power, and a distinct ray of genius.' —
Christian Leader.

' Our readers will have no difficulty in identifying the watering-place
which is the scene of this story, although it is called Westerley-on-Sea.
The book tella as pretty a little love story, or rather double love story, as we
have read for a very long time. The author's objoct is unpretending ; but she
has produced an interesting, wholetome, and lifelike story.' — Bristol Mercury.

O/ijthdut, A)oh:rtinti., tt Frrrinrs /'uh/irrtfioHtt.

med on a
Perthshire

cemus. —

Extra crown 8vo, clotli oxtni, with Six Ori^'inal lllustriitions, ^I.OO.

Briar and Palm : A Study of Circumstance and Tiifhifnco.
By Annie S. Swan, Autlior of ' AMursydo,' 'Carlowrie,' 'Gaus
of Eden,' etc. etc.

♦ Is as charminpf a tale as this talented writer has produced. It paints
with quiet force and occasional touches of <hi,i pathos, tlie career of a yonii^^
doctor, Douis llolgate, a cii.iracter in wlioni the author nmuaeH a <li'ip
interest by the sliill with wliicli she has traced his i;rovvrh through work
and suffering to gentleness and nobility of nature.' - .S'(n/.w»rf».

' Furnishes an*>thtr proof tiiat tin. luitlior of " Aldersyrlo " ami *' < 'arlowrif "
is as much at hotiie among Mnglish foil?, both of the Southern ('(uinlics iind
of Lancashire, as slie is among tlie p<'opIo ot Scothind.' — Lwerpunl, Mcrniry

*St)me of the ehajiters indicate a larger outlook on life, and also a moif
intense dramatic energy.' — Daihi Mail.

' We find Miss Swan quite as much at home in the Metropolis, and among
the people of the Lancashire seabmrd, as in her nativt( Lotliians. . . . SJio
has evidently l)een working hard, and eidiirging her knowledge of the
treasures of literature, as wtil as of places and pt"o[)u;.' — (!rt('>i(K-k Tclef/rajih.

' THke it nVi m all, the authoress shows a vvondi-rtul vcrMitiiity and pcr-
fectitui in the irt of telling a story pleasantly and well.' -/'<// aui/ Penct/,

'A lovely tale, honestly vvortli its weight in gold.' — Sheffii4<l Indepfiidtnt.

' 'I'liH book is instinct with that fine feeling anii tender idealism which gives
Miss Swan's work the stamjt of unitjueness.' — Ennthni \tws.

' Miss Swan's versatility is truly wonderful, and in no [uvvions instance has
it been more powerfully exhibited than in this liighly inltrestrng and dramatic
story.' — Ktlmdntiick Stdiidard.

'In "ISriarand Talm" Miss Swan is at her best, and the characters are
so well drawn th»t they absolutely stand out from the pnge like living and
breathing realities. Taken as a whole, this is the best effort of the taleutnl
authoress.'— Leeds Times

' The whole conception is quite novel, yet vigorously worked out, and
with a success that jiistities the effort at showing how the influence of
genuine Christian love avid sympathy can soften and ultimately coucjuer, m a
naturally noble woman, the harsher teachings of p iverty.' — /Idddingtoii C<>iiri( r.

'Need we say that the tale has a high moral purpose, and that it is inld
with a charm of style which rivets atteutiuu from the first page to the
last.' — Northern Ennif/n.

' Another good story from this prolific pen, depicting the life of Denis
Holgate, a young doctor. She paints some fine charact(!rs in the course (jf ti o
book, notably little Daisy Frew and her good father the curate of the little
sea-village, Orosshaven.' — British Weeklii.

' Ast(»ry that only Miss Swan could ^^ rite, and it will be read with deep in-
terest and sincere pleasure by her wide cinde of admirers.' — Dundee AdvertiM'r.

' A new departure for one who luis won her laurels in depicting Scottish
rural life. The work will in no way detract from the splendid reputation the
author has won.' — Hehnxf-uruh Tnnts.

♦A powerful and well- written story, engnginp- the attention from its
opening sentence till its close.' — Dumfries Courier.

' Told with all Miss Swan's dramatic and descriptive power, full of good
thoughts and healthful suggestions.' — Arf/roath Herald.

' The work gives manifest token of the growth of the }<'i>ng authoress alike
in its analysis of character, dramatic euer -y, and deftness of literary touch.' —

Christian Leader.

'This is one of the brightest and most interesting stories that we have
come acro.-is for a considerable tinie.'-^Soivci;'/ ./nttrnuf.

Ofiltlmiit^ Anfffj-Kon, <i' Fcrrier'n Piihh'cnfions.

ir-

f.'i

Small crown 8vo, cloth, gilt, 70 cents.
BITS ABOUT AMERICA. By John Stkatiiivsk.

' Tlio poniiil ntid wiMf^-iiwnkc Scotclmmn, wlio writos under tlif» vom th

i)lniii(' of John Stnitlicsk, is n .slirowd mid kindly ohsorvor of men mimI tliinj^.s,
liu " HitH" lire till) result of eleiir mid kindly observiition, . . . Hitifrulmiy
free from ])reju(lice mid id'eeuiiceived notioiiM, . , . readablo and enjoyiilile.
— ('(iiiaila J'rctlti/tcriitn.

' Tliere in not an ill-nntiired word in it, nnd tlio render has only to mtike a
bofjinniiij^ to luivo his ai)petito whetted for more knowhidgo of Juuiithan.' —
IliUii xh unfh limes.

' Tlie writer wont to the Stntes, nnd fonn<1, on the whole, that wlint ho saw
pl(>nsed him. \\ii learnt tluit the " inereiise of American niihviiVH was
Ifiliiiloiw," hut did not a|>|i!irently <"(insider their Nolveney. "'I'he niilwiiy,"
he wiys i;raudlv, "is the friend of nil," except, he niiji'lit linve addeil, the
ulitindiolder. Jlowev(ir, the elev;ite<l lintis did not iileii.se him. Hut what
(h'lijihted him Juost was to find tSeotehmen thrivin;^ in nil parts, lie is him-
self tSeotch to the liatdvlione, nnd it is a eurioiis thiii.LC that almost nil his
jokes !ire of kSeoteh manufacture. Uur relatives on the other side of the
Atlantic must be hard to please if tliis testimonial to their excellence does
nctt satisfy them.' — SiKCtfitor.

'A "Chiel" has lieen " nmang us tnkin' not(.>s." lie has formed a
ponerally favourable impression of our iiajiortant cities, nnd is greatly
impressed with our hamlsome city halls nnd cajjitols. Our Church and
Educational systems ititerest and instruct him, while ho is iilhtd with
amazement at the ma^'^nitude of America's timlier trade. He has a {roud
word for our industries, thinks that in ten years wo will see "sturdy
competition in the markets of tlu^ world." "Already American enterprise
nnd cajiital liave pono far to make this C(tuntiy independent of foreign
supplies." The hook is a candid and discriminating description of America,
and is in refreshing contrast with siuidry nttem[)ts and "impressions" of
over-conceited Britons.' — Aiaerican Daihi rrcKH.

'" Bits about America" by "John Strathesk " is a thoroughly genial and
clover book ; there is quite a family of healthy red-cheeked young jokes in
this liooW— British Wcekiij.

' Many will be glad to have " Bits about Anu'rica" from this shrewd and
genial observer of men and manners." — U.F. Miasionary llaord.

'Mr. Strathesk's "r)its"are likely to bo as po{)ular as thej' are readnl>le.
One of the pleasantest fe;itures in the little volume is the entire absence of
}irejudice which is so apt to warp tho British views of anything American,
or, indeed, anything foreign. We cordially recommend these "Bits" to oiii
readers who enjoy a pleasant chatty book on an interesting subject.' — GhttujuW
Herald.

'As its title indicates, the object was simply to paint a few "Bits" of
American scenery and society, and yet tho writer does suggest much matter
for speculation by tho way, as well as furnish many valuable hints for the
emigr.int. That the brochure abounds in line humour, of course, "goes
without .saying," nor is ir, less, of course, that we meet with touches that bring
moisture into the eye, and tho lump into the throat,' — Methodist Recorder.

' We commend this book to our readers as giving truthful impressions
of America, and lielping to maintain the entente cordia/e between that
great country and our own. The book is illustrated, and is a handy shilling
guide to a general knowledge of American life and scenery.' — U.P. Magazine.

Olijj/tutit, Andfrmn^ d: Ff^rrl^r's /*v/,//r,ifin,ts.

nir.sK.

11(1 tliiiij^s.
■tiiimili fly
iiijoyulilc.

to niiiko H
imthiin.' —

int Vh? saw
wnvH wwH

niilwiiy,"
iddctl, the

r.ut wlmt
lit! is liim-
)st nil liis
lie of the
leiico (1(108

foriiiod a

is gJTatly
hurch iiinl
iillcd with
las a lidnii
J '*Ktiii-ily

cntei'iiriso
of forei^'H
AiiieriiH,

saious" of

:(Miial and
Ig jokes iu

hrewd and

voadal)lo.
lahscnco of
lAnu'rican,
Its" to OIU
\—Glastjoio

("Bits" ot
\c\\ mat tor
[ts for tlio
Iso, " goos
Itliat bring
irdcr.
liprossions
mon that
|[y shilling
layazinc.

Crown 8vo, cloth oxtni.. Illuhtriiud. .SI. 00,

Doris Cheyne, the Story of a Noble Life.

Annie S. ISwaN, Author of ' AMersydo,' etc.

'Tlio tale is writton witli this gift.-d nuthor's now well-known delirary
of chanii-tori'/ation and powi'i- of patiios. It has a sound nioralilv Iviii^c
iMiohtnisivcIy lionoath its intcrcNlin;,' srhonic of incidoiits. It will n'laki)
Miss Swan nioro i)0|.iilar among tin- widr finh- of gi-ntlo roadcrs to whom
hor stories have broiigiit iiloasiiri' in healthy thoughts ui;d sympathies.'—
t^Cnt.siinni,

''J'his is a pretty and most readable story, the 8eene of whio}« is laid iti
the Knglish Lake iMstriet. It is told wi'lh the simplicity and eleurriess
whieh t-haraeten/.e all the works ffom Miss >wan's pen. No one ean fail to
be interested in the heroin" whose ohaiaeter ;i8 o'no of the bwootest and
most unsellish ever depiclei,.' — Suriit// Ht vahl.

' When we get a volume of Annie S. Swan\> into our hands we kiH)W pretty
well what to expect. Kaeilt> und graceful narrative, skilfidly drawn cjniracters,
and a tale teaching some high moral h'ssoti which holds the reader from
beginning to dose.'— A/* <t„tt PancH.

'A faithful anil touching reproduction of liuman eharactor as most of tis
have seen it, though tin story itself is n.'ally thrilling in its details. Nature
and art have combined to prodia-e a work whicli may well be placed iu the
hands of any young lady.' — Olifhmii Ciivniiicie.

'Courage, self-denial, devotion arc the virtues exhibited and held up for
imitation.' — Footsteps of Truth.

' Miss Swan amply sustains her reputati(»n in this latest product of hor
fertile pen.' — (Jlasijow Herald.

'The teacher of one of the largest Bible classes for young women in
Glasgow has road more than one of Miss Swan's stories to the members of
his class, with excellent results; and Mr, Spurgtutii, who looks askance on
the common run of novtdists, has always a hearty word of commendation to
bestow on the stories that proceecl from the pen of the autlau'ess of
" Aldersydo." In "Doris t'lu'vne" she teaches important spiritual and
moral lessons in a strain so simple and persuasive, that the book is sure to
become a iiopular favourite.' — Daihi Mail.

'Uuietly but charniiugly written." — Mdliodist Times.

' A story that one glides over with the keenest pleasure, and one's
sympatliies go with Doris, and the book is laiil down with a sigli of regret
that such a delightf'd companion as Doris should only live by the vivid
genius of the gifted authoress. Miss Swan's stories are charming.' —
Itcformer.

'We particularly recommend to you?ig women, as well as to other classes
of readers, the delightful story by Aunio S. Swan, entitled " Doris Cheyne."
— Literary World.

' The most ambitious and the most successful book that Miss Swan lias yet
written. Her characters are few iu number, but thoy are all drawn with the
utmost cai'e.' — The Acadoni/.

'A quiet geutle-tlowing narrative of self-reliance and energy in the hour
of need ; but under its outward calm, there is a striking nuignetic inlluenco
at work.' — Educational Ncvt!.

'One of the very best books that have jme from the pen of Annie S. Swan.'
-^-Helensburgh Times.

■i i

'■^ i

^1 I t ' ;

iin

Oliphant, Anderson, & Ferriers Pahlhxdions.

Crown 8vo, cloth extra. Illustrated. 90 cents.

In Glenoran. By M. B. Fife.

' M. B. Fife, if we may venture to infer the writer's sex from certMiii
featunis of tlie story, especially tli alhisions to female attire, is a notalilo
addition to the luuij list of Scottish lady writers of fiction; and we shall bu
glad to meet her a^'ain.' — (ViviMian Leader.

• Wholesome as well as pleasant, and deserves to be succ(*ssful.' — Scotsman.

'A story of a brother's perfidy and eventual punishment, of a fathei's
implacahility, and woman's love, told in simple lanj^iia^'e. The locale of tlie
story is a secluded 8<;oteh vilhuze, and many interestinp: traits of Scottish
character are introduceil with veiv piod effect.' — Sheffield Daihi Telegraph.

'The delineations of IliuhhuKl scenery are particularly ^ood, and a few
clever illustrations enhance iiie [lictmesque value of the brightly-written and
swift-flowing story ' — Daihi Mail.

' Some of the characters are well drawn, and the illustrations, quaint
sketches of rural scenery, deservt^ fiivonrahle notice.' — Society Herald.

'A story of promise, and is excellent as the maiden production of a young
wi-i t e r. '—Peoi.>le\s Friend.

' Pictuies the life of a small Scotch village with a skill that brings its
outward scenery and its human interests very vividly before the reader. —
Literarii World.

' This is a didightful story of rural life in a Scottish glen, told with much
naturalness of feeling and knowledge of human nature, alike in its weaker
and nol 'er aspects.' — Leaane Journal.

'A work of fictioji, healthy, natural, and engaging, without the faults of
profundity or sensationalism.' — Kilmarnock Standard.

' The story is one which will fix itself on the memory, not only on account
of its deejily interesting incidents, hut because the writer exhibits a fine
discrimination of what is best and worst in human nature. The style is pure,
fresh, and easy.' — Bcforiner.

'This is a homely storj^ of the "Annie S. Swan" type, but only, to our
minds, very much superior.' — Fifcxhire Journal.

' A pretty tale of Scottish villagt^ life.' — Athenanim.

' This is really a most channingly written story of crofter life in the north
of Scotland, and will well repay perusal.' — lialljimena Olnierrer.

'This is a capital story, well conceived in ])lot and carefully carried out
in detail, ^i'lu* incidents aic such as occur in everyday lift*, and this really
forms one of the charms of the volume. The actors are all well known to
ns — we have seen them often, and can matcli each of the dramatis perx^no'.
as they api»ear on the scene with people we lia%e met in actual everyday life."
— Leeds Times.

' A story full of pathos. It is an account of the love affairs of a young
S "ot, and does not seem to pretend to give anything more than a simple and
natural (hfscription of his and his swtu'theart's lives. The tale is rendered
very atti-active l)y its unjjretentiousness.' — Duhlin Ereninff Mail.

' It is imjiossible to follow without thvJ keenest interest the wooing of
Allan Cam))hell and Mary Macnab ; or to forbear a feeling of pity for the
bright-eyed but unfortunate Phemie, who deserved a better fate than that
whicli the author has accorded hi'.r.'—Haddiwiton (\mrier.

'Miss Fife has a quick eye for what is essential wlienever she attempts to
render local colour; and her affectio)i for the place and people whom she
describes is uumistakeubly of the hc.".-t, and not merely of the jjeu.' — The
Academy.

O.ipJtatU, x[u.'c,ti(,u., dj Fr.i-rur's PituHattlims.

Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Illustrated, $1 25.

Matthew Dale, Farmer. By Mrs. Sanders, Author
of * Happy with Either.' Second Edition.

Le faults of

n the north

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON THE FIRST EDITION.

'ToH in an easy, pleasant style; its incidents are generally well chosen
and probable, and the characters are all well drawn. A very few touches
PMtRoe to outline each, and the shading given by couversat on and action is
in each ca.se consistent and snflScient. ... It has the merit < f hfiu^; un-
HtTHined and u7i>ensatioual in its incidents, and thoroughly healthy iu tone.'
— St. Juvies' Gazette.

'TliH intnrest of the story in general, though entirely domestic, is exceed-
ingly varied. ... A very considerable dash of true Scotch liumour.' —
The Globe.

' Another Scottish rural romance: the personages are in a humble line of
life; and they are drawn by a lady, who, as is very evident, thoroughly
understands her country folk.' — The Times.

'There is nothing in the story that might not have happened, and yet
nothing that was not worth the telling.' — The Graphic.

'If the interest and the great charm of fiction consist in a judicious
blending of the realistic and the sentimental, of the poetry of inner
idealism with the prose of everyday life, "Matthew Dale" should be a
successful work.' — Saturday Review.

'"Matthew Dale" is thoroughly enjoyable; the plot is evolved with great
care, and the istyle is remarkably good. Ann Porbes's troubles with the
household affairs of the enjpKiyer whom she has admired from girlhood, with
his treacherous sister, and his drunken nepln^w, are as geuiane as anything
we have seen iu fiction for a long time.' — S/wrtafar.

'A simply told and interesting story. The plot has ff-w coTnplicatious,
but nevertheless the interest of the tale is well sustained from tirst to last,
and the literary workmanship is uniformly sound and good.' — Scotsman.

'A story of real power and interest. . . . For a picture of social life as it
really is in nine-tenths of our country parishes, "Matthew Dale" is sure to
be widely sought after and admired.' — Edinburyh Courunt.

'The romance with which a healthy and vigorous intellect, a rich glowing
fancy, and a true generous heart regards everyihing that is of interest to the
welfare and progress of humanity. . . . Kemarkable for its literary tiuifch aa
well as its dramatic power.' — Dumfries Utrald.