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{comm UP A UUUNTRY HOUSE.
A NOVEL.
BY
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JULIAN STURGIS,
demo} of “ T/zraldom,” ‘ya/m Maidmmt, m.
IEW YORK : -.
GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLIsriER,
17 TO 27 Vmmwa'mn 9mm.
‘EH
THE GELEBRATED
I‘he SOHMER PIANOS The Wonderful’Bijoa
are_used 1n ﬁfe £01~ Granddately resented,
lowin Instr trons: bySOHMEB. 00.,the
Cmﬁiiri’f the Sacred Smallest Grand ever
Manhatténville N. Y. 31,3“ ugafggg er? Emil“;
N. Y. College OIEMHSIC. 1 y t d ‘i .
Vogt Conservaboryof 0118' e a»_ sensation
Music. . among musicians and
Arnold’s Conservatory _V I artists. The music lov-
0 Music, Broo ‘ ing public will ﬁnd itin
PhilgiorsgigeMCglléserv- 1' their interest to call at
u .
vﬂmeelecmr EEEEREWM
N Y brilgnliilafiingonserv- examine the various
atoryof Musi Styles of Grands,
111a. Maria Convent, Uprights and Sgiiare
Mont 0s. The original
Vassar Colle e k and beautiful designs
and improvemenps in
Grands and Upnglgts
_ class theatres P181108 deserves special
in ew York 85 B’klyn. attention.


Are at present the Most Popular and Preferred by the Leading Artists
N05. 149 TO 155 EAST 14TH ST., NEW YORK.

BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT WITH THE AUTNORS- '
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FOREIGN LITERATURE.
EDITED BY
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v00mm! m A cmlmnv HUUSE.
CHAPTER I.
1,

A YOUNG man came over the hill. , He was walking on
one of those public ﬁeld-paths which lead the landless
Wayfarer through the homely beauties of England, and
make him too for his little hour a lord of the happy land.
He went with long strides and with the vigor of youth,
but without the elasticity of the ﬁrst morning hours. One
would have known from his gait that he had been walking
all day. His strong, hob-nailed boots Went steadily for-
, ward ,- his stick was no longer swung in careless fashion 3
his slouched hat was pushed a little back from his fore-
head. He tramped along in business-like way, like a
Vagabond to the manner born. Over his left shoulder
and under his right arm a thick red blanket was rolled and
fastened. Invisible in the inner pocket of his old shoot_
ing-coat were lighter luxuries--a comb, a clasp-knife, and
ﬁnally that tried companion of the English gentleman in
every climate and all circumstances of life, his for richer
for poorer, the last thing from which he parts except his
\ life-the tooth-brush.
The young man came over the hill, and followed his‘
little path across the wide, shallow valley 5 but where the
path began to rise again he left it, and climbing more
quickly through a little hanging wood, came out above the
trees on to a bare grassy knoll, which gave a wide view of
all the country round. There he sat down with an inarti~
culate murmur of satisfaction, stretched his tired legs
before him, and raised his eyebrows at the view. It was
a brown landscape, for the month was brown November;
‘,but no monotony of color could hide the beauty of the
"land. A wide plain lay open at his feet, a plain to him
“,who, sat so highﬁabeveﬁ iaieﬁ lly a wide stretch of
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gently swelling land, of fertile but not heavy soil, of
curves and lines delightful to the eye 3 an open country,
but with copses and coverts not a few, with grass and
ploughed ﬁelds in fair proportion. The ploughed ﬁelds
were of a warm, reddish brown; the bare hedges of a
colder, darker hue; and the brightest specks were seen
where the yellow-brown leaves of the young oaks still
clung to the boughs. The pomp of summer had gone,
with its dark deep leaves and yellow corn; but if the
scene of its splendor was now bare and brown, the brown
was varied enough, and there was no look of bareness in
the woods, which seemed to clothe the gentle slopes like
the fur of some soft brown beast.
The traveller was fhnd of the face of nature and of the
face of England. He looked with much contentment
across the wide expanse. His eyes wandered with enjoy-
ment, but they came back again and again to one place,
where, miles away, the tower of an unseen castle rose
above its more majestic trees. He regarded this tower
with a whimsical air, half annoyed and half amused. He
had walked all day for a sight of it, and, when he saw it,
he burst out laughing. It was his. His was that castle
which seemed to raise its head, that it might announce its
presence and its importance to the world. His were all
these well-tilled ﬁelds and pleasant woods, so far as and
farther than his eye could see. And much of ‘the land
through which he had tramped since dawn was his too.
He looked at the good country dirt upon his boots, and
laughed again,_thinking that even that was his, and again
that the solid earth on which he sat was his to its very
centre. He was young and fanciful, and he liked to amuse
himself with such fancies. And then he remembered
another large estate in another county, with its appropriate
residence, and reports of landed properties comparatively
unimportant, and a yacht which was lying‘somewhere.
And then too in London there was the family mansion,
majestic in a majestic square 5 and somewhere in less
lordly districts a lot of land, on which houses were thickly
built, and which, as he had heard, would enable him to
smile at the lowest possible prices of agricultural produce.
But it was not at low prices that he smiled like a Cheshire
élat or a member of the Cobden Club. He smiled at hinrr L'
self and at the strange part which he was called upon to;
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lay. He was young and fanciful, and easily moved to
aughter 3 and he could not but be interested and amused
by the new, and in its way brilliant, part which he was
‘expected to play. But here lay the element of boredom.
He was expected to play the part, and to play it according
to ‘the well-known traditions. Nothing was more ﬁrmly
ﬁxed than the proper rules of conduct for the young heir ;
and, as he looked at the tower, which seemed to be peer‘
ing over the trees and on its side solemnly looking for
' him, he felt an unmistakable repulsion and an unseemly
” 1evaty arising within him. Were the days of his freedom
- over and the boyhood to which he clung for its simplicity
and joy? It amused him to think of himself competing
with that castle in dignity 3 it amused him, but it vexed
him too; and, even while he laughed, there was vexation
in the sound of his laughter. He knew that in that stately
abode was a country~house party gathered in his honor ;
he knew that he ought to have been at home to receive
them twenty-four hours before 5 he knew that his uncle
was there prepared to point out certain duties for his
doing, and that his aunt was there to urge him perhaps to
duties even more important. He was by no means sure
that he objected to these duties, and yet—and yet
Over the wide landscape the tender light of evening was
diffused. It was time to go down and encounter that
country house party, and to surrender himself to the
appointed duties of his position. There were people there
whom he would like to see, but the people were a country~
house party. “A country-house party,” he said to him—
self 3 “ it is terriﬁc.”
All the Vagabond in the boy rose against the momentous
words. He would have another night of freedom, come
what would. He kissed his hand to the expectant tower,
and went down the further slope of the knoll. He
whistled as he walked back to the village, where he had
. dined at midday. Nobody in the village knew him, though,
for aught he knew to the contrary, he might be owner of
it all. He supped well as he had dined well 5 and he
amused himself by trying to excite the curiosity of the
landlady, who was evidently surprised at seeing neither a
bicycle nor a tricycle, neither a photographic camera nor
i a closely-strapped bundle of samples. He encouraged in
alter a dawning belief that he was something “in the 31e-

v
6 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
tective line,”--a belief which was due to a happy notion
that detectives went about in disguise, and that to attract
universal attention by a slouched hat and a Rbcky-moun-
tain blanket was but the natural conduct of a member of
the secret police, a tribute to the dramatic necessity of
disguise. A brother of an Anglican Order, Who had re-
cently visited the village, clad in a brown robe and with a
rope round his waist, had excited in the good lady at like
lively suspicion.
After supper the Vagabond took to the road again. If ‘
the end of his liberty were near at hand, he would bags a =
deep draught for the last. The night was fair, the wind
was light and westerly, and for a November night there
was but little cold. He turned away into the ﬁelds, tres-
passing boldly on his own tenants’ land, skirted a little
wood, lest some oﬁicious keeper of his own might seize
him as a poacher, and soon found the suitable hay-stack
which he sought. He got over the hurdles which sur~
rounded it, rolled himself close in his thick red blanket,
and lay down to leeward of the stack. There he would
sleep, as he had slept before, close to the kindly earth, be—
neath whose bare surface the life of the next year was
stirring now. He liked to be so close to his mother earth.
He pulled some handfuls of hay and rolled them in his
cashmere scarf for a pillow; and so he lay and watched
the watching stars. And then he fell asleep, and slept
soundly till the ﬁrst chill of dawn.
*
CHAPTER II.
ONE of the dreaded country-house party, and perhaps
the most terrible of all, was Lady Jane Lock. On the
morning after that night, which her disappointing host
had spent beside the haystack, Lady Jane was in a
pleasant room on the ﬁrst ﬂoor of the Castle, but not in a
pleasant humor. She was cross ,- and when she was
cross, few things annoyed her more than her dear friend
Susan Dormer’s habit of smiling. Mrs. Dormer now lay
on the sofa with her most provoking air of placidity. The
sofa suited her; the room suited her. Indeed, she had
chosen the room for her boudoirson account of its double
COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 7
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doors and its southern aspect; and, since she was the
aunt of this absurdly rich young man, and had determined
to keep house for him until he married, these seemed good
reasons for choosing the best room in the house as her
own. Southern aspects and double doors were recom~
mended by her doctor,- and to see her friend Jane “a
little put out” did her good too, though this was no part
of the doctor's prescription.
Lady jane stood exceedingly erect, and stared out of
the window without any apparent pleasure in the south;
and indeed the pleasant light, which came in, was not be-
coming to her, for her high color, tempered by a liberal
supply of violet powder, would have produced a better
effect had she turned her back to the window. This great
truth was very clear to Susan Dormer, whose own skin re-
tained to a remarkable degree the clearness and softness
of girlhood. But Lady jane was not thinking of her own
looks, but rather of the broad acres which stretched away
before her eyes. She was a judge of parks 5 she had mar-
ried two daughters to them 3 but there was no park so
niuch to her taste as this of Langleydale. What timber
and what a ring-fence P She knew the length of that
fence.
“ I’d better have gone to Bolitho,” she said, still staring
out of the window. “The Duke was most pressing,” she
added after a minute, since Mrs. Dormer kept silence.
“Dukes are never pressing,” murmured Mrs. Dormer
from the sofa.
“ It is no good at all,” said Lady Jane.
“ What is no good, dear?” asked Susan innocently.
“ No one has been in more country—houses than I have,”
said Lady Jane, as if she challenged contradiction.
But her friend only sighed. “ How bored you must
have been, poor dear I ” she said with a soothing tone.
“ “ But never, never before has such a thing happened to
me. My host never appearing at all, and not a word of
explanation, let alone apology ! ”
“ I know it is very disappointing, dear,” said her friend,
as if she sought to comfort her, “ when all your plans were
so nicely laid too.”
5‘ My plans!” cried Lady Jane, starting as if at the
“ I have told you before, Susan, that I
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match-making mother. There is no character of which I
have such a horror.”
“ Did I say anything, dear, about matchmaking P ” asked’
her friend. “We all know you are not worldly, I am
sure. Your poor dear Delia’s marriage showed that.” '
It was evident that this instance of he: unworldliness
failed to comfort Lady Iane Lock. She turned and looked
straight at her friend, who met her with a candid smile.
“ N 0 one could say that it was worldly of you, Jane,” said
Susan Dormer, “ to marry your poor dear Delia to a scrub
of a curate.”
“ You know as well as I do, Susan, that Delia’s husband
is a Vicar. It is exceedingly likely that he will be made
a rural dean.”
“ How charming!” murmured Susan; “a rural dean!
It’s quite Arcadian. But it was nice of you, dear,” she
continued with gentle emphasis, “ to marry her to some-
body who was—who was nobody.”
“ Adolphus’ family is one of the oldest in England.”
“ Really? How very nice I And is it really true that
they only have mutton twice a week P ”
“ Certainly not,” said Lady Jane Lock 5 “it is a detail,
a ridiculous detail ,- but the Vicarage, a most lovely vicar-
age embowered in roses, is in the heart of a famous sheep
country. I see nothing to laugh at.”
“ Nor I, dear.”
“ Delia does not require much butcher’s meat.”
‘6 She is so right,” said Mrs. Dormer, with a marked
access of seriousness ; “ my doctor says so. Twice a
week is quite enough.”
“ My daughter can have mutton every day, if she
wishes.”
“ Yes, dear Jane ,- but who would wish to have mutton
every day? You know, dear, I was only saying how nice
and unworldly it was of you to marry poor dear Delia to
a penniless nobody P ”
“ I have told you again and again, Susan, that, if
Adolphus’ mother had been a man, she would have been
ﬁfteenth baronet.” ’‘
“Yes, dear; but if she had been a man, she wouldn't
have been his mother.” .
Lady Jane Lock was taken aback. Her friend’s remark
appeared to her equally indelicate and unanswerable. She
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CRZMHZDI’CUV¢4 CZHZAUCRI’ﬁﬂ9UGEL ” 9
sat down abruptly with a movement of disapproval, and
took up the .Zlform'izg Post.
“ Any way, jane,” said Susan Dormer presently. “I
think we can do better for Elizabeth.”
Lady Iane Lock perceptibly concentrated her attention
on her paper.
“ Of course things suit me very well as they are,” con-
tinued Susan, looking comfortably around her,” but I
know very well that they can’t stay like this. The poor
dear boy is so absurdly rich, and he is not at all clever
except at books and that sort of thing-he can’t escape
longi’
The Morning Post rustled in Lady jane’s hands, and
a sound came from behind the paper, which was suspi~
ciously like the word “ coarse.”
“Of course, dear, as you say,” continued Mrs. Dormer
placidly, “ of course the poor dear boy is sure to be mar-
ried by somebody. So why not Elizabeth? I am all for
Elizabeth. I do like her so much 3 she is so like her
dear father.”
“Not in the least,” said Lady Jane, who had intended,
like Iago, to speak no more. Mrs. Dormer ignored the
contradiction. She smiled and said, “ Elizabeth has real
beauty 3 she is not like poor Delia.”
“ Many people,” said Lady Jane, emphatically, “ admired
Delia more than any of her sisters.”
“ Did they, dear P ”
“ I cannot help it,” continued the other loftily, “if the
general taste of the day is inexpressibly vulgar.”
“ Oh, poor dear Elizabeth ! ” murmured Susan Dormer ;
“that is too bad, Jane. I should never think of saying
that Elizabeth looked vulgar. Perhaps she is not in the
most reﬁned style ,' I go with you as far as that 3 but not
vulgar-oh, no, I really think not.”
Lady Jane Lock laid down the paper and looked at the
friend. She opened her mouth, but shut it again with
determination. After a time she asked this question:
“Sulsan, do you think that Lord Lorrilaire is coming here
at a l? ”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Dormer, “I am sure that the poor
,boy will come. He is odd, but he really would have let
me know if he was not coming at all; he knows that I
asked people.”
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“ Does he know that I am here? ” 5
Mrs. Dormer smiled. “ I think that he suspects, poor
dear,” she said; “he is not suspicious, but really after "
London—well, I for one hope that we shall make the
match.”
She reposed, smiling. On her large fair face there was
no sign that she was aware that she was not making the
most agreeable speeches to her friend. And yet she knew
jane so well that she knew exactly where to touch her
with effect 3 and, when she was administering a little Whole-
some dig, then she smiled. Her smile was peculiar, for
her mouth was so small'in comparison with her smooth
calm countenance, that a smile produced hardly any effect
on her expression. A little extra amiability was suggested,
as she smiled and said that she hoped that they would
make the match.
“ I cannot tell you,” said Lady Jane, stiffening herself
like a grenadier, " how much I detest this talk of making
matches. I regard it as little better than impiety.”
“ Oh l ” said Mrs. Dormer, faintly.
“ Some marriages are made in heaven,” said Lady Jane
Lock, with due solemnity.
“And others in country-houses,” said her friend. She
was rather shocked when she .had said it, and added
promptly-J‘ that is what Clara Chauncey says.”
“It is worthy of her,” said Lady jane, sharply.
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Dormer ; “ she is so clever.”
“ Clever, yes 1 You know my opinion of Mrs. Chauncey.”
“Oh ! yes, dear.”
“ A most dangerous woman I ”
“ Oh ! yes, dear,” said Mrs. Dormer, smiling; “ but not
dangerous to us. Poor dear Clara cannot interfere with
our little plan.”
Lady jane made no comment but an impatient snort.
It was really an unlucky morning for Lady Jane Lock.
There were many questions which she was eager to ask;
but on the other hand she felt that she could not open her
mouth without a fresh sacriﬁce of dignity. Here was such
a good opportunity of a really useful talk with her friend ;
but it seemed to her, as it often seemed to her, that her
friend was either so stupid or so perverse that she could
get nothing from her but annoyance. She was not.even
sure that Susan really believed that young Lord Lorrilaire
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would really come; and if he were not coming, she knew
that she ought to be angling for a renewed invitation to
Bolitho ; she wondered if the Duke would ask her again.
She was just making up her mind to start afresh with
Susan, and to try to lead up by a new path to those questions
which she longed to ask, mere careless questions about the
\clicposition of the property and such matters, when she
hleard the outer of the two doors opened, and the voice of
Sir Ville s Hickory asking if Iie might come in.
(‘ Oh 1 yes, do come in and a use us,” said Mrs. Dormer ;
“We are so dull. I am told t1 be amused after breakfast.”
The voice of Susan Dormer had ' 0 other tone so solemn
as that in which she always reterred to the advice of her
doctor. Sir Villiers came in, looking brisk and business-
like. He was a very good-looking man of his years. He
.had preserved his light ﬁgure and his clear eyes, which
were almost colorless. For the rest, he was fresh-colored,
with that rather mottled look which ruddy men acquire
with time, thin-lipped ‘and ﬁrm of jaw and chin. He was
a slender, erect and alert elderly gentleman, and he was
admirably dressed. He gave thought to his dress, deter-
mined that as an old man he would be neither fop nor
sloven, and determined too that his clothes should not
look as if he thought about them. He was now dressed,
as he held that a man ten years younger than himself
should be dressed in a country-house on a week day; he
had allowed himself the beneﬁt of those ten years after due
deliberation, having decided, and quite rightly, that he
looked at least ten years younger than his contemporaries
at the Club.
If Mrs. Dormer received Sir Villiers graciously, Lady
Jane made no great effort to hide her annoyance.
“ I never expect to see men in the morning,” she said 5
“ why ain't you killing something? ”
“ We can’t always be killing,” replied the gentleman
sharply; “ we leave that to the ladies.” It was a pretty
speech, but not without a slight tartness, a mere suspicion
of irony. Lady jane only acknowledged it by a sniff;
but Mrs. Dormer was charmed.
“ You are a dear man l” she said.
3 \ “ Never mind that,” said he. “ I have come toiuk if
' you haven't heard anything of the boy.”
‘S1,, “ Not a word," said Susan, smiling.
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“ It’ll be awkward if he don’t turn up,” he said.
“He always turns up,” said she placidly.
“ It is settled,” said Sir Villiers, “that Palfrey is to .
make a big speech at Langstone, and I have asked him in
Archie’s name to stay here for the affair.”
“But, my dear Villiers, I thought that the poor dear ,
boy was a Radical or a Republican, or something.” I
“It doesn’t matter a’. ﬁg what he was. He was nobody, , 3,...
and might have been a Shaker or a Peculiar Person for‘
what anybody cared. But now he is somebody, and now
it does matter. Langley Castle has always been the centre
‘ of the Tory party in the county, and Archie must give his
money, and entertain the spouters and stumpers like other
people. Palfrey will certainly come, and Archie must not
only entertain him here, but must preside at his meeting.”
He went to the ﬁreplace and put his hand on the bell.
“ May I ring?” he asked.
“ Of course, Villiers; and we will see if anybody comes.”
“ They come when I ring,” he said. ,
The bell was pulled with decision, and answered with
promptitude. *
“ Has Hawkins heard from Lord Lorrilaire? ” asked Sir
Villiers.
“ No, Sir Villiers,” said the footman, “ but his Lordship
have arrived.”
“ What? ” cried Sir Villiers.
Lady jane leapt in her seat, and even Mrs. Dormer
turned her head.
“Yes, Sir Villiers, he came in this morning through the
window of the long drawing-room, when the housemaids
were doing it. His Lordship went straight to the bath-
room.”
“Well? Where is he now Pk”
“ His Lordship is asleep.”
“ In his room? ”
“Yes, Sir Villiers."
“Did he bring his luggage? ”
B “His Lordship’s luggage is at Langstone, at the Blue
oar.” ,
“ The wrong house I” said Sir Villiers sharply; “a. Rad—
ical pot-house! Tell Blaketo send a cart for the luggage
at once—at once l ”
“ Yes, Sir Villiers 3" and the man departed.
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When the two doors had been closed, Sir Villiers
looked sharply from one lady to the other.
“ We've got him,” he said.
“ Yes,” said Mrs. Dormer softly, smiling on Lady lane
Lock, “ we have got him.”
Lady Iane wished not to understand, wished to be
indignant, but before she could decide what it were best
to express, she, much to her own surprise, gave vent to an
abrupt crude laugh.
"A;
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"CHAPTER III.
PREsEN'rLv young Lord Lorrilaire would wake from his
dream of the sheep-fold and of the patient stars to ﬁnd
himself stretched on his patent bedstead, and under his
own majestic roof. It seemed almost as likely that he
would wake a little later from his dreams of freedom and
of happy friendship to ﬁnd himself an engaged man and a
patent conversative politician. His uncle, Sir Villiers
Hickory, if his view was somewhat narrow, saw all which
it included, with a remarkable keenness. He was not
embarrassed by doubts; he was a man of decision; he
had established the useful habit of having his own way.
His aunt, Mrs. Dormer, had a large st re of that im-
movable obstinacy, which is only found in women, and in
women of a lethargic and most amiable temperament.
And, ﬁnally, Lady Jane, Lock, though she disliked the
reputation of a successful matchmaker, was at least a
most fortunate mother-in-law.
Nevertheless, it was not the wishes of these relations
and friends which were the chief danger of the young man,
but rather the mood which now possessed him-a mood
dangerously acquiescent. He was not deﬁcient in
character, as the popular phrase is. On the contrary, he
had more character than could be set forth in pieces by a
few sentences of even the most cunning analyst. He had
always been a clever boy, clever and kind-hearted. His
mother, who had lost her husband soon after the birth of
this their only child, had retired to a small place in the
country. There she had become by degrees, and in spite
. ’ of her gentle methods,. the leading philanthropist of the
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neighborhood 3 and thence she had sent to London at
long intervals certain works of ﬁction, which betrayed on
every page her tenderness of heart, her timid love of reli;
gion, her delicate literary taste, and her sublime ignorance
of the world. By the side of this gentle mother her little
boy had trotted into cottages, and ceased his cheerful
babble for a moment, wondering that there was sorrow in
the world. His mother had loved to soften the little
heart, which did not need it. The ﬁrst money which the
little hand had held was put into it that it might be given
to the poor. So Archie Rayner had learned, before he
was breeched, that he must look about for those who
needed help, and help them as well'ras he could. This
seemed an uncommonly simple affair to the little boy, and,
so long as it went no further than carrying half his pud-
ding to the little lame boy at the lodge, it was simple
enough.
Archie went straight from home to a public school, and
after the ﬁrst night, when he cried himself to sleep, he
found a pleasure quickly growing in the companionship of
other little boys. Playing with zeal, working without
lassitude, and idling less than most of his fellows, he had
not much time to remember that there were any less
fortunate lads in the world 5 and, as his intelligence grew
rapidly and he began to question this and that, the village
and its wants, of which he read in his mother’s letters,
seemed so small in the distance that he could scarcely’
help laughing at his mother’s seriousness. It was like the
little scraps of good advice which she put in her post-
scripts, and for which he loved her, though he laughed.
Indeed, he laughed a great deal, being given to laughter,
and a popular and pleasant person. And then, when he
was sixteen years old, his tutor, who was what was called
in those days a Philosophical Radical, was struck by one
of his questions, which sounded intelligent, invited him to
join his Debating Society, lent him some books, and
administered to him an occasional sententious maxim as a
stimulant to youthful thought. Thereupon a new world
seemed to open before the boy, who had not caught the true
scholar’s interest in the structure of the Greek and Latin
languages. He read eagerly, and, as he read and thought,
his childhood’s philanthropy rose strong again within him;
and the questions, religious and political, which he asked
~.
5‘
COMEDY OF A co Umiw Y H0 USE. 15
himself and his tutor, tended more and more to take the
practical shape—how to help the poor. It became
apparent at once that this was no such simple affair as it
had seemed in the far-off days of pennies and pudding.
Presently he wrote home a boyish pompous letter to his
mother, questioning her methods, and more than hinting
that his researches were likely to lead to the conclusion
that she was pauperizing the parish. His mother was
immensely proud of his letter, and not at all disturbed by
the criticism, having that power, so common in mothers,
of combining an excessive admiration of the cleverness
of her child with complete indifference to his opinions.
But the Debating Society and the stimulating tutor soon
showed this young scholar that there were other interest‘
ing political questions besides that of helping the poor.
What was the object of politics? He asked his tutor this
question; and his tutor put into his hands for answer,
Mills’ “ Essay on Liberty.” This: delighted the boy, for it
brought simplicity again into matters which had seemed
chaotic, and provided a touchstone by which he could try
all Acts of Parliaments, and all suggestions of Reformers.
It was clear to him that Government had nothing to do
with the poor, except to secure their liberty as it secured
that of other citizens 5 he maintained in debate that even
workhouses were contrary to right reason, though it might
be inexpedient to level them at one stroke to the ground 5
he recommended charity with all the approved safeguards
to his fellow members as a matter of private enterprise.
It says much for Archie Rayner that these fellow-members
liked him, in spite of his long speeches 5 but then all his
little world liked him. If he, who had not yet learned the
meaning of Philosophy, philosophized at too great length,
he philosophized without effeminacy 5 for he loved the river
in summer and the foot-ball ﬁeld in winter, and, like the
Athenians, he did much of his living, and even some of his
debating, in fairest places and in the happy outer air.
When Archie went up to Oxford, he thought that he
knewa great deal about many things, and he was conﬁdent
at least that he carried with him the right foundation of
the right political faith. He turned eagerly to tho other
Freshmen to see what their views were 5 and, since he had
gone up to an eminently intellectual College, he found no
lack of opinions. He ma" be said to have run straight
:6 corner)? 02? A COUNTRY HOUSE.
into the arms of a young Mazzinist, and within twenty-
four hours his radicalism had lost what now seemed to
him its insular character 3 his zeal for Liberty had
extended as far as the Sclavs, of whose existence he had
been previously unaware; and his dry political maxims
had been ﬂooded by a new enthusiasm, and gloriﬁed by all
the sacred emotions of religion. With this young
Mazzinist, Thomas Beck, who had been the prize boy of a
great town in the North, and who was supported at Oxford
by contributions of his wealthier townsfolk, Archie Rayner
struck up a warm friendship. With him and with other
youths he exchanged ideas, as if ideas were inexhaustible.
It was a splendid time 3 but not much of it was exhausted
before all their little opinions, which had seemed to be so
ﬁrmly based, were crumbling. They discussed everything 3
nothing was to be accepted without discussion ,' and the
result was that Beck began to admit that Mazzini had
expected too much from average people, and that men
were hungry and wicked even in Republics ; while Archie
wasdelighted with his new talent for paradox, and began
to make light of that Liberty which included the liberty to
be drunk daily, to starve in peace, and to spread disease
by the foul condition of the house, which was, as freemen
loved to say, an Englishman's castle.
These happy and inquiring young men devoured the
volumes of Carlyle, and attended in due course lectures on
Philosophy. From Carlyle and from the metaphysicians,
as from their own growth and from their own discussions,
they learned that the universe was yet deeper and higher
& than they had thought, more mysterious, more complicated.
It was no longer so simple a matter for a young man to
decide what he should do with his life. To this practical
question Archie Rayner, who was at bottom a very prac-
tical person, was for ever returning, to the vexation of
some of his more brilliant comrades, who preferred wider *
and less personal considerations. The universe alone was
wide enough for them ,- but Archie stuck ﬁrmly to his
intention of being of some use in the world. Only it had
become hard for him to tell how he could be of most use,
or indeed of any use at all. From Carlyle, for example,
he learned that he should do that work which lay nearest
to his hands; but this was small -help to Archie, who
declared with conviction that he could see no work close
COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 11
to his hands. He was an only child; he had enough
money; he objected to be rich. Since he could not
‘believe that it was his duty to make money, he could see
no reason for embracing any one of the obvious profes-
sions. He regarded lawyers as a necessary evil,- his
success at the Bar would take work from men who needed
it more, and who would serve the public at least as well.
He did not wish to compete with his mother in spinning
delicate sentences 3 he had at that time an amused con-
tempt for novels. He might take a good degree and
might get a Fellowship; but the idea of eternal Oxford
did not please him; it seemed like the prolonging of
youth without remaining young. He was not a poet.
Finally, he could not give his life to the service of the
poor, for he did not know how best to serve them. His
beliefs had got loose 5 his opinions were changing under
each new inﬂuence which he met; he was but twenty-
three years old. When he had taken his degree with
credit, the only fact, of which he felt certain, was that it
would be well for him to go away alone for a while, and
to consider in solitude that same old question, what work
he should do in the world. So he made up his mind to
go straight from Balliol to the Rocky Mountains, and for
all his solemn doubts he felt a boyish joy in the contrast.
His mother shed some natural tears; she dreamed of
bears and of Indians, and woke sobbing. She would
rather have seen him safe in studious chambers, or, and
this would have been best of all, in some such delightful
vicarage as she had described in more than one of her
novels. But he was determined to go, and, though he
was very kind to his mother, he went.
Archie had gone to think among the mountains. He
found a silent mate, who knew them well, and he and this
new friend camped out together. The eternal snow, the
canons cut deep in the mountains as if with one stroke
of a knife of preternatural sharpness, above all the keen
pure air, delighted the boy. Perhaps he thought; it is
certain that he walked long distances in search of black-
tailed deer, and was less eager for'a time to decide upon a
hfe’s career than to attain to a high degree of accuracy
with the riﬂe. He once saw a bear and missed him
clean, and the depression, from which he suffered for the
next twenty-four hours, brought back on him in a ﬂood
18 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
his doubts of the nature of the universe and of his mission
therein. But he could not be down-hearted in that delight—
ful air; his breath quickened, his ears tingled, and he
seemed within a little of ﬂying; at night he lay in his
blankets reading Schwegler’s “History of Philosophy,”
while his comrade smoked in silence. Whether this life
would have led the boy to a deﬁnite decision about his
future, it is impossible to say ; for it was cut short, before~
its ﬁrst ‘charm had begun to fail, by the most amazing
news. One day he had been forced to journey down to
Colorado Springs for a few necessaries of life, and he
found there some letters, which told him that he had
become Lord Lorrilaire, and had acquired, as heir of the
late lord, lands and houses and a great fortune in money.
Archie had not completed his University education
without being asked if he were one of the Rayners of
Langley; he had answered generally that he believed so,
and, if in his most communicative mood, he had added the
information that the Rayners of Langley had done very
well without him. Indeed, the late Lord Lorrilaire, who
was the head of the family, had never shown that he was
aware that there was a widowed Mrs. Rayner, who was
connected with his family. The title and estates had
gone from father to son for many generations 3 and it had
not occurred to this particular father that there was any
doubt that the title and estates would pass in due course
from himnto his son. He was by no means an old man,
and his son was strong and active, and sure to marry soon,
as was the plain duty of an only son. Now, it happened
that Lord Lorrilaire paid a visit to the house of a friend,
and that this house, though it combined great dignity and
antiquity with all the modern luxuries, was in a state by
no means satisfactory to sanitary inspectors. Lord Lorri-
laire carried home from this visit the seeds of typhoid
fever ,- he was stout and ruddy and too much inclined to
fever; it was presently known that he was in great
danger. They telegraphed to his son, who was travelling
in India ,- and on the next day they were forced to tele
graph again that Lord Lorrilaire was dead. The second
telegram crossed another sent from India, which brought
news that his son had had an accident while riding through
a river and had been drowned, before help could be given‘.
It was a question which interested Society at the moment
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COMED Y 0F .4‘ COUNTRY HOUSE. 19
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whether the father or the son had died ﬁrst. A question
which interested them more, was the question, who was
the heir5 but the people best informed were at a loss.
Even Lady Jane Lock did not know, nor could she ﬁnd
the right man in the Peerage. It was reserved for the
family lawyers, not without a moment’s doubt, to declare
that the title and estates in Limeshire, Loamshire, and
the Parish of St. Mary-la-Bonne, passed to Archibald, only
son of the late Captain Rayner of the Royal Artillery.
Thus Archie had become a lord. He blushed in Colorado
/ Springs as he learned it. He felt a fool 5 that was his
ﬁrst feeling. He rode back to camp, and blushed again
as he told his mate. “ How’s that?” said the mate, who
had come West from Chicago. “What in thunder are
H r
“ I’m a lord,” said Archie; “and I’ve got to go home
and learn the business.”
He presented the History of Philosophy to his friend,
and would have given him the riﬂe too, had he not been
so quietly conﬁdent of the superiority of American
weapons. He felt that he could give away things with an
' easy hand 5 that was one advantage any way. He said
good-bye to his mate and to the mountains, which he
loved 5 went down to Pueblo and took the train 5 and’he
did not rest from travelling till he reached London.
It is not surprising that Archie Rayner was confused by
this strange stroke of fortune. Before he was sure of
his own religion, he found that he had church-livings to
give away. Discontented with both the parties, which
monopolize the ﬁeld of politics, he was placed in a
position, which had always been one of great political in-
fluence. Ignorant of society, and especially of women, he
was received by society with a simple friendliness, and
with a frank curiosity which was hardly impertinent. On
the whole he enjoyed himself immensely, almost as in his
ﬁrst days in the Rockies. And he began to wonder if his
practical question were not answered. Family lawyers,
4 men of the world; charming women, seemed all to agree
that his course in life was clear. Nobody even asked
him what he meant to do. Certainly now there was work
to his hand, if he chose to do it. To do the work nearest
r to im was perhaps the best answer which he got at all
a to his old questioning. There were clear duties attached to
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20 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
this new position of his 5 this ought to content him.
What if he should let himself go and see what would
happen to him P It was easy 5 it would be great fun. If
he found himself the prop of the Conservative party, was it
not perhaps the party of the most real and practical reforms P
If he found himself in love, that might be delightful. Here‘
tofore he had been in love with phantoms. Now these
young girls in society were charming, with their little airs
and fashions, and their belief that they knew the world 5
and there was not one of them handsomer or more
interesting than Elizabeth Lock. In her he fancied that
there was something deeper than in the others 5 and
certainly her hair was of the most beautiful color. So he
had let himself drift through the London season, and had
gone down safe to his mother in her quiet home. And then
the time had come, when his uncle Sir Villiers Hickory,
and his aunt Mrs. Dormer (for his mother was dismayed
at the idea of leaving her own studio and her own
neighborhood), had decreed that he must entertain a party,
a very little one for a beginning, at Langley Castle.
Thither he went as to a comedy, and laughed when he
thought that the chief player would be himself. Perhaps
he was but a dancing doll, and others would pull the
strings 5 but even that thought made him laugh. He had
let himself. go for a while ,- he could always pull up when
he liked; he was sure of that. So partly by train and
partly on foot the heir had come to his own, and now lay
asleep under the imposing roof of Langley Castle, draw-
ing his breath with happiness, and yet, it seems, in truly
parlous state. .
CHAPTER IV.
“ I AM the most unlucky devil in the world,” said
Leonard Vale. If he were unlucky, he did not seem to be
uncomfortable. He was in the pleasant morning-room of t
Langley Castle 5 he had pulled the biggest arm-chair near
to the ﬁre, and he almost lay in it with his long legs
stretched far on to the rug before him. His long white
hands, each weighed with a single heavy ring, lay limp
along the arms of the chair; his great dark eyes were half
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closed, as if it were too much trouble to raise the lids ; he
seemed to be speaking to his long, slender feet.
Mrs. Chauncey, who was the only other person in the
room, made no comment on the speech of the young man.
She had heard it before. Indeed, in the early hours of the
day Leonard Vale was apt to take this view of himself, and
to mention it to anybody to whom he spoke at all ,- and
Clara Chauncey, who was an old friend, paid no more
attention to his speeches of this sort, if spoken before
luncheon, than she would have paid to the natural expres~
sions of a sleepy cat. However, she was inclined at that
moment to talk. She too had made herself comfortable
in a feminine fashion. For a woman who is well dressed
for the day there was no comfort in a large arm~chair.
She had seated herself in an armless chair with a con-
venient back, and placed her feet, which were two of her
best points, on a puff , footstool. Her eyes were not half
closed. On the contrary they were wide open, and they
regarded the young man opposite with that innocent
inquiring gaze which Mrs. Chauncey used often and often
with effect. She would have laughed at the idea that she
wished to produce an effect on this youth, whom she chose
to regard as a boy and as a ﬁt object for lectures ; but these
little arts of charming women naturally become habits in
time, so that it is no rare thing to see an habitually
fascinating lady making eyes at her housekeeper, while her
mind is wholly busy with the important question of the
day’s dinner. *
“ My dear boy,” said Mrs. Chauncey, ﬁxing her round
candid eyes upon Leonard, “ you smoke too many cigar-
ettes. That’s what’s the matter with you.”
“I like that from you,” he said without moving or
turning his eyes.
“ Oh, I have given up smoking,” she said, feeling a
keener interest in the talk as it turned on herself.
“ Since when i’ ”
“Since so many women took to it,” she said ; “ it is
commonplace now. Lady ]. smokes 3 her maid told
mine 5 she says it is for asthma 5 it is so droll to have a
reason.”~ All this she said with her pretty surprised air.
Pretty e still was beyond all question, although she was
always lling people with her delightful simplicity that she
was no longer young. It is true that her face was now
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22 COMEDY OF A C0 UN T R Y \ HOUSE.
, down on women who do not stay at Langley.”
pale and a little too thin, but the brown eyes were all the
more effective. -“Ah, you boys l” she said again after a
minute; “ you do ask so much of life. Look at me.”
He turned a lack-lustre eye upon her, as she continued.
“ Suppose I were to begin complaining. What a tale I
could tell ! Married to a—to my husband, to a man who
cared for nothing but yachting, I who couldn’t go on a
river without qualms 1” He began to laugh in spite of
himself. She regarded him gravely 3 her talk was like the
artless prattle of a child. “ All on account of that yacht—
ing, and because I really could not spend my life at all
sorts of angles, I have been cruelly abused and talked
about, and ”
“You don’t mind that much.”
“That shows how much you know. I used to think
that I didn’t mind what women said 3 I was very foolish
and deﬁant; I know a great deal better now.” She
emitted a little sigh. He could not help showing that he
was a little amused ; he thought her the cleverest woman
in the world. She needed very little encouragement to
induce” her to continue to talk about herself.
“I lost the privilege,” she said gravely, “of going to
many of the dullest country houses in England.”
He laughed. “ You need not laugh,” she said ; “ all my
energies, my whole being is now directed to the one
purpose of creeping back.”
“ Of what ? ” ~
“Of creeping back into those houses. Dear Susan
Dormerl She has never turned her back, her broad
back, upon me. I cannot tell you how full of peace and
gratitude I feel now when I am staying at Langley. Did
you see the little paragraph in the paper P ”
“ I can’t say I did.”
i“ Mrs. Chauncey has left town for Langley Castle,’ "
she murmured; “how peaceful it sounds, and how pros-
perous! The one thing,” she continued presently,
“which all women ﬁnd absolutely necessary is to be able
to look down on some other women. I am assured
you ﬁnd that among the lowest. I am now able to look
)'

“ You will be able t * look down on me pretty icon,” he
said, relapsing into sullenness. <
“ My dear boy,” she said, “ I always have looked down
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*- upon you; but you are not a woman, if you are a little
it‘ womanish.”
luck, heaven knows !”
* “ Does it? ”‘ she asked with her innocent gravity.
“ What is the matter, if it is not cigarettes?”
He moved in his chair and grumbled inarticulately; at
last with a voice full 0 injury he said-
“ I used to come to (you to help me.”
* “ Ah, if it had been a bad habit, you wouldn’t have
given it up I”
“ Oh ! I don’t suppose you’ll care 5 I don’t see why you
Should,” he mﬁtered.
“About what?” she asked.
“ About my getting the sack.”
“The sack l What for? ” she asked again.
“You ain’t generally so stupid, Clara 5 you must know
that these women are going to marry Archie.”
“Are you so fond of your cousin Archie," she asked
after a minute, “ that you cannot bear the idea of his be-
longing to another P ”
"6‘ Well,” he answered deﬁantly, “it is uncommon hard
on him 5 he hasn’t had a bit of fun 5 and it’s deuced hard
on me. Here am I, older than he, and quite as near to
the late lord, only it happened to be through a woman in-
stead of a man.” .
‘f Ah, that makes a difference,’7 she said , “women don’t
count ; they never do.”
“ Well, it does seem hard lines,” he said, aroused to a
preceptibly higher level of animation, “that he should
have every blessed thing which a man can want, and that I,
who used to come here all the time and make myself use-
ful ’
“Useful?” she asked with an air of surprise 5 “ my
dear boy! Useful? ”
“ Well, it is deuced hard. He was never near the place
- * in his life till he came to take possession.”
“’ But why the sack P” she asked. “ I thought that he
1:5

, . “ My maid. She had it from your man.”
.‘ i a‘ “ Well, I really shouldn't go listening to the servants’
g3‘ , f j if gossip,” he said sulkily.
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j. had done the handsome thing by you. I hear that you’ve
2,11‘ taken the best rooms in the house for yourself.”
5. g “ Who told you that? ”
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5 “ You needn’t abuse *me; I am down enough on my '
24 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
_ learn everything from my maid.
“ Wouldn't you? You are so wrong. I always do. I
It is such a good plan 5
it amuses her so ‘much that she doesn’t bother about her
wages 5 she is like a friend, you know 5 she adores me.”
As he made no comment on these frank statements, she
continued-—
“My maid says that you have taken the whole Tower
wing for yourself and made it chagming.”
“ It’s only three rooms,” he said 5 “and nobody used
them. They were given up to mouldy targets and broken
bird-cages--and black-beetles, I dare say.”
“ Ugh ! ” she said with a shudder.
“I thought I was more worthy thari” a black-beetle.
Perhaps I ﬂattered myself.” He said this with more
pleasure, feeling as if he too could be witty.
“ Perhaps,” she said with gravity; “one never knows.
And you have done the rooms well? ”
“ I think I’ve made ’em nice,” he answered comfortably.
“Archie told me to do what I liked with them, you know.”
“ And to send the bill to him,” she said, as if complet-
ing his sentence. ‘A
“ It wouldn’t be much good their sending it to me,” he
said. “Of course he felt that I’d been devilishly badly
treated--oh, I don’t complain of Archie.”
“ Don't you ? But you don’t want him to be married
and to live happy ever after 5‘ and you do want to stay in
your nice rooms, curled up like a’gorged fox in a rabbit-
warren.” ..
“ You needn’t call names,” he muttered.
“My dear boy,” she said, “ you are quite right 5 of
course you want to stay where you are, and to drink his
wine and to shoot his coverts and to ride his horses ”
“ When I’m not too jumpy,” he said, as she paused at a
loss for the next luxury. “ You know all about me,
Clara,” he continued 5 “I always told you everything.
You know I’m a nervous subject; and you know I can't
do without the luxuries of life. How can I?"
“ Nerves and luxuries,” she remarked thoughtfully, as if
to herself. “ How can I help you P ” she asked him
presently.
“You might advise me.”
“You don’t want me to ﬂirt with the boy,” she said
slowly, looking at him gravely with her round artless eyes 5
“I am old enough to be his mother.”
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60111.21)? 01' A COUNTRY HOUSE. 23
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“ Clara, what nonsense ” he began.
“It can't be done,” she said; “you forget that I am
creeping back. It might have amused me once, just to
cut out the girl, and no harm done; but now--my dear
boy‘, I should get the sack; I would much rather it was
you who got the sack.”
"‘ Thankryou ! ”
- “ I am just trembling in the balance with Lady I. now,”
she said; “I ‘am truckling to her, grovelling 3 she was
dreadfully annoyed at ﬁnding me here ; she wanted Susan
Dormer to give me warning on the spot. Expect nothing
from me. I have no energies left except for creeping
back.”
Leonard Vale did not expostulate with his friend. He
only shifted himself a littie in his chair, pulled his sleek
black moustache into a point, and bit his under lip. Mrs.
Chauncey knew in a moment that he had not yet said
what he wished to say, and that she had been wrong in
thinking that he wished her to divert young Lord Lorri-
laire from the dangers of matrimony.
“There’s somebody else, you know,” he said at last,
“ who might save Archie-I wanted to ask your advice,
you know-if she were to come down, you know ”
“Who P ”
“You see, she’s the only woman in London who knew
Archie before. She was the parson’s daughter down at
his home, wherever it was.”
A slight change of expression came into Mrs. Chaun-
cey’s eyes, and the thin sensitive lips, which had been so
long SChOO¢€d in the concealment of feeling, pressed each
other a little more tightly. She knew well of whom he
was speaking, but he chose to keep her look of inquiry.
“It’s Mrs. Rutherford,” he said, still looking at his
boots. Then, as her continued silence made him nervous,
he gave one glance in her direction, looked away again,
and went on speaking.
“You see, she don't want Archie to marry yet 5 she
thinks he d\ 'nt know anything of the World, and that she
knows all abo t it ; she thinks she's his only friend, and
has got a sort of mission to save him from match-making
mothers 5 she was furious with Lady 1. in London.”
“ She is very‘ pretty,” said Mrs. Chauncey.
“_I wish you'd advise me,” he said ; “ I wish you'd tell
{me If it would do for her to come down here.”


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26 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
E s
“ You have asked her to come already,” she said quietly.
He opened his mouth as if he were going to lie, but he
shut it again and pulled himself into a more upright
position. “ It’s no good trying to humbug you,” he said ;
“I’ve not asked her, forF I’ve no right to ask anybgdy 5
but I have written to her'and told her who are here.”
“ And that will bring her without committing you‘tto
anything.” '
“ Do you think she’ll come? ” he asked almost defer—
entially.
“ You ought to know best,” she said frankly ; “ she cer-
tainly is very pretty.”
“ What’s that got to do with it P ”
Clara Chauncey knew that she was vexed, and did not
mean to show it. It has been said that there is no love
without jealousy 5 however that may be, there is plenty of
jealousy without love. She was jealous now. She knew
perfectly well that this boy was trying to break to her
diplomatically that a younger and prettier woman was
coming, and that he thought it necessa‘i‘y to be diplomatic
because he thought that she would be jealous of his devo-
tion to the new—comer. She would have liked to impress
upon him with something more convincing than words,
with the ﬁre-irons perhaps, how very little she cared or
ever had cared about him. But, though it is perfectly true
that her warmest feeling for Leonard had been a mild
amusement in forming, as she called it, a handsome boy,
who came to tea and could be sent for theatre tickets, yet
it is no less true that it annoyed her to think of his devoting
himself to anybody else. It annoyed her that she would
no longer be the pretty married woman of the party; it
' annoyed her that this other woman was so young and
looked so happy; it annoyed her most of all that this
sulky youth was trying to manage her, and thought that
she would be jealous on his account. His side-long looks
annoyed her.
“ Of course she will come,” she said ; “ she will propose
herself to Lord Lorrilaire; she will think it great fun to
invite herself. She is an absurd little creature, married
out of a parson’s schoolrocm, and thinks she knows the
world 3 but it is a pretty absurdity. She will come down
full of importance to save the friend of ther childhood.
You admire her very much, don't you? ” She asked this
with a delightful frankness and one of her rare smiles.
COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 27


“ Oh, of course I admire Mrs. Tom,” he said with a
clumsy masculine effort to answer her in the same tone 5
“ everybgdy admired her 5 it was the thing this year.”
“ And I do not wonder,” she said5 “she is so pretty
and so fresh, so refreshingly fresh. It will be very pleasant
for you if she comes."
“It will save my place for me,” he said with a happy
inspiration 5 “ that's what matters to me.”
She sat looking at him with her air of quiet study.
“ Yes,” she said, “that is what will always matter most to
you. Of course it is too late to stop this plot of yours.”
“ There’s no plot or; mine,” he said 5 “ I just told her
who were here. If she likes to propose herself, it’s her
own look-out.”
“If she gets into a scrape,” she said, “that is her own
look-out too. She need not look to you to help her.”
She made these statements with the coolness and certainty
of a mathematical professor 5 and they stung Leonard
Vale "to some show of temper. ‘
“Upon my word, Clara,” he said, “you seem to be
try'ing‘to say the most disagreeable things you can.”
“ Who P I P ” She seemed to be truly surprised.
“Yes, you,” he answered 5 “ but never mind! I’m so
down that any one may hit me-and you most of all, of
course.” He slipped back to his depressed and depen-
dent air.
“Of course,” she said, “you told me nothing of this
until it was too late to stop her coming.”
“ Oh, I dare say you can stop it, if you like,” he said,
“and leave poor Archie to be married, and set me adrift
again just when I have a chance of pulling up and staying
quiet and paying my debts ”
“ And living on your rich bachelor cousin,” she added
for him, as he paused. “And the husband?" she asked
presently 5 “has Mr. Rutherford no say in the matter? ”
“ Not much,” answered Leonard, with a short laugh.
“ Really P” she said 5 “ I used to know him a little. I
should not have thought that he was that ‘sort of man.”
“ She'll come if she likes,” said he, nwding his head.
His knowing air exasperated Mrs. Chauncey. She ha
a great power of self~control, but she knew that, if she
continued to sit opposite to Leonard, she would presently
say more than she meant to, show her annoyance, and

if
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/
28 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY’ HOUSE. '
then, angry with herself for showing annoyance, say yet
more, and ﬁnally have several rash speeches of which to
repent at leisure.
at the clock, and said, “ I cannot waste any moﬁe of f‘my
morning in talking to you 5” and so walked out of the
room.
Leonard Vale, left alone, let himself slide even lower
down in his low arm-chair, and pushed his hands deep
down into his trousers’ pockets. He felt ill-used by
fortune and by friends 5 he doubted if he had any friends.
He could not tell if this Clara Chauncey, who had pre—
tended to be his friend, and to lecture him for his good,
meant to help him or to hinder himrat this crisis. He told
himself that after such a series of bad things, as only
an unlucky chap experiences, he had at last come in for a
good thing 5 and that now it was at least ten to one that he
would lose it. He recalled his ﬁrst annoyance when he
found that he was not to be a penny the better for the
death of ‘the late lord, and his amazement when the
present man, fresh from Colorado, had burst in upon him
in his lodgings, sympathized warmly with his sense.of
ill-usage, and asked as a matter of course to be allowed to
pay his debts, and to set him an his legs again. Since
that astonishing visit Lenny had been wondering at odd
times what this prosperous cousin (for Archie had insisted
on the cousinship, which was none of the nearest) expected
to get out of him in return.
suggestion that he should be an agent or sub-agent, or;
something, but Archie had received it as a joke. He had
a great many acquaintances whom it was ‘considered a
a treat to know, male and female, of all shades 5 but his
"cousin did not seem even to wish for introductions. He
knew a man, who was one of the few men who knew a
horse 5 but his cousin had already commissioned his uncle
Sir Villiers to ﬁll his stables. He knew the correct place
to go to for cigarettes and the champagne which it was
right to drink that year 5 and Archie received his informa-
tion on these points, but rather as if he humored him.
Lenny, recumbeynt in the big arm-chair, wondered once
more if this new Lord Larrilaire could be such a ﬂat as to
have paid his debts and ﬁlled his pockets for nothing.
He could not believe that anybody would encumber
himself unasked and at the very start of his life with poor
* \.
So she rose from her chair, and looked‘
He had made a half-hearted ‘
I‘
at i ‘r , N
comrpy OF A cowvmy HOUSE. 29
relations. He assured himself with a knowing nod that if
he had come in for all this, he would have had no hangers-
on. If he did not imagine himself kicking himself out of
Langley Castle, it was only because his imagination was
limited. Nevertheless, he felt that he would be injured
more deeply than ever, if he were made to lose his hold
now. And this hanging-on was so uncertain a business
‘for anyone who was not quite a prehensile ape. Before
luncheon and in his dejected mood he was half inclined to
give the whole thing up. The difficulties seemed enor-
~mous ; he felt chilly, in spite of the good ﬁre, as he thought
of all the trouble 3 he would have to walk among egg-shells.
He had seen the suspicion of him in the eyes of Lady jane
Lock within half an hour of her arrival. Mrs. Dormer was
always kind, and Sir Villiers had been a friend of his
father 5 but Sir Villiers had a keen eye, and Mrs. Dormer
saw so much more than she seemed to. And then his
thoughts passed again to Clara Chauncey, and stirred him
_ to fresh annoyance. Why in {he world could not she say
if she would help him or not ? If not, he might as well be
packing his portmanteau. And Dora Rutherford P Would
she come? If she came, would it be known that he had
brought her? He hoped that she would come, and yet he
feared. He feared his very hope, for it surprised him by
his strength. If he could not trust his friends, he could
not trust himself either. He knew that his nerves might
fail him at any time 3 he dared not answer for his self-
control at a critical moment. Already he felt feverish and
good for nothing. Again he pronounced himself, with
something like a smothered howl, to be the most unlucky
brute in the world.

CHAPTER V.
YOUNG Lord Lorrilaire was grumbling too, as he got him-
self into his clothes with unusual'diﬁiculty on the morning
after his return to Langleydale. He had plunged into his
j cnuntry—house party, and risen to the surface again and
I, felt the better. And then the rest of his day had been
i, full of amusing discoveries, which had made it almost as
rafas’einatiug as a young adventurer’s ﬁrst day in a new
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30 COZIIEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
world. And yet he grumbled, as he dressed himself. He
did not like to spend so much time in the adornment 01
his person, it seemed absurd; and yet for that day at
least he was bound to be particular about each wrinkle
and each button. He had grown so warm while he strove
so conscientiously for accuracy, that he had opened his
windows to their utmost width, and the room, in which he
still felt a stranger and explorer, was full of the clear coo
air. A little too clear and cool it was for the ideal hunt
ing morning 5 but to Archie it seemed on that portentous
day the hunting was of small importance. He was tc
display himself, as his uncle had arranged, to the members
of the Hunt; he felt as if he were the object of the chase
and as if .landlords, farmers, the town contingent frolr
Langstone, even horses and hounds were coming out tc
ﬁnd him instead of the fox. His hat, his tie, his spurs
every detail of his appearance would be criticised, and his
seat and his hands, about which no one had cared i1:
happy days gone by. Severe eyes would be on his back
as he rode at a hedge, mark him if he deviated from a
rigid line across country, betray amazement if he grew
bored and went home. Of his clothes he felt conﬁdent
for he had gone to him, whom Lenny had described tersel)
as the only breeches-maker 5 but this putting them on was
a tiresome business. It was only better than yielding him
self to the hand of his body-servant 5 for he had-not hada
body-servant since he had grown too big for a nurse, and
he never breathed freely now till he had dismissed this
most oppressive burden of his state. He would mucl
rather help his valet into his clothes than be helped intc
his own.
As Archie tugged and buttoned, he remembered other
days, some at Oxford, and some in his mother’:
neighborhood at home, when after duly counting the cosi
he had treated himself to a day’s hunting. Much fun he
had enjoyed upon hardly-worked strange-looking beasts
and, as they were always ready to go and his treats in this
kind were rare, he had ridden his hardest and seen wha1
he could. Much fun he had enjoyed 5 and now memory
as is her happy way, smoothed away the little mishaps and
discomforts, the unexpected cropper, and the long ride
home upon a tired screw, and showed him the pleasure
only. Nobody cared then what he wore, or how he rode
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COMEDY OF A COUNTRY 110 USE. 3:
who did not feel as if he were clad in pasteboard, and he
rode to please himself. Now it seemed to him that he
must ride to satisfy his neighbors 5 his uncle was evidently
anxious, lest he should not show off the horses which he
1had chosen. Archie thought of that row of animals in
prime condition, and imagined each one of them expect-
ing to be taken out in turn. It seemed as if it would take
all his life, be the life’s business of which he had dreamed,
a business as distinct from pleasure as any other business,
a ‘ truly British amusement solemn as affairs of State,
affording occupation to the unemployed‘, and with as little
to show for it in the end as the exercise of the treadmill.
Having arrived at this thought, he began to smile again,
partly because he was nearly dressed, partly because the
thought itself was extravagant. After all, he would pres-
ently feel a good horse moving under him, and that was
pleasure 5 and, if the neighbors were critical, it was prob-
ably an exaggeration to assert that they would value him
more than the fox; the fox, though probably he was better
known in the county, would after all excite the keener in-
terest. He began to smile at his own folly in taking him-
self as seriously as if he were an Under-Secretary, or the
manager of a theatre. And the air kept coming in at the
open window, bringing health and good spirits, if it were
by a touch too keen to satisfy the exigent sportsman 5 and
presently, when his glass showed him a cheerful young
Englishman blushing at his own splendor, he even felt a
slight pleasure in being properly turned out for the ﬁrst
time in his life. He restrained a tendency to fright his
castle from its tremendous propriety with a “ view halloa ! ”
titnd descended happy, if stiff, to meet his guests at break-
ast.
In dangerously easy mood was young Lord Lorrilaire, as
he descended the staircase somewhat stifﬂy in his admir-
able breeches. It even seemed the best fun possible to
let things slide, and himself slide with them. It was
likely that all things, his very life itself, would be settled
for him, before he had done saying to himself that there
was time to spare, and that he could assert himself on any
future day. In the meantime it was pleasant and easy to
please everybody.
Lady Jane Lock did not approve of girls going out
hunting. a It was opposed to her theories of female educa‘
3. “ha-‘C’
(131101»: cm‘! as ‘Lie 4. ‘“'
32 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
tion 5 and the success of her daughters so far had give:
her no cause to doubt the wisdom of her theories. Bu
she knew that Elizabeth was different 5 she was not quit
sure that she understood Elizabeth, though it seemel
mon‘strous that she should not understand her own ChllC
Elizabeth was never so happy as when she was on a horse
and, when she longed for a day’s hunting and an absc
lutely ﬁt and proper guardian was at hand, her mother di
not always prevent her. She did not prevent her on thi
day. She had asked her usual questions on the previou
evening, and had been assured that it was an easy sociabl
country with convenient gates and lanes, and further, the
the meet was not one of the best. So she entrusted he
precious child to Sir Villiers, who was the most trus
worthy of pioneers 5 and she contented herself by makin
her usual statement that Elizabeth did not hunt, and s
sent her out hunting.
The meet was so near that they all mounted their hur
ters at the door 5 and Archie observed with a smile tht
after all a good many of his new possessions would b
exercised on that day. He was mounting Sir Villiers (
course, and Lenny, and the best and kindest of the l(
was brought round with a side—saddle for Miss Lock. An
there was Tony F otheringham, too, who completed th.
country—house party. Tony was one of Archie’s ne‘
friends, and one who amused him always by a seriousnes:
which seemed highly comical in one so young and so rosj
Tony was two years younger than his host, and was a
smooth and ruddy as the advertisement of a patent food
but he took great care of himself, and gave a great deal c
thought to his health. Even now, as he sat on a hors
which seemed distinctly too big for him, he looked ser
ously at the dining-room window, through which Mr
Dormer was gazing at the group, and was "inclined to n
pent that he had not remained at home, and had a goo
long talk with that sympathetic lady about his symptom:
However, it was too late for repentance, and he rode awa
with the rest, while Lady Iane stood on a step, deﬁant <
the crisp air, and watched her girl, and approved thef
of her habit. The girl was riding with Sir Villiers, as sh
ought 5 but her mother thought she need not have talke
so eagerly to him, that it was as good as a hint to Lor
Lorrilaire not to interrupt the conversation. She said t
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Zherself with some v'exation that it was just like Elizabeth,
whose notorious fault was want of animation, to be
animated at the wrong moment ,- but then a day’s hunting
was always becoming to Elizabeth, and gave her a color
and made her eyes sparkle. So after all this might be a
most fortunate day. Lady Iane watched them, till they
had ridden out of sight, with her usual desire to rearrange
them and to order them all to do her will, but not with-
out good hone. She did not spare a single thought for
Bolitho. .
Archie’s spirits rose with the movements of his horse,
and they did not even fall when he was introduced to
member after member of the Hunt. These members were
cordial and brief; he forgot‘to think of their criticisms;
he began to feel the old ardor of the chase. Nor did his
pleasant spirits fail, though the morning was spent in jog-
ging from covert to covert. It was pleasant to be out on
such a day, to receive friendly greetings, to see hounds
again after a long interval, and to ride by the side of a
handsome girl who was ﬂushed with excitement and the
eager hope of a run. And after luncheon they did have a
short run, and the country was easy and pleasant, and both
Archie and Elizabeth went as well as anybody 5 and, when
they pulled up, the girl turned on her young host a face
transﬁgured by new life and light. Her red lips were
parted, her eyes were shining, and little wandering hairs
from her glossy head were curling above her ears. As she
leaned forward to caress the neck of the good horse, she
looked at his owner with gratitude and triumph, and
Archie smiled back upon her with the frankest admiration.
Was he not happy that he could give to this radiant being
so glorious a gallop? There was some use in wealth.
The radiant being lost much of her radiance when she
found that there was to be no more hunting on that day.
She rebelled promptly, and murmured against the Master,
who sent the hounds home so early. But she recovered
her temper and became happy again, as they rode slowly
homewards. She discussed the run with Archie, who still
rode beside her ; and when that subject was exhausted,
and soon, for after all it had been a very short run, she
Went on talking with a want of reserve which she never
showed except after excitement and quick exercise. She
had been expressing such 2love of the country and its
“ 51
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34 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
pleasures, that Archie reminded her that she had seemed
very happy sometimes in the London ball-rooms, which
she now held cheap.
“ Oh, yes,” she said, “I liked this last season 5 I hated
my ﬁrst season, but I liked this 5 I began to know people,
and I made some friends, and I wasn’t always thinking if
I was standing right or going into rooms properly, and I
didn’t feel obliged to agree with what everybody said to
me.”
Archie laughed.
“I shouldn’t have thought that you would ever have
agreed with everybody,” he said. ‘
“ But I did,” she said emphatically, “ and I used to be
ashamed of myself 5 I used to go home and hate myself i
But in my second season.I didn’t care, and, if I didn’t
agree with people, I said so, or I didn’t answer and let
them think me dull. That is what many people think me.”
“ Do they?” he asked 5 “they must be dull, I think 5
you are silent sometimes.”
“ What is the good of talking?” she asked.
“Well,” he said, “it is supposed to convey ideas, when
there are any. And what about your third season?”
“ I shall like that better still,” she answered. “ You see,
I don't care now what anybody says of me.”
“ Isn’t that a triﬂe strong? ” said Archie.
“ No,” she said. “ I shall enjoy this next season,” she
continued after a minute, “as much as possible, and after
that ”
She made so long a pause that he thought that she had
forgotten that she had left her sentenceamﬁnished. After
all in these days no person of any pretension to fashion is
expected to ﬁnish a sentence, and polite conversation is
no more than an, interchange of hints, generally about
nothing. But Miss Lock had an unequivocal end for her
sentence. “ After that,” she said, “ I shall hate it.”
Archie was much amused by her decision.
“ Isn’t it rather unnecessary,” he asked, “ to make up your
mind so long before? You see you’ve a whole season
before you, which you’ve decided to enjoy very much
indeed 5 perhaps when that is over you will look forward
to the next.”
“No,” she said with even more decision, and looking
straight between her horse’s ears. “No,” she said 5 “I

don’t want to Spend mr life in EQhZS aboyhiopalii'i’ss a»!
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COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 35
“ It must be a bore,” he said with prompt conviction 5
. ‘Q I ShOllld hate it myself. 5 What would you rather do ? ”
was ready to arise in him when he considered girls.
He felt a\real curiosity 5 it was a new idea to him that girls
al§o could be tired of ball-going and such amusements.
“What would you like to do?” he asked.
“' I don’t know,” she answered,-—“ hunt.”
“ Oh l” he said, disappointed 5 “ but perhaps you would
be tired of that after your three seasons 5 and besides, you
can't do it in summer.”
“ Do you suppose that I don’t know when people hunt?”
she asked with scoru. Then, for they had turned into a
road which had a nice broad border of grass, she touched
her willing horse and set off at a canter. Archie followed
her, and, when she had stopped and he was once more at
her side, she said to him with superb unreasonableness,
“ Of course you think no woman can care for anything but
dancing and hunting.”
“ I thought it was you,” he said, “ who wanted to spend
your life in hunting.”
“ Not at all,” she said 5 “ I should like to do something
useful ! ”
“ Useful?” he repeated. She nodded slightly, as if she
did not care whether he believed her or not. She had
certainly surprised him. He had held it most natural that
a boy, whose ideas were not wholly conﬁned to horses,
should wish to be useful in the world 5 but that a girl, and
a fashionable girl, should have such a wish, was a new fact
for him. He had seen little of such girls, and thought
little about them. Was this a fact at all?
suspicious, but all the suspicion of whichrhe was capable
He
knew his ignorance of them 5 and he wondered now if this
girl who, under the inﬂuence of excitement and the healthy
day, was really beautiful, had any real desire of anything
but amusement 5 he supposed that girls practised the art
of being agreeable, and he wondered if this girl were assum-
ing a more serious view that she might please him, who
had been ticketed without doubt by her world as a prig.
She looked beautiful 5 he dismissed his uneasy doubt, as he
looked at her. Moreover he asked himself why he should
trouble .himself, if she did care to pose a little for his
beneﬁt ?
‘‘ Well?” she asked, since he kept silence 5 “ you think
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36 COMED Y or .4 co owner HOUSE.
that’s humbug, I suppose P I suppose that you think tha
no woman can do any good? Delia, my sister--she marrier
a parson--a clergyman, I mean—I promised not to cal
him a parson.”
“ Is that what you mean?” he asked, laughing. “ D
you mean that you would marry a pars—clergyman, .
mean? ”
(‘ NO‘?! x
“ Why not? Oh, I beg your pardon if I am asking 1.0(
many questions.”
“I don’t mind,” she said. “I am not good enough
that’s why.”
“As good as lots of parsons,” he responded quickly-
“ well, clergymen, then.”
“ Why do you talk as if everybody ought to marry some
body?” she asked.
“ Isn’t it the best thing for most people P ” he asked it
his turn.
“ I don’t pretend to know,” she said. She gave a little
laugh, which had a touch of malice in it. “It’s a bac
look-out,” she said, “if it is so; our men friends don’
marry—they can’t afford it, or it’s not the thing. Asl
Mr. F otheringham.”
“ Tony!” called out Lord Lorrilaire, turning in his
saddle. Everybody called him “Tony,” though there
seemed to be no better reason than that his name was
“Francis Algernon.” Tony rode up to them. He was
glad to join them, for he had been jogging in the rear witl
‘Leonard Vale, who had been the most gloomy of com
panions. Leonard had been looking at the backs of his
cousin and the young lady, and had fallen into deer
despondency, declaring to himself that all was over, anc
that his days in Langleydale were numbered. Perhaps he
would never again ride this beast, which suited him sc
well 5 and at this thought he jerked the mouth of the beast
which suited him so well, and gave him the spur. He was
apt to hurt the nearest creature which felt, when he was
annoyed. From this and other signs Tony had gatherec
that Lenny was out of temper 5 and so he left him withou
regret and joined the pair in front. “ Is it true,” askec'
Archie, “that men don’t marry now-a-days? ”
Tony considered the question with due gravity. It was
even repeated before he answered it. " Well,” he askec
*-
COATED? OFA COUAI'TRY HOUSE. 37
then, “what can a chap do? What with huntin’ and
goin’ racin’ it’s hard enough to live now anyway! Most
chaps are stone-broke without marryin’.”
“What did I tell you? ” asked Miss Lock of Archie.
“ Mr. Tony knows. He knows everything.”
“ Not quite,” said Tony, regarding her in the evening
light with frank admiration. He often declared that
Elizabeth” Lock was “ about as handsome as they make
’em.” “The nicest chaps can’t afford to marry,” he said,
beaming amiably upon her.
“ How sad 1” she answered. “ What a pity that only
poor men are nice !” So saying, she cantered suddenly
forward away from the young men, who began to jog on
in pursuit side by side.
“ I say,” said Tony, when he had been for some time in
deep thought, “wasn’t that rather a nasty one for you? ”
“ What? ” asked Archie.
“ That about only poor men being nice.”
Archie only laughed ; and then Tony laughed too, and
cried out“ Good old Archie l” which was one of his favorite
phrases, kindly and encouraging, and coming in well at
almost all times.

“ CHAPTER VI.
IN the meantime, while her daughter was riding in the
happy air, Lady Jane Lock was in full enjoyment at home
of that ﬂattering excitement which immediately precedes
complete success, and is even more delightful. She had
written her morning’s letters 3 she had eaten her substantial
luncheon, and, when she returned from her afternoon’s
walk (she was a great believer in “ the constitutional”),
she was in a ﬁne glow of virtue. She had taken as her
companion by the way Tony Eotheringham’s umbrella.
which its careful owner never allowed to touch the ground,
and with this for her walking—s tick she had stumped valiantly
through the lanes, which after the slight frost of the night
had been growing softer all day long under the genial
inﬂuences of sun and thaw. She had left in the hall the
precious umbrella with its ferule muddy, battered, and
, knocked to one ‘side like the hat of a drunken man; but
ﬂag 1.»
‘h S
v '9 12-3" A N
38 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
she still wore her plain felt hat and her braided blackjacket,
as she stood with her straight back to the cheerful ﬁre
with the air of a man, if not of a ﬁeld-marshal. However
it may be with a commander in the ﬁeld, it is certain that
almost every woman, when the fortunes of the day incline
distinctly to her side, while yet enough of doubt remains
to feed the excitement of her spirit, ﬁnds it hard to keep
silence. Policy may still prevent her from announcing her
game and prematurely singing her song of victory 5 but
her choice of subjects will indicate the direction of her
thoughts, and it will be hard for her to keep out of her
voice the sound of exultation. Lady jane knew that the
tea, for which she had conscientiously prepared herself by
solitary exercise, would soon be there, and that the young
people would soon be back from hunting 5 and in the mean-
time she could relieve herself by making a few general
remarks. It was a good time for talk, for it was growing
too dark for reading, and the lights had not yet been
brought in. Mrs. Dormer had put down her novel with a
tiny comical yawn 5 and Mrs. Chauncey, for her part, was
ready at this time to give the most complimentary atten- .
tion to all the observations of Lady Iane Lock.
“ What I have always said to my girls,” said Lady Iane,
“is this. When you marry, make up your mind to have a
house that people care to come to. It isn’t the size of the
house or the place 5 it’s the people you meet there 5 that’s
what people care about.”
“How true!” pronounced Clara Chauncey, from the
shadows among which she sat. ’
“ If you mean to have the right sort of house,” continued
Lady Jane, “you must be ﬁrm at ﬁrst. That is what I
tell my girls. There is no sense in choking up your houses
with a lot of dull people, just because they happen to be old
friends of the family, or because your aunt Deborah mar-
ried their uncle What’s-his-name. T here’s no sense in it 5
and, if you do it, you never will get the right people to
come to stay with you.”
“ How interesting! ” murmured Mrs. Chauncey. “Cut
off old friends and poor relations ! ”
“There is no need to be rude or disagreeable,” said
Lady Jane 5 “ when you do meet these people about, you
can always be most kind. It is a very nice trait to be just
the same to people when you meet them, though you may
not have metior years.’ Everybody saysythatl’f . was;
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COME!) v OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 39
“ And it is so true,” said Clara.
“ When you do meet, be as affectionate and nice as pos-
Nsible, and ask after all their children and everything.
Only be sure never to go to see them. If they will come
to see you, never be at home. Some people let them in
once and try to be so disagreeable that they won’t come
again 5 that is unladylike and unnecessary. The simple
‘thing is never to be at home, and never to return their
calls.” »
“Admirablel You have such a talent for making
things clear. But the husband’s friends? Ain’t they a
difficulty ? ”
“ Always be nice to your husband’s friends,” said Lady
Jane promptly ,' “that is the very ﬁrst thing which I tell
my girls.”
“ But men do collect such strange friends,” said Mrs.
Chauncey; “ I don’t mean those whom they can’t expect
"“ their wives to know ; they present no diﬁiculties Whatever.


_ are very forgetful.
I mean the friends who are respectable but impossible.
pWhat do you do with them?”
“ Don’t call,” said Lady Jane ; “ that’s all ; it’s just the
same with them as with the others.”
_'“ But don’t they make a fuss ?--the husbands, I mean ;
husbands are so touchy.”
“ Yes,” said Lady Jane 3 “ they are touchy; but they
I tell my girls never to dispute with
their husbands, always seem to yield. If a man tells his
, wife to call on the What’s-his-names, she can put it off, till
he forgets all about it. He’ll soon forget all about it--or
pretend to. I know what men are. They like to have the
right people in their houses just as much as we do ,' but
they like us to do the unpleasant part, and to pretend to
know nothing about it.”
“ Oh, Lady Jane,” said Mrs. Chauncey, as if she were in
a sort of respectful ecstasy, “ what knowledge of the world
--and of men! They leave the dirty work to us, and look
the other way, and profit by it. That is the whole duty of
man.”
“ A husband is so easily managed,” said Lady Iane, “if
you don’t argue with him. Of course he blusters. Some
day he’ll come home and say that he has met his old friend
What’s-his-name in the street, and can’t think what’s the
matter with him; he’ll pretend to be annoyed with him and
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to wonder why he never comes near him 5 but he will know
in his heart. All that you have got to do is to smile
sympathetically. Always meet your husband with a
smile I That is what'I tell my girls.”
“Lucky girls I” murmured Mrs. Chauncey. “Don’t
they say that to marry a Lock is a liberal education? I ‘
am sure that I have heard some such saying. When I
look at a place like this, and think of all the dangers, to
which rich young men are exposed, I am tempted to say
that there is no hope of safety for them but in a well-trained
wife.”
“They don’t know what is good for them,” said Lady
jane, shortly.
“ Oh, but they do,” said Clara--“ at least, some of them
do--don’t they?” Her question was so earnest and so
‘innocent. “But then,” she added, “they are so rare,
these model wives.”
“Not at all,” said Lady jane 5 “there are lots of nice
well—brought-up English girls, if the men would only look
at them, instead of going after Americans and things.”
“Ah I but for a great position surely something more is
wanted—a something, a ”
“Distinction,” said Lady Jane, “the air noble--that is
a matter of course.”
“Or a matter of corsets,” quickly said Mrs. Chauncey.
Here Susan Dormer, who had been listening to the con-
versation with much placid enjoyment, began to shake
with laughter, and Lady jane, stung by the sudden idea
that she was being triﬂed with, uttered a’”quick sound,
which can only be described as a not unladylike snort.
“ Oh, do forgive me l” cried Clara Chauncey 5 “it is
unpardonaple, I know 5 but really and truly it is often
that, isn’t it? I have known such common dumpy women
gain quite an air from really good stays. Nothing is more
important.” ,
‘ To snort like the war~horse was in Lady jane a sure
sign of awakened suspicion, and it is‘ by no means likely
that she would have continued to express her views with
so much freedom, even if the words “ dumpy women” had
not been for her a new note of alarm. She could not
but know that she did not stand much over ﬁve feet high,
and that, though she was very straight, active, and energetic,
she had acquired a certain solidity. She had never approv~

_~
I.‘ trade.
CGMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 4!
ed of Mrs. Chauncey ; and it is likely that she already
repented of having favored her with so many valuable hints
on the art of living. Whether she would have contributed
any further words of wisdom will remain for ever uncertain 5
for, with a pleasant sound of young voices and some shut-
ting of doors, the people came in from hunting, and brought
a quite new atmosphere into the ﬁre-lit rooms. Archie
reported that Sir Villiers and Tony had gone straight to
the smoking-room, but that he and Lenny wanted tea 3 and
almost immediately tea was brought, and lamps so fully
shaded, that they made mere small bases of light in the soft
warm dusk.
It was a pleasant hour, with fragrant tea and chastened
light, good rest after brisk exercise, and liberal space.
Perhaps nothing is so expressive of luxury as the combina-
tion of space and warmth. Even in most wintry weather
it is easy for the most modest of men to make himself sung,
by shutting himself up with a good fire in a tiny room;
but a large house brought to one warmth from ground-ﬂoor
to garret, whose inmates pass without chill from lofty rooms
to spacious passages, is ﬁlled likewise with the very atmo-
sphere of prosperity. It was this atmosphere which Lady
Jane Lock, who had divested herself with an effort of the
tight jacket, breathed with satisfaction; and a sense of
mingled motherhood and ownership stole over her active
spirit, as her eyes looked from the moderate room in which
they sat, and saw between the heavy porz‘z'éres, which had
been— drawn widely open, the great, dimly-lighted space of
handsome rooms beyond. The merest fraction, more or
less, of nose ,' the merest shade, more or less, of natural
yellow in the hair ; and all, of which this warm spacious-
ness was a sign, might be for one sister, while another was
counting coal in a chilly vicarage. ‘
Lady Jane Lock was in a mood of unusual softness, as
she sipped her tea, when suddenly she seemed to hear a
sound of wheels. It was very faint and far, but her alert
spirit sprang, as it were, to arms. Nobody else seemed
to hear anything ,' and she gave no sign, old compaigner
as she was. She ﬁnished her tea and asked for a second
cup; only her spirit was attentive. The front door was
on the other side of the house, and at the further end.
'She could hear no more. She had just decided that her
ears had played her false, or that some untimely trades‘-
42 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
man’s cart had come 5 she was just thinking that in the
reign of a new mistress such irregularities of untimely
tradesmen should not be, when she saw ﬁgures advancing
through the obscurity of the farther room. The ﬁrst ﬁgure
was unmistakable, the rounded shape and noiseless amble
of the butler 5 but who was following him? Lady Jane
looked with a quick eye of inquiry at Mrs. Dormer, who
had assured her unnecessarily often that no other guests
were expected. Mrs. Dormer was looking too 5 and in a
moment more the butler emerged into the less uncertain
light, and announced in his usual level tone--“ Mrs. Ruther-
ford.’7
She came in beaming, wrapped in handsome furs, bring-
ing her own charm into the commonplace, as Venus leads
her Graces. Her bright color was the brighter for the
evening cold 5 her eyes were sparkling 5 and even under
the weight of fur, her tall, slender, and beautiful ﬁgure
moved with the ease of an active woodland creature.
“ Dora!” cried Archie, leaping from his chair--“hur-
rah!”
They were but two words, but they administered two
separate stabs to Lady jane Lock. He went forward with
both hands outstretched. “How awfully nice of you l”
he cried. “ Of course you have come to stay-and where’s
your husband?”
“He’s in London,” she answered, as Archie took her
long cloak from her shoulders 5 “he’s tremendously hard
at work5 and besides, you know, nowadays one doesn’t
pay country-house visits with one’s husband.” She laughed
at this pertness, but stopped rather abruptly, aware by
this time of the contrast between her host’s effusive welcome
and the general coolness. Leonard Vale had risen when
Archie rose, but had stepped backward instead of forward,
and was gazing at her with his large black eyes from the
obscurity which lay around the lighted tea-table. She felt
that he was looking at her with a world of meaning, and
with a sudden impatience she turned from him to Mrs.
Dormer, whe had not moved.
“ Won’t you have some tea?” asked Mrs. Dormer.
“I am afraid I’ve done a dreadful thing,” said Mrs.
Rutherford, “ coming unannounced like a ghost.”
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Dormer blandly. “ Do you take
cream and sugar? ” _
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COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 4.3
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“ I was so bored lIlrLOHdOIl, and I thought--but you
can pack me off to-morrow, if I am in the way.”
“Nonsense!” cried out Archie ; “ it’s the most delight-
ful thing in the world, and a thousand times better than if
we had known about it beforehand. Aunt Susan, you’ll
see to Dora’s room, and her maid and her luggage and
things, and-and-oh yes, you know Lady Jane Lock,
don’t you, Dora?”
“ Elizabeth,” said Lady Iane, who seemed not to have
heard the reference to herself, “go and lie down before
dinner.”
“ But I am not tired,” said her daughter.
“ Nonsense ! ” said Lady jane, sharply ,- “ you never know
when you are tired.” \
“ How d’ye do, Lady Jane? ” said Mrs. Rutherford.
“Oh! How d’ye do? Such a surprise! I do envy
people who have the courage to do these odd amusing
things. Come, Elizabeth.” '
“ I’ve plenty of courage,” said Dora. She held out her
hand with a smile to Miss Lock, who was obediently follow-
ing her mother from the room ; and the girl put her hand
in hers for a moment. In that moment Dora perceived
that Elizabeth’s hand was larger than her own, and came
to a decision also about her air, her ﬁgure, and the cut of
her habit. She was extremely quick. As she let her hand
fall, she came to a further decision on less obvious matters.
“Sulky girl 1” she said to herself 3 “ but how handsome-
how dangerously handsome ! ”
“I think that I am really the last,” said Mrs. Chauncey,
advancing from the shadows, and looking straight at Archie
with a set smile.
“ Oh yes, Dora,” he said, “ you know Mrs. Chauncey?”
It was now Mrs. Rutherford's turn to freeze a little.
“Oh! How d’ye do?” she said, extending her slender
ﬁngers.
Mrs. Chauncey pressed the slender ﬁngers slightly, and
smiled the more sweetly as she was conscious of a tendency
to wring them with all her nervous force. She knew then
beyond all possibility of doubt that she hated Dora Ruther-
ford 5 she would like to wring her neck too, or at least her
heart. "
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44. COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
CHAPTER VII.
THE news of Archie’s danger had come to Dora Ruther-
ford at a happy moment, for she was looking about eagerly,
almost anxiously, for something to do. She had been
spending the autumn months in the home of her childhood,
the quiet comfortable rectory, which was so near to the
home of Archie’s mother, Mrs. Rayner. There she had
been living a most domestic life with her parents and her
husband. Her husband had been quite happy, working
daily and steadily at that great report which was to en-
lighten the world, or at least a part of it 5 but she, for her
part, had found a strange want of occupation. She could
not even take up again the little duties of her girlhood.
Quick, clever, and energetic, she had taken each year, as
she grew up at home, more and more of the little daily
duties of the house, garden, and village, from the hands
of her mother; but when she married, her mother had
been obliged to take them back again, and this good lady
was wise enough to know that she would gain nothing by
relinquishing them for a few months, but the trouble of
again acquiring the useful habits, of which she was now
mistress. So Dora had nothing to do but to visit Mrs.
Rayner, and talk of Archie and his wonderful change of
fortune 5 or to ride with her husband, when he took his
afternoon’s exercise; or t drive her mother in the pony
carriage. Her father, her mother, and her husband more
than all, were busy 5 but she was idle. She did not like
to be idle. She did not like to feel herself useless. Before
the end of the visit, during which she had seemed to others
a happy presence indeed, bringing sunshine every day into
the shady corners of that quiet world, she had accumulated
so much spare energy, that she could scarcely help crying
out when she woke in the morning at the thought of the
long hours Before her, in which she would have nothing
to do. ,
Nevertheless Dora did not allow her parents to suspect
that she grew weary of this idle life, nor did she shorten
00.4120? 0F .4 cow/my Hausa. 45
by a single day the long visit which she had promised to
\ them. Unluckily, when the change came, it was no change
for the better. When she went up to London with her
husband, she found their house and their establishment in
excellent condition, and nothing for her to do but to order
the daily dinner. Of London in November she had had
no experience ,' and now she did not like it. Her friends
were all out of town 3 and her husband was more busy
than he had been in the country': The work which he
had undertaken, ﬁrst for his own enlightenment, and
secondly for the instruction of others, was no less than the
examination of all the kinds of land-tenure which are to
be found on this small earth, and the setting forth of the
merits and defects of each. Luckily there is not very
much earth to be held in any way ; and railways and tele-
graphs have made our little world so small, that any little
_ holiday-taker can run round it and be back before he is


missed. And yet there is enough solid surface to show
various forms of ownership ,' and to know all these forms,
and all the effects of each, is no small work for a man who
has a passion for thoroughness and a deep respect for
truth.
Such a man was Tom Rutherford. He was up to his
knees in reports official and unofﬁcial, in books written in
many languages, in a growing ﬂood of letters from all parts
of the world; and he set his teeth and worked through
the mass of matter, carefully and steadily dividing the
relevant from the irrelevant, and bringing the former to
shape and clearness with a patience and sturdy determin-
ation which was all his own. In this work of her husband,
who shut himself up alone morning after morning, Dora
Rutherford had no share. When she had ordered dinner,
she felt that she had nothing to do for the rest of the day.
She was restless and uneasy ; and so it happened that
when she received Leonard Vale’s letter, and learned that
Archie, the only friend of her childhood, the innocent un—
worldly being whom she had taken under her protection
throughout the last London season, was in imminent danger
of matrimony, she awoke with delight as from a weary
dream. Here was something for her to do ,' she could be
of some use after all; she heard the sound of trumpets,
and her eyes sparkled with desire of battle. She ran to
try on her armor, and already she saw with her mind's eye
I
46‘ COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE."
the redoubtable Lady jane Lock roll helpless in the dust. (
Her husband noted the new light in her eyes, and he did
not refuse to let her go. He said that he could_not leave
his work at present, but would try to join her later 5 and
if he was hurt by her clear joy at going, he only showed it
by renewing the attack on his work with a fresh pugnacity.
Dora Rutherford, when she came into the breakfast-room
on the morning after her startling appearance at Langley
Castle, was keen as frosty air. She was rather late, for
she ran out of doors, glancing about the immediate neigh—
borhood of the house with all the feelings of a strategist
casting an eager eye over a new country. She came in
fresh and smiling, kissed Mrs. Dormer, as if she had never
a doubt of her welcome, and seated herself with her face
to all the windows. Thus she confronted the enemy, for
Lady jane Lock always sat with her back to the light at
breakfast-time. Mr‘s. Chauncey too, whom Dora preferred
to regard as a foe, had this same habit, which indeed is
not uncommon in ladies who are undergoing the ordeal of
a country-house visit.
All the men were present at breakfast except Leonard
Vale, who after a day’s hunting was apt to be even later
than usual. Of his absence Dora was instantly aware, for
she had decided that her ﬁrst object must be to gain from
him a clear statement of the present state of affairs. Until
she could secure a private conversation with Mr. Vale, she
could do nothing but keep a friendly eye on her dear
Archie, and be ready to make a third if necessary. Even
this light task was denied her, for, when she asked Archie,
as they were breakfasting, what he was going to do, he
raised his eyebrows with a look both humorous and pathetic,
and said, “ My agent has come for me.”
“ Poor little boy 1 ” she said 5 “ but you must go like a
good boy and not cry.” ~
“You don’t know how I am bullied,” he said 5 “here is
Uncle Villiers with a list of people whom I must see, and
the agent with a list of other sort of people, besides horses
and farmhouses and pigs
“And guests,” said Dora 5 “ don’t leave us out—espe-
cially self—invited guests like me.”
“ Don't call yourself names,” he said 5 “ you know that
you have a standing invitation from me, so long as one
stone of this ancestral dungeon stands upon another, and
Aunt Susan provides a crust for dinner.” ~

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COZIIEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 47
“ There, Mrs. Rutherford,” said Lady Jane, “you can’t
ask for anything more than that.”
Ther'e'was a slight accent on the word “ you ;” but Dora
answered smiling—-
“I didn’t ask for that 3 but I accept it all.
leave you, Archie.”
“ And Mr. Rutherford P ” asked Lady Jane, with a snort,
I’ll never
‘which she had intended to be a laugh. ‘
“He is as fond of Archie as I am,” said Dora; “he will
never leave him either. Let us all swear never to leave
him ! He has such big houses and so many of them ; it
would be a kindness to him ; and we are such a pleasant
party. We will all run after him wherever he goes. Let
us all swear it! You began, Lady Jane.”
“ Thank you,” said Lady Jane, rising from table 5 “ but
I never run after people.”
“ I do,” said Dora ; “ may I run after you and the agent
this morning, Archie P I will promise to be good, and not
to speak unless I am spoken to.”
“No,” answered Archie. “You’d be too distracting.
You will see what is left of me at luncheon,”
This was useful information for Mrs. Rutherford, and
she made a mental note of it, as she finished her coffee.
It made her wish the more for the coming of Leonard
Vale, for here was a nice open morning, during which
Archie would be safe with his agent, and which she could
devote to the necessary interview with the ally, who had
called her to his aid, and who alone could tell her how
imminent was the young lord’s danger, and what was the
present state of the campaign. She was burning to take
command.
When she had seen Archie walk away with the agent
and had loitered for some time, and had observed that
Lady Jane, whose diplomacy lacked delicacy, was keep-
ing a most obvious eye upon her, Dora went upstairs to
her room and dressed herself for a walk. Then she went
downstairs again very quietly, and slipped out of the
house, seen by nobody but Mrs. Chauncey, who was of a
more delicate order of diplomatists than Lady Jane
Lock.
_Dora went straight to the kitchen-garden, which she
had discovered in her hasty tour before breakfast. She
was sure that, when Leonard Vale had once emerged
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from his own rooms, he would look for her 5 and she
decided that he should ﬁnd her in the place most ﬁt for
conﬁdential talk 5 and so she chose her ground in the
smaller kitchen-garden, where she was enclosed by high
walls, and could see from any part both of the entrances.
Walking up and down beside the most sunny of the walls
she became more and more impatient 5 but she had not
long to wait. She saw one of the green doors pushed'
open 5 and Mr. Vale came in. She noted his dejected air.
before he caught sight of her, and the quick change which
came over him when he saw her. He came up the
straight path between the borders of old-fashioned ﬂowers
with unusual briskness.
“At last,” he said, “ I’ve found you.”
“I’ve been waiting for you for the last hour,” she_
said.
“ Waiting for me?” he asked as if it were impossible
than she should wait for such an one as he. There was a
nice blending of humility and reverence and tenderness in
his tone.
“Of course I was waiting for you,” she answered“
impatiently. “ How can I move until I know how things
are now? Is there immediate danger? ” '
“ Immediate danger?” he repeated vaguely.
“ To Archie? ” she said.
He had forgotten all about Archie. “ Oh, yes,” he said,
“of course-what a fool I am 1 I am afraid things are
going about as badly as usual.”
“ Don’t talk like that,” she said, “ you promised me in
London that you would give up talking like a victim of
Fate. It is so tiresome.”
“ I’ll try,” he said humbly.
“ Come on,” she said, beginning to walk up the path 5
“tell me why you think things are going badly for
Archie.”
He told her of triﬂing events which he had noticed since
Lord Lorrilaire had joined his party, and especially of
yesterday’s hunting.
“ He was with her all day long,” he said.
She nodded gravely.
“ We must stop that sort of day,” she said 5 “ the girl
looks well in a habit. Does she look well on a horse ?”
“ Not bad,” he answered 5 “ she is not like you.”
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This compliment touched Dora Rutherford where her
guard was weak ; she was proud of her horsemanship 5 she
could not help smiling nor keep her eyes from shining.
“You must keep up your courage,” she said; “I see
nothing to be afraid of. Archie cannot be thinking of a
serious step 5 he is so natural, so entirely unem~
barrassed.”
“ But isn't that his danger?” he asked 3 “ he might be
on the very edge and never know it. Another day like
yesterday, and Lady 1. would be capable of asking him
his intentions.”
“The next move is mine,” said Dora with glad
conﬁdence.
Lenny looked at her with admiration. He thought
again that there was nobody like her—no woman so
brilliant and so charming; his desire to interest her in
himself was stronger than ever before.
“ I wish I could hope,” he said with a sigh,- “ and I do
hope when you tell me to. You remember what you
promised me in London? You said you would be my
friend.”
“ Yes,” she said 3 “I promised to be your friend if you
would give up bemoaning your fate.”
“I have had hard luck,” he said sadly; “you won’t
mind my saying that. I kr ow it has been a great deal
my own fault ; I have thrown away my chances. I have
tried to be different since you advised me and promised to
be my friend.” .
“ And I will be your frien 1,” she said ,- “I am here to
help you as well as Archie.”
“Thank you,” he said eagerly-J‘ thank you.” Then
he added sadly, “Nobody ever needed your help so much.
This is my last chance and] owe it to you. It was you
who told Archie of my existence, and that I--what may I
say ?--had not been treated well. I owe everything to
you.”
“Oh, no,” she said, but she liked the sound of the
words. Of all the men who had paid her compliments
during her short experience of the London Society, which
had received her so cordially as the most charming bride
of the day, this man alone had appealed to her pity, and
shown faith in her ability and helpfulness. The frank
compliments to her looks, which our somewhat uncouth
\
,v
50 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
Society permits, she had put aside half—pleased and half‘
embarrassed, and had promptly forgotten 5 but the respect
for her opinion and the wish for her advice, which had
been constantly and delicately shown by this handsome
ill-starred youth, had been compliments which she did not
put aside nor forget. There are men, and not stupid men,
whose cleverness is never roused to anything like its
highest activity, but by the wish to please the other sex. A
man of this sort, who in the other relations of life has
shown but small ability, if he once desire to arouse the
interest of a woman, will exercise an amazing instinct in
his choice of .ﬂattery and a tact in its use, which are
denied to woman themselves, or to all but the most rarely
gifted. Such a man was Leonard Vale. He bent his
head as he walked beside her, and assured her with an air
which was almost one of veneration, and with the sound
of truth in his voice, that but for her he would have been
an outcast.
“And if I lose this chance,” he said, “I shall have to
go now. It isn’t the luxuries and things I care about 5 I
can do without them; I am not quite such a wretched
creature that I can’t do without that sort of thing. But
this is my last chance of saving myself--of being saved
by you, if you will save me.” ,
“Don’t talk of saving,’7 she said quickly; “you will
stay here 5 I feel sure of it 5 and you will ﬁnd better
things to do than playing aid betting, and running into
debt.”
“I will try,” he said 5 “ but it’s ‘a bad world.”
“ No, no, no,” she cried 5 " its a good world, and most
amusing, and I don’t belie ie that there is half so much
harm in it as people say.”
“You always say that,” he said, smiling sadly 5 “ and it
is so right that you should believe that. It would be a
vile world that wasn’t good to you 5 you are not like other
women.”
“ Yes, I am,” she said 5 “but we all like to think we are
different, and it is a mercy to think that one can be of
some use to somebody.” \
“You needn’t say that,” he said 5 “ everybody knows
that your husband is one of the fortunate ones, bound to
rise, to make a mark in the world, to do everything which
a man ought ” ’

\ m
a“ “ll/“n
COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 51
Here he stopped short, but his eloquent silence pointed
the contrast.
“What has that got to do with it i’ " she asked.
a “ He can interest you,” he said ; “lay his plans before
you, consult with you, ask your advice.”
“ And do you suppose,” she asked, “that Tom talks to
me of his plans and would listen to my advice? He
might listen to me if I were a peasant proprietor or a
professor of political economy. As it is ” She
stopped short.
“I am awfully sorry,” he said after a minute; “ I’ve
said the wrong thing 3 I had no idea that---”
“ That what? ” she asked, standing still and looking at
him. He only answered her with his sympathetic eyes.
“,I am not complaining of my husband,” she said shortly.
It was at this moment, when they were standing
together in front of the northern wall of the garden, that
Mrs. Chauncey pushed open one of the doors for the
admission of herself and Lady jane Lock. Neither Dora
Rutherford nor Leonard Vale saw her, and she drew back
and shut the door again, when Lady Jane had had time
for one good look. -
“ Let us go back to the house by another way,” suggested
Clara Chauncey.
“ What does it mean,” asked Lady Iane authoritatively.
“Oh, surely,” began Clara, and stopped with a little
laugh. “ No,” she began again, “it really is not ill-
natured. Surely you must have noticed it in London : I
go out so little myself, but I thought that it was common
talk. Surely you know P ” l
“I know that he is a most dangerous and scandalous
young man,” said Lady jane.
“ And penniless,” said Mrs. Chauncey.
“What was that‘xkocking story about him?” asked
Lady Jane.
“ Oh, you mean the year before last,” said Clara 3 “poor
Mr. Vale! Nobody remembers a scandal which is more
than a year old.”
“ I know that it was dreadfully disgraceful.”
“ Oh, yes I” said Clara ,' “but he was so young; they said
he didn’t know ! ” ,
“Old enough to know better,” said Lady Jane, as she
stumped sturdily towards the house; “ it was cards or a

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52 _COMEDY OF A COUNTRY Home.
horse, or something. I never can remember those stupid
male scandals.”
Lady Jane Lock was a moralist. She disapproved of
married women’s ﬂirtatious, however harmless ,' but she
could not help thinking that, if Mrs. Rutherford must
have an attentive cavalier, it was well that it should not be
young Lord Lorrilaire. She had just completed an
arrangement of Lord Lorrilaire’s afternoon, which gave
her the liveliest satisfaction, and the only thing which she
had feared had been the interference of Dora Ruther-
ford.
“ It must be time for luncheon,” she said, and perceived
with satisfaction that she had an appetite. ~

CHAPTER VIII.
LADY JANE was patiently absorbing a liberal portion of
roly-poly pudding, a dish of which she was particularly
fond, when Dora Rutherford came in, still equipped with
hat and jacket, and very late for luncheon. “ So sorry to
be late,i’ she said to Mrs. Dormer 3 “ and who’s the pony
cart for? ”
“ Is there a pony cart?” asked Mrs Dormer absently.
“Yes, and there it goes,” said Dora, whose quick ears
caught the sound of the wheels.
Lady jane looked up from her roly-poly, and Susan
Dormer began to laugh a little in her silent comfortable
manner. “ Jane wanted Elizabeth to see the ruined
Abbey,” she said, “ and poor dear Archie----”
“ Archie 1 The Abbey ! I must see it l ” cried Dora.
In a moment she was out of the room, ﬂying down the
passage and out of the front door. Down the Avenue she
sped like a deer or the lightest of Diana’s nymphs. Lady
Jane gripped her spoon and fork and breathed hard.
How could she go on calmly with that pudding in the
pr'esence of such extraordinary conduct? She looked
with indignation at her friend Susan, who would only
shake her head and laugh.
“ Good old Mrs. Rutherford,” murmured Tony Fothere
ingham at the window; “what a constitution she must
have 1”
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COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HO USE. 53
Ten minutes later Lord Lorrilaire entered hisrdining‘
room laughing, and blushing a little 5 but he met the
inquiring stare of the speechless Lady jane without other
sign of shame. “ It’s all right,” he said 5 “there hasn’t
been an accident ,' it’s Dora.” *
“ What’s Dora?” asked Lady Jane hotly.
“What isn’t Dora?” he said, laughing; “there never
was any one like her.”
Lady Jane bit her tongue, that she might not say that
she devoutedly hoped not.
“ We pulled up at the ﬁrst gate,” said Archie, “ and I
jumped out to open it, and I happened to look back, and
there was Dora coming like a racer. She does run beauti
fully.”
“ Nice feminine accomplishment I” said Lady jane
sharply.
“Yes,” said Archie; “ isn’t it pretty to see a girl run
really well P ”
“ Where’s Elizabeth? ” asked Lady jane.
“ Oh, they've gone on together.”
“ Gone on together 1”
“Yes,” said Archie 5 “that was what Dora wanted. As
soon as she could speak plainly, she said that she was dying
to see the old Abbey 5 and so she turned me out and took
the reins.”
“ And you let her? ” cried Lady Jane, who found it hard
to hide the contempt which she felt for this rich young
man.
“ She is perfectly safe,” said Archie 5 “ I assure you you
Iliegdn’t be a bit afraid 5 she drives a great deal better than
0.” ‘
“ But she hasn’t had any luncheon,” said Mrs. Dormer.
“She said she didn’t wantany.”
“ She’ll never ﬁnd the way,” said Sir Villiers.
“I didn’t think of that,” s...id Archie 5 “ but at least she
is as likely to ﬁnd it as I was 5 you know I’m a stranger in
these parts.”
His invincible good-humor annoyed Lady Jane Lock,
who could not perceive in him any signs of disappoint-
ment. She had a speech 0:1 the tip of her tongue, which
she had tried hard to restrain, but now she could hold it
no longer.
a “ It, is not as a whip that I distrust Mrs. Rutherford,”
, .tgghs; said with decision.


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54 COMEDY 0F ‘.4 co UNTR 1/ H0 USE.
Archie turned quickly and looked at her.
“ That's all very well as a joke,” he said, "with a slight
laugh 5 “ but of course everybody knows that there’s
nobody who can be trusted as Dora can. I give you my
word you may be perfehtly easy about Miss Lock.”
“Thank you! I am not at all uneasy about my
daughter,” said Lady jane as she walked stifﬂy out of the
room. She was exceedingly annoyed 5 she had not even
had the heart to ﬁnish that good pudding. She took her-
self roundly to task for having lost her temper and
offended her host; she, who prided herself on being a
good mother, had failed to do her duty as a mother. She
went out for one of her solitary walks, and came back full
of good resolutions. She was able to receive her daughter
with a smile, and to thank Mrs. Rutherford in Archie’s
presence for having taken such good care of her. “I
was rather nervous,” she admitted with her straight-for-
ward air, “till Lord Lorrilaire assured me that you were
a safe whip.”
“I can drive anything,”
enjoyed it enormously.”
“And the Abbey?” asked Mrs. Chauncey, looking up
innocently from her low chair by the tea-table 5 “is it
really such a splendid ruin P ”
“ The Abbey? ” repeated Dora, vaguely.
“ Yes—the Abbey which you were dying to see.”
“ Oh, yes,” said Dora, “the Abbey--we didn’t ﬁnd the
Abbey.”
“What a disappointment l” said Clara, with her round
eyes gravely sympathetic.
“Terrible I” said Dora 5 “do give me some tea, Mrs.
Dormer! It's awfully rude, but I am so hungry; I had
no luncheon, you know."
In that afternoon’s skirmish the victory had been with
Dora Rutherford; and yet she was not wholly happy.
She had had a walk and a run and a drive, and she had
missed her luncheon 5 and so it happened that even she
was a little tired, and when she had ﬁnished her tea, she
was glad to go to her room and rest a little before dinner.
The curtains had been drawn across the windows, and the
room, with its big bed and handsome old-fashioned furn1~
ture, was lighted only, but most agreeably lighted, by the
cheerful wood-ﬁre on the hearth. Wrapped in her dress
said Dora cheerfully; “I
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COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 55
ing-gown and reclining in an arm-chair, Dora looked lazily
into the ﬁre, and was glad for once to rest. She could
venture to repose for an hour after her ﬁrst success; she
had seen the girl go to her room before she had yielded to
her own feeling of weariness. Resting now in that
pleasant place and at that pleasant hour, she ought to
have been wholly happy,- but she was not. She could
not help a feeling of uneasiness about this girl, whom she
was bound to defeat. During their drive she had tried to
study her, but she had been baffled by her apparent
stolidity. Elizabeth had shown no sign of disappoint-
ment, when her attendant cavalier had been banished
from the pony-cart ; and for the rest of the afternoon she
had shown no emotion of any kind. To Dora’s questions
about indifferent matters she had answered brieﬂy, and
with the air of giving the expected answers to matter-0f-
course questions. It appeared that she liked London,
that she liked the country, that she liked riding, that she
should like to go abroad but liked to stay at home, that
she liked dogs but did not dislike cats, and that she did
not know if she liked parrots or not; she did not hesitate
to say where she got her dresses and her jackets. Dora
felt no wiser at the end of their drive, and said to herself
with conviction that this was a handsome, heavy, stupid
girl; but yet a doubt remained. She had an uneasy
feeling that Elizabeth might be more deep than stupid,
and that she did not understand her. Now Dora Ruther—
ford thought that she could read girls at a glance, and she
was impatient under the suspicion that this girl bathed her
legitimate curiosity. She would have liked to be perfectly
certain that she knew all about Miss Lock, and knew that
she was in all ways unworthy of her dear Archie; for
then she would have fought her campaign with a heart as
light as her courage was undoubted. However, fight she
must, and conquer she would.
Her heart was not light as she sat before that cheerful
ﬁre, or at least not so light as usual. She felt lonely ; she
was accustomed to be popular, and she did not like the
thought that not a woman in the house was glad of her
presence. She took it as a matter of course that all the
men were glad, and especially Archie, the friend of her
childhood. And Leonard Vale too was more glad than
the others; she was important to him ; he needed her
.
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56 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HGUSE.
help; he respected her opinions. His admiration and
respect soothed her as she sat thinking.
And yet she felt lonely. She missed her husband.
That was a fact which she recognized with some surprise.
She made a little face at the ﬁre, prompting herself to be
aggrieved at her husband’s absence, as if he had left her
and not she him. She even said to herself that he might *
have come too, if he had wished 3 and that the land of
this habitable globe would not have run away while his
report thereon was suspended for a day or two. Yet she
could not feel comfortably aggrieved. She could not help
thinking of her husband with tenderness, with melancholy.
She put down this uncommon mood to going without .
luncheon ; but she was not content with this explanation.
She missed her husband. This was a fact 3 and, as she
considered this fact again, she began to feel pleasure
in it. She did not care to go beyond it. She sat curled
up in the big chair, and allowed herself to dwell upon the
fact that she missed her husband. It was another proof,
where none was necessary, how deeply she loved her
husband. She had married him because she loved him.
Whenever she had felt disappointment in her life as a
married woman, she had always gone back to her love of
her husband and to his love of her. These twin facts are
the important facts of married life; and Dora Rutherford .
was wise enough to know this. Looking into the wood—
ﬁre and thinking of Tom, she warmed her heart once
again with the assurance that they loved each other; she
missed her husband very much indeed, and was glad of it,
though it made her melancholy.
And yet, when Dora told herself so truly that, where
husband and wife love each other, and each is sure of the
other’s love, all disappointments in their life are in com-
parison as nothing, she began straightway to slip, as she
was apt to do, into unproﬁtable consideration of a certain
disappointment. Dora had married for love; but she
had not married, as no loving fool, however foolish and
however deep in love, has ever married in this world, with
an empty head. She had promised to marry Tom Ruther~
ford because she loved him ; but it was impossible for this
clever, well-taught, and energetic girl to have but one
thought. As a fact, she had had many thoughts when
she promised to marry Tom. She had known well that
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COMEDY 0F .4 COUNTRY HOUSE. 57
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she was marrying a man of uncommon ability, a strong
man whom his elders, if wise, respected, and whom the
best of the younger men looked to as a likely leader. He
was some ﬁfteen years older than she, and had given
proofs of his ability, which all might read. She knew
that he had given his time to study of the state of the
world, and of the theory and practice of politics; that he
had made his studies in no amateur’s mood, but with
steady industry and dogged perseverance; that he had
shown great powers of accumulating and using knowledge.
He had travelled round the world, too, and had used his
eyes for looking on life as well as on books. The occa—
sional papers which he had published had shown mastery
of the subjects on which he wrote, clearness of thought
and of expression; and they had never failed to attract
attention. He had spoken now and then on the political
questions of the day 5 and he had lectured in towns in the
North, and had ﬁrmly held the attention of North-country
miners and artizans. He had made haste to go into
Parliament; but it was generally understood that he
could go in at his own time. Party leaders were well
aware of his existence, and even careful to show him no
discourtesy. In any crisis of more than common interest
many sensible people looked for the expression of his
opinion. It was known that at the next general election
many constituencies would be candidates for his favor,
and that some at least would be willing to pay his election
expenses. In short Tom Rutherford, when he was thirty-
ﬁve years old, was a rising man, and moreover conspicuous
among rising men, on account of an unusual accuracy of
information and the possession of certain settled opinions,
which were the result of much study and thought, and
which would not be changed, as those who knew him
knew well, for the sake of any oﬂice or the gain of any
' votes. He was not only a rising man; he was a strong
man too.
Looking into the ﬁre, and thinking of her husband and
of the place which he was winning in the world, Dora
felt the usual pride 5 but it was accompanied. as usual, by
regret. Alone in her room, she blushed and bit her lip
for shame when she remembered her girlish conﬁdence
and her girlish dreams. She remembered her love and
admiration for her husband, her certainty of his future
.
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58 .COMEDY or; A COUNTRY HOUSE.
greatness, and her certainty that she, the girl who felt old
because she was out of her teens, would be his chief
helper. Once more she thought how absurd that girl had
been with her belief in herself 5 and how like a spoiled
child she must have looked in her husband’s eyes. She
admitted to herself that she had been spoiled at home.
Her mother was so fond of yielding, and her father so full
of admiration of her daughter’s cleverness 5 it was not
her own fault if she had been a spoiled child. And yet,
if they had thought too well of her, that was no reason
why her husband should hold her too cheap. She said to
herself again that her husband did undervalue her. She
knew that she was clever; and she knew that she was
well-taught. To doubt this latter fact was to doubt her
father, who had been her chief teacher. Did not every~
body know that her father had been one of the cleverest
men of his day at Oxford, a brilliant scholar, and a sound
historian too P Did not she know that, when for love and
marriage he had settled down into a country rectory and
a life of little cares, he had found in time one of the
greatest pleasures of his quiet life in teaching his only
child to use her mind? She thought of her father with a
peculiar tenderness, and remembered without a smile how
often he had set forth for her beneﬁt the true theory of
education. “I would teach you to use your mind,” he
would say, “as an athlete is taught to use his muscles 5 I
do not wish to cram you like a pullet.” She recalled this
and other wise sayings of her parent, and declared to her-
self again that ﬁlial piety forbade her to regard herself as
an ignorant and ill-taught woman. And yet had she not
over-valued herself and her ability, and over-valued her-
self to a ridiculous degree P Back came the blush to her
cheeks as she remembered again that, mere child as she
was, she had held herself ﬁt to help her husband in his
life’s work. She blushed as she remembered her folly,
that sublime self-conﬁdence which her husband had not
even suspected. She had made pompous plans, and
had imagined herself a sort of gloriﬁed secretary; and
he had never held her higher than a petted child.
It was unfair 5 she was rightly aggrieved. So she
sat vexing herself again with this, which was the disap-
pointment of her married life. Alone in the ﬁrelight and-
in melancholy mood, she felt much pity for the young girl,
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COMEDY‘ 0F .4 c0 wvm Y HOUSE. . 5,;
who so few years ago had gone proudly to be married in
the familiar church at home. She recalled her folly and
her pride, and then the keenness of the disappointment
when she had felt it ﬁrst. She was full of self-pity. The
poor young bride waking to the fact that she was to be only
loved like any other wife, seemed to her inﬁnitely pathetic.
And now she told herself that she had never advanced
beyond this. Unfailing love and kindness she had found.
She knew that her husband was a quick-tempered man-
she had seen him angry with other people; but she had
never found him even impatient with her, except when in
their early days she had come into his study during his
, hours of work. Her offers of help he had treated as a
joke, not even to be refused in words; he had kissed her
and laughed. She had realized so soon (she was clever
enough for that) what he expected from her. She was to
have as many pretty things as he could afford to give her;
and she was to have plenty of good society, which he, who
was connected with many potent families, could give her
without undue trouble. She had found soon that it was no
use to beg him not to bore himself with so many dinners
and dances, for he had made up his mind that these things
were due to her; and, when he had made up his mind, he
went through amusements with the same dogged persever~
ance which he brought to his graver labors. And she
had enjoyed herself, having a ﬁne capacity for enjoyment,
making friends of men and women, thinking the best of
‘ everybody. She did not deny that she had had great fun ;
but she was at least as sure that she“ had not got over, and
never would get over, her great disappointment. She was
.sorry for herself and half-angry with her husband; she


knew that she was no fool ; and it was her husband’s fault
that she appeared to the world to be no more than a silly
young married woman. For silly young married women
she had a supreme contempt. Then Dora thought that it
was well that everybody did not think her a fool. Her
rapid mind was in search for comfort for her wounded
vanity. Other people, even .men, cared to listen to her
opinions, and even to ask her advice. And so her mind
came round again to Leonard Vale. She sat musing for a
while, and then suddenly jumped up, looked at the clock
on the mantle-niece, dashed off a note to her husband
merely to say that she missed? him. rang for her maid, and
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60 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
dressed with great speed. When she entered the dining-
room, she looked even more radiant than usual, with a
deeper ﬂush on her cheek, and her eyes dancing. All the
evening she was in the highest spirits.

CHAPTER IX.
“ Do you know,” said Dora to Archie on the next morn-
ing, “ that I quite like your friend, Mrs. Chauncey? ”
“Eh? What?” said Archie absently. He was stand-
ing with one foot on the fender opening the morning’s
letters, pocketing some with a rueful look, and throwing
others into the ﬁre with manifest relief. Dora was stand-
ing near. These two were alone in the dining-room before
breakfast. It was natural enough that they should be the
ﬁrst to come downstairs in the morning, to begin as it
were the life of the day. They both had a happy morning
look.
“ I was saying,” said Dora emphatically, “ that I quite
like your friend Mrs. Chauncey.”
“ My friend?” asked Archie, throwing the last letters
into the ﬁre, and pressing them down with the poker.
“ I didn’t know she existed till I found her here. Who is
she P ” ' '"
Dora laughed. “ It’s too funny of you,” she said,
“ to know nothing of your own guests. Have you no
curiosity? ”
“ Lots,” he answered 3 “ but somehow I haven’t thought
of Mrs. Chauncey. Who is she? ”
“Wife of Mr. Chauncey,” said Dora drily.
“ She’s not a widow, then P I took her for a little quiet
sort of widow.”
“Quiet!” repeated Dora, with a slight-peculiar em-
phasis.
“She seems to me to make eyes, rather,” remarked
Archie sagely. “ Doesn’t she? ”
“ N o 3 there you wrong her,” said Dora 5 “ she has the
sort of eyes that make themselves—men can’t discriminate
in these things. Of course she knows that her eyes are
effective.” .
“ Well? What’s the matter with her, anyway? ” asked
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“ Nothing that I ‘know of,” saidDora; “ but of :ourse
one can’t have been about in London for the last two
years, as I have, without hearing stories.”
"‘ 0h, never listen to stories,” said Archie bluntly.
" That’s what I mean,” said Dora. “ I like her much
oetter than Lthought I should. I always do ﬁnd people,
when I come to know them, a great deal better than
people say.”
“ You are quite right there,” said Archie cordially.
“ People never are half so bad as they are said to be. As
for Mrs. Chauncey, she is a little mousie kind of woman 5
there’s no harm in her.”
Dora pursed her lips 5 she felt that it was absurd of
Archie to think that he knew. “Anyway,” she said, “ I
choose to like her. She came and talked to me last night
after dinner, before you men came in 5 she quite touched
me. She didn’t complain; but I am quite sure that her
husband is a horrid drinking, gambling sort of man.”
“ Oh, you haven’t come to know Chauncey,” siid
Archie, smiling 5 “ when you do come to know Chauncey,
perhaps you ‘will ﬁnd him too a great deal better than
people say. a You always do, you know.”
‘ Never,” said Dora 5 “ I detest Chauncey, and I hope
i shall never set eyes on him.”
t. “ That’s not fair,” said Archie.
“ I don’t care, and I wish you would not argue before
oreakfast,” said Dora.
“Are you hungry Pi” asked Archie 5 “ let’s ring and
have up breakfast. I suppose I lnay P ”
She laughed for answer, and he rang the bell.
While she was being discussed in the dining—room, Mrs.
Chauncey in the privacy of her own apartment was putting
careful ﬁnishing touches to her appearance. That clear
palior, which she accepted from Nature, required never-
theless some skilful management; and about the expressive
eyes there was delicate Work to be done, that they might
be the more expressive. She had, too, a reputation for
wearing clothes well, and this reputation makes necessary
many careful looks and artful touches. All had not gone
quite well that morning, and Clara’s docile middle-aged
maid was pink about the eyes, and sniffed occasionally, as
if oppressed by unshed tears. Clara was thinking of Dora.
She was well aware that she had advanced in her favor on
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62 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
i
the previous evening. ‘She congratulated herself on this
gain. She was able even to feel a little virtuous for having
been so nice to a woman whom she cordially disliked 5
and yet at bottom she knew well that she only cared to win
Mrs. Rutherford’sponﬁdence that she might have a better
chance of hurting her. She was surprised by the liveliness
of her own aversion. Dora’s happiness affronted her.
Her careless glance seemed to tell her that she was a faded
woman, and unimportant. She longed to make this
brilliant young creature in all her insolence of freshness
and youth feel that she too was somebody. Besides, she
had another cause of dislike, of which Dora was entirely
~ ignorant. She had met Tom Rutherford some years before
his marriage, and had practised on him her artless fascina-
tions; and of these fascinations Mr. Rutherford had
remained unconscious to this day, as unconscious as his
wife. And now these Rutherfords exasperated her, and
stung her where she was most tender. The man was a
rising man, whose career was full of interest; and she
thought of her husband drifting about on the Mediter—
ranean, and in doubtful company. The woman had been
welcomed with delight into that particular circle of society
to which Clara in more sanguine days had determined to
belong. Political and social success seemed to her jealous
eyes to be made ﬂesh in these Rutherfords. She had”
formed no plan for injuring Dora. She was of that
modern school of diplomatists, who achieve their ends by
refusing to look beyond,the next step. For Clara the
next step was to win Dora’s conﬁdence 5 on this she con-
centrated all her powers. She refused to consider what the
next step would be; she did not even confess to herself
that it would be necessarily injurious to Dora; she was
able, as has been said, to feel that it did her some credit
to be agreeable to a woman whom she disliked so bitterly.
And yet she knew in her heart that her purpose was to do
Dora Rutherford as bad a turn as might be.
In the comedy, which was being played in the house,
Mrs. Chauncey was determined to take no part 5 for con-
s1deration had only strengthened her ﬁrst impression, and
she saw clearly that it would be folly in her to run the risk
of being condemned by Mrs. Dormer and Lady jane Lock, ‘
that she might help to save one young man from matri-
mony and anotherfrom losing his good quarters. Leonard


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COME€Y OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 63
Vale, though he was an old friend, must take care of
himself; she would take no part in that contest. But now
she had a little game of her own to play 3 she would go on
step by step ; her life had become suddenly more interest-
ing. She smiled at herself in the glass, a timid, sad, sweet
smile, and noted its effect ; and then with the smile on her
lips, she went lightly down the stairs, leaving her maid
behind her, now sniffling with greater freedom, and drop-
ping by mischance a large tear on the gown which had
failed to give satisfaction.
Dora Rutherford looked up from her breakfast as each
man enter ed the room, and noticed certain triﬂes at a
glance which would have escaped a duller eye. She
decided from their clothes that no form of sport was pur-
posed on that day ; and she knew the full importance of
this fact. She was well aware that in a country-house
party, where no deﬁnite occupation is provided, the danger
of matrimony is at least doubled. There had been a day’s
hunting, but it had been an easy sociable day, and the
young lady had joined in the chase ; and now it seemed as
if day after day there was to be nothing to do. If it be
true that Hymen ﬁnds mischief for idle hearts to do, here
was too fair a ﬁeld. If this had been a shooting party,
Dora knew, though she had seen so little of the world, that
competition would be for something other than the smiles
of women, and jealousy caused by something other than a
girl’s kindness. She had seen men silent and moody, when
they were expected to be attentive, for reasons which
seemed to her to show the unreasonableness of men ; they
had not shot up to their form forsooth, or more pheasants
had gone over to somebody else. But this party was of the
most perilous kind. Not only was it full of daily dangers,
and each hour given up to both the sexes, but it seemed
also to have no necessary end. Dora without direct
inquiry had discovered that no one of the guests had been
asked for a deﬁnite period. Not one had been asked from
a Tuesday to a Satu day ; nor was a word said by any one
of them, which ten ed to show that he or she was on a
round of visits. Such a party seemed to Dora as if, like a
novel, it could. only end in an engagement. She saw all
the danger ; but the keener her perception of the danger,
the more gallant arose her spirit. Noting the signs of this
perilous idleness in the men, she only felt the joy of battle.
‘It
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64 , COMEDY OFA COUNTRIQHOUSE.
“ What are you going to do to-day? ” she asked Archie, as
if she had no care but to end one of those periods of
silence, which are too common at the breakfast-table.
“Nothing,” he answered pleasantly, “unless you can
suggest something.”
“ How is it that you are not shooting at all?” she asked
again. ‘
“ My keeper won’t let me,” he said.
She laughed and looked about her. a I
“He doesn’t mean me,” said Sir Villiers drily, as her
eye met his 5 “he refers to the gamekeeper.”
“ A most alarming man,” said Archie, “from Yorkshire,
of few words, but very emphatic. He has decreed that
we are not to shoot this week.”
“ But why?” asked Dora. ““
“ I didn’t dare to ask,” answered Archie 5 “I suppose
the pheasants prefer it. They might give us a chance-
or me, at least. I never had much shooting, as you
know.”
“Good old Archie I” said Tony Fotheringham kindly 5
and he added thoughtfully, “ All that business with the
riﬂe in America will have made you more out of it still.”
“It’s very hard on Mr. Tony, isn’t it?” said Dora to
Archie.
“Oh, never mind me,” said Tony. ‘
“Oh, but I am sure it is so bad for you,” she said 5 “ I
am sure you need a great deal of air and exercise.”
“ Do you think so too P ” he asked, with a sudden acces-
sion of gravity. He looked earnestly from Mrs. Ruther-
ford to his well ﬁlled plate. “ That’s what my doctor says,”
he added.
“Your doctor l ” said Dora 5 “ have you got a doctor?” ‘
Looking at the smooth rosy face before her, she could not
help laughing.
“ You bet I have,” said Tony gravely. “ I go to Moody.”
“ Dr. Moody is a very clever man,” said Mrs. Dormer,
who had become deeply interested at the moment when
the conversation touched health 5 “he was my doctor once
--no, not my last doctor 5 he was the last but two 5 I
can't remember why I left him ,- I know he is extremely
clever.”
“ He is extremely clever,” said Sir Villiers Hickory 5
“he has made a large fortune by telling people notto over
eat themselrss; that’s slew/“rig, * ‘ i
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“COMEDY OF .4 co UNTR Y H0 USE. 65
“ It’s most important,” said Mrs. Dormer.
“ Well, I am all for shooting,” said Dora 3 “I am sure
that Mr. T ony’s health requires it.”
“ Then you must ask the keeper,” said Archie, laughing.
“ Well,” said Mrs. Dormer, who thought it time to put
a gentle end to this plan, “ I am sure that I for one am
glad that there is to be no shooting this week. One either
doesn’t see a man all day, or else one has to stand outside
a damp clump, with poor little rabbits bolting under one’s
Petticoats and great pheasants falling on one’s hat, and ‘
explosions going on 5 and one lunches in a draughty place
with guns in all the corners, and a horrid- man on each
side of you with pockets full of cartridges.”
The expression of Mrs. Dormer’s views ended the dis-
cussion. Dora discreetly said no more 3 and Mrs. Dormer
did not think it necessary to add that the keeper’s decision
about the shooting had been made after her last friendly
visit to the keeper’s wife. The Yorkshire keeper had
married a little woman, who had been born and bred in a
southern county 3 and, if he were inclined to issue orders
to the rest of the world, she was able for the most part to
provide him with directions. She and Mrs. Dormer were
very old friends, an d, if they agreed that not a gun should
be ﬁred, the interests of neither owner, keeper, nor phea-
- sants were of much weight in comparison.

CHAPTER X.
SOON after breakfast Dora was standing on the terrace,
and looking over the ﬁne expanse of park. It was a broad
terrace, stretched in front of the long Italian wing, ‘which
was the most modern part of the Castle ,' and from this
raised plateau she looked far away over land, which looked
as if everylgclump of trees,, almost every tree, had been
planted to make the best possible eﬂ‘ect, and as if the land
itself had been curved and hollowed in strict agreement
with some‘ pedan t’s rules of beauty.
Since there was to be no shooting, Dora had asserted
promptly that, when she was in the country, she liked to
be out of doors all daylong, and had asked Archie to show
he: the glass; and she nowlwsited for him with some 11m!
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so COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
patience. After a few minutes he came 5 and she saw
that a small company was coming with him. There was Leo-
nard Vale, and Tony F otheringham, and Mrs. Chauncey,
and ﬁnally Elizabeth Lock. Miss Lock had said that she
had letters to write, but her mother had said “ Nonsense l”
and had added that a walk was just What she wanted. As
they came towards her, Dora again said to herself that this
was a sulky girl.
“I wondered if I might come to,” said‘Clara Chauncey,
as if she looked to Dora Rutherford for permission.
“Of course you may,” said Dora, pleasantly 5 “that is,
you have as much right anywhere as I have—or more, for
you didn’t invite yourself.” Then she took possession of
Archie, giving a little shake to his arm. “ Now, Archie,”
she said, “you are to tell us all about it—the house and
the park and everything.”
“All I know,” said Archie blandly 5 he too stood and
looked across this well~kept park. “It must be rather
jolly in summer,” he said 5 “it looks as if it had been all .
done with a spade and a foot-rule, and yet I saw a bit of
land high up in the Rocky Mountains which looked like
this, though of course it was just as Nature placed the
grass and trees. I suppose this has been pretty well
groomed, though.”
“And the house?” asked Dora, giving his arm a little
pull that he might be brought to regard his stately dwelling-
place. “ I know this part 5 this is the newest 5 but which
is the oldest?” ‘
“How should I know? ” asked Archie.
“ You are bound to,” she answered. ‘
“ But I give you my word I don’t,” he said 5 “it all looks
to me old enough. That’s the good of this old English
climate of ours. Now I dare say this place was built at a
dozen different times, and of different stone too 5 and then
comes our rare old climate and damps and stains, and sets
the ivy growing, and sticks qn the lichen, arikl there you
are-it looks as if it had grown ! ” He regarded his castle
with a dawning affection.
“ But you ought to know more about it,” said Dora, as
they began to move.
“I think that I know something about it,” said Clara
Chauncey modestly, “ if I may venture to instruct its
owner. I have been reading about it in the county book.
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'1, They had come down from the terrace, and they now
stopped again and looked at the tower, which was con-
nected by a short wing with the rest of the building.
“ How old P ” asked Dora.
“ Well,” said Clara, “it has been much restored; but
they say in the book that some of this tower is so old that
nobody knows to what period it belongs ; they talk about
ancient Romans and people of that kind; and the walls
are tremendously thick ; and there is a staircase in one of
them.” “ '
“ Oh !” cried Dora, delighted, “ a secret staircase l ”
“ Yes,” said Clara, ’“ and in behind that shrubbery must
“ be the door. Isn’t it, Mr. Vale? ”
They all looked at Leonard Vale, who had not spoken.
He had been looking very cross, but at this appeal to him
he smiled on all the party. “ I'm afraid I don’t know
much about it,” he said.
“ But of course—I never thought of it,” said Archie—-
“ of course the upper end’ of the staircase must come out
in your rooms. You ought to see Lenny’s rooms,” he said
to the ‘others. “He has such good taste; he has made
them charming.”
“ They are on view at any time,” said Leonard, beginning
to move away.
“But does the secret staircase really come out in your
rooms P ” asked Clara Chauncey, with her innocent air of
curiosity.
‘i “ I never looked,” he said shortly.
“ It is really so interesting in the book,” she said to the
others ; “ all sorts of people have escaped down it—fugitive
priests and cavaliers, and a lady eloping, and--oh, it’s
really most interesting.” a
By this time they had passed the other wing and turned
the corner of the house.
“This is the side which I like best,” said Archie; “it
doesn’t look so much as if a hundred gardeners had been
at work on it a hundred years.”
They stopped again and looked. Luckily for them it
was one of those soft days in November. There was a
feeling of moisture and fertility in the air, a gentle wind
and a cloudy sky. Under the inﬂuences of the day the
landscape had a look of gentle melancholy, and of promise
‘51:99 5 one seemed to feel the secret work of Nature in the


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ground, and to anticipate the far—off spring. On this side’
of the Castle there was no terrace nor formal ﬂower-beds.
The park began at the wall and'sloped downwards, with
no great steepness, but showing a more broken surface
everywhere, until it ended in a line of willows, which
marked the little brook in the bottom. Beyond the brook
the land rose with less steepness, but that more gentle
slope was covered with all which the improvements of
many owners had left of an ancient yvood. There were
trim coverts in many parts of the property,"which were
better adapted for sporting purposes 5 but this old bit of
woodland pleased the new lord the best.
They descended into the dell. ,
“ May we go over P ” asked Dora, with her foot on the
end of a tree~trunk, which lay across the little stream.
“ If you ain’t afraid,” said Archie.
“ Afraid of what? ” she asked. “ Of your awful keeper,
or of a log of wood, or what? Don’t you know that I am
afraid of nothing P ”
“Ah, how I envy you!” said Clara Chauncey, with a
devout look in the expressive eyes. “I am afraid of
everything. To look at that log gives me a vertigo.”
“Then look at me l ” said Dora, and she ran along the
trunk as safely as a squirrel. “I must go up into the
wood,” she said from beyond the brook 5 “it smells so
good/’
“Stick to the path,” said Archie5 “and I hope you
won’t be seized as a poacher. There’s a better bridge
higher up, and we’ll join you.”
Dora had begun already to mount the path which led
up through the wood. It was a rough track, half—choked
wit dead leaves, and squelchy, as Dora described it to
he elf, underfoot. She had not gone far when she was
aware of someone following her, and, turning, saw Leo-
nard Vale. “ Oh, you came over’, too,” she said.
This is one of those remarks on which comment is
Lenny, who had not put on boots ﬁt for the
country, had been picking his way behind her in a rather
comical fashion5 but, when she turned, he came to her
more quickly. “ I hope you don’t mind,” he said.
“Mind ?' Why should I?” she asked. “ Only," she
added, “ isn’i it rather rash for us both _to leave them? ”
“ That’s all right for a few minutes.” he said; ‘‘ T on ‘
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COMEDY 0F .4 co wvmy HOUSE. 59
and Mrs. Chauncey are there, and they are all together.
It’s only for a few minutes, and a few minutes are so much
to me.”
She looked at him quickly, and began to walk on again.
“I am always so awfully afraid of offending you,” he
said. “ If I were to say half of what I feel about you and
your friendship, you would laugh at me.”
“ N 0,” said Dora 5 “ I told you I liked to make friends.
I have always said that it is all nonsense to say that men
and women can’t be friends.”
“ And you will be my friend? ” he said.
“ Yes, yes,” she answered 3 “ I told you so.”
They walked on together for a time in silence.
“ I wonder,” he began presently, “if I am enough of a
friend to say something?” He paused as if for per-
mission.
“ How can I tell,” she asked, “ till you say it P ”
He smiled, to show his admiration of her readiness. “ I
can’t help thinking,” he said, “of something which you
said yesterday. I want so much to tell you that I under-
stand and sympathize ; and then I think that it is impos-
sible that you should care whether I care or not. I am
disheartened when I think of you and of myself.”
“ What was it I said P ”
“It was about your husband, and his not consulting
you, and ”
She stopped him with her laughter.
“ I don’t wonder that you laugh at me,” he said. “It
didn’t seem a laughing matter to me.”
“At least it is not tragical,” she said ,' “ it does not do,
I can assure you, to look at these things tragically. Qne
can’t expect to be understood by one’s husband.”
He sighed as he walked beside her. “ Of course,” he
said after a time, “ you are right, as you always are. his
brave of you to feel that-and wise, too, I suppose. But,
after all, it does seem tragic enough to me. You’ll laugh
a at me, of course ; but I~ can’t help thinking of something,
which I read somewhere, about an Indian throwing away
a; a pearl richer than all his tribe.”
Dora laughed, but not quite naturally. “Alas, poor
\ Indian!” she said lightly; “after all it was better than
hanging it in his nose.”
,, Leonard sighed instead of laughing. “ How can one

f
COM'EDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
help cursing fate,” he said suddenly and almost angrily,
“ when one sees a man who has got the best thing in the
world and doesn’t half value it, and when one knows that
to another it would be light and life and everything ?-‘
of course you laugh 5 I know I am a fool 5 but I can’t
help it.”
, Dora was not at all inclined to laugh. She was uncom-
fortable, b’ut interested. She had had no intention of
discussing her husband with another man; and yet she
had slipped into a half-veiled criticism of her husband.
She felt that she was wrong 5 and yet she was interested.
There was a relief in allowing the grievance of her life,
which she had so long kept close, to emerge a little into
the light, not so far but that she could clap it under lock
and key again in a moment. And then this young man,
this friend, was so tactful and so careful of her feelings,
that she could venture to discuss with him a matter, which
she would discuss with nobody else 5 and, moreover--and
it was this which made her most bold—she was certain of
her power over him, certain that she could stop him in a
moment, if he said or even looked too much. Her power
over the young man made her bold, and it pleased her,
too, and ﬂattered her. She suspected that many women
had ﬂattered him; and he ﬂattered her. Other women
had admired his looks 5 she knew that she did not care at
all for his regular features and languid grace. This spoiled
young man came humbly to her for advice and assistance 5
and this pleased her very much indeed. But, although
she was pleased, she was uncomfortable too. She felt a
quality in his adoration which made her uneasy. She
realized that it was time to use her power over him, and to
stop him now. “ Is it far to the top of the wood?”
she asked.
He did not know 5 and Dora, who having once begun
to ascend a thing could not be happy till she had reached
the top, and see'n what was beyond, began to hurry up the
path. And so they came to the upper boundary of the
wood, and found a country road beyond which was rough
open common.
No sooner had Dora seen this than she turned and hur-
ried down again. “ We have left them too long,” she
said.
He Smiled as he followed her; it gave him exquisite
6
V
COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 7!
pleasure to hear her speak, as if he and she were partners
in a plot. This pleased him so much, that he almost forgot
to care whether Lord Lorrilaire married or nob or only
cared because the decision of his cousin’s fate would put a
stop to this delightful partnership. He was wise enough
to say no more at this time about himself or about her.
As they went quickly down through the wood, he only
made a few remarks about Archie, speaking to her as to a
_superior ofﬁcer, who kindly allowed ‘him an inkling of her
plans. Her uneasiness vanished; her spirits rose; she
hurried downward over the fallen leaves to rescue that
other young man, who might be running into danger.
It seemed as if this sage protector of young men was not
a moment too soon. When Dora and Leonard Vale had
disappeared in the wood, the rest of the party had walked
along the bank of the little stream. When they had
reached the little rustic bridge, Mrs. Chauncey had declared
that it looked no safer than the log below, and had invited
Tony Fotheringham to walk further up the stream with her.
So Archie and Elizabeth had crossed with no other com-
panions and had walked slowly back to where the little
track ran up into the wood. There they had waited for
Dora’s return 3 and presently, since she did not come,
Elizabeth had suggested that they should return to the
house. She would not go back to the bridge again ; she
chose to walk the tree-trunk, as Mrs. Rutherford had
done. So she had stepped boldly on to the log and walked
half-way across, and there had been seized with a sudden
panic, had stood still, shut her eyes, and, before Archie
had seen that anything was the matter, she had slipped
from the uncertain bridge and splashed in the stream.
When Dora emerged, keen-eyed and anxious, from the
wood, the sight which she saw was this. On the top of
the opposite bank was Archie, wet almost to the shoulders.
He had just scrambled up, and was now helping Miss
Look to climb out of the water. The girl’s hat was ﬂoat—
ing down the brook, and a great strand of her splendid
hair was hanging loose. When Archie had brought her
safe to the top of the bank, she covered her face with both
her hands and seemed to sway, and would have fallen, per—
hapg, had not Archie held her in his arms. This was the
sight which Dora saw; this was the sight which lent her
win 5. She darted along the log, and, as she gained the
x,iv‘ap: at: side, ‘uttered a shrill cry and fell.
72 0011450 17.01? A COUNTRY HQ use.
At the sound of Dora’s cry Elizabeth awoke to her
position 5 with one hand she pushed back her fallen hair,
and witgrthe other pushed her supporter almost angrily
away. chie, seeing in a moment that Elizabeth could
stand alone, left her and ran to Dora. Almost at the same
moment Leonard Vale, who had stood speechless and sick
with fear, appeared at her other side 5 he seemed to have
lost control of himself 5 he sank down beside her babbling
and trembling. “ Oh, oh ! ” he gasped, “ she’ll die—*she’ll
die, I tell you! ” he was ghastly white, and his ﬁne teeth’
were chattering. Ar'chie looked quickly at him with sur—
prise, annoyance, a new dislike. He stooped arid lifted
Dora from the ground, and by the same movement drew
her away from the youth who was grovelling at her'side.
As she felt herself raised from the earth Dora opened
her eyes and saw that it was Archie, as she hoped, who
had raised her. “ Thank you,” she said feebly, but hold-
ing his arm most tightly 5 “ it’s better now.”
“ What’s better? ” he asked.
“ My ankle. You must help me to the house. Oh,
thank you, Archie 5 how good you are l ”
She turned her face from his to smile upon Elizabeth,
who now drew near to offer aid. “ I will take an arm of
each of you,” she said5 and, so supported, she liriiped up
to the house.

CHAPTER XI.
ON the next morning there was sound of determined knock-
ing at a door in the tower wing. Tony Fotheringham
was there, grave and business-like, arrayed for the chase.
He listened, but could hear no sound 5 and so, after a ﬁt
interval, he opened the door and went in.
The room, which he entered, was the middle one of the
three, which Leonard Vale had rescued from disused tar-
gets, broken bird—cages, and all the strange worthless
lumber which a great house must push into some corner.
This had been no incomplete conversion. Chairs of divers
° shapes, each an experiment in comfort, ﬁlled much of the
ﬂoor. and small tables were so placed among them tha t‘the
most lazy of loungers need move nothing but an arm, and
m
'coMazJ Y OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 73
‘are,
1. \
that not far, to the desired tumbler or box of cigarettes.
It was, in short, the most luxurious of smoking-rooms; but
on the mantelpiece, instead of pipes or tobacco-jars, were
bits of ﬁne china, and here and there against the wall stood
a piece of valuable old furniture. Opposite the door was
a large window 3 and in the thickness of the wall a deep
window—seat had been made, that the amateur might recline
at ease, and please his eye with easy seeing of one of the
ﬁnest views which Langley Castle could give. Leonard
Vale had a pretty taste. The smaller room on the right of
this was more distinctly a cabinet of curiosities 3 and in
his bedroom on the left, which was under the empty open
apartment at the top of the tower, such commonplace things
as a young man’s washing-stand and chest of drawers were
each a bit of cabinet-work, which challenged the attention
of the earnest inquirer, and made simple folk wonder
where the basin could be.
Tony was in no mood to linger over works of art. He
walked across the sitting-room, and, knocked again upon
the door of the bed-room. This time a sound of some sort
was heard, and, after waiting for a minute to consider its
meaning, Tony opened the door and entered. A silken
porz‘z'eye opened with the door, and, by the light thus ad-
mitted from the outer room, the visitor was able to see the
bed, at the foot of which hung a piece of needle-work,
worked in a harem, sold in the bazaar of Smyrna, and now
protecting by day the couch of Mr. Leonard Vale.
Leonard was awake. Without moving his head on the
pillow he turned a lack-lustre but hostile eye on the intru-
der; he said nothing.
“ Oh! old chap, I say!” said good Mr. Fotheringham,
for the sight grieved him. “ It is so awfully bad for you,
you know,” he added sadly. As Mr. Vale made no com~
ment on this speech, Tony spoke again. “ I said I’d come
and look you up,” he said. “ You ought to have breakfasted,
you know 3 the trap is just coming round, and Archie told
me to remind you that a. horse had gone on for you.” *5
.“ I wish you had gone on I ” said Leonard malevolently.
“Ring, will you?” . s
“ What for? ” asked Tony, suspiciously.
Leonard growled. His friend regarded him sadly. He
sighed and shook his round head before he spoke again.
f “ I say, Lenny, old chap, I do wish you wouldn’t go on
like this.‘ You go too fast, you know 3 you can’t last”,
74 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
“Who wants to last?” cried out Lenny, with sudden
liveliness and a more audible malediction. “ Do you
think I want to save myself up like a pound in an old
woman’s stocking? Will you ring that bell?”
“You drink too much and you smoke too much. My
doctor ”
“ Hang your doctor I ”
“Oh 1 no, I say, don’t say that. He is a tremendously
clever chap, and he knows.”
“Oh, go to ”
“ No, I shan’t. I shall tell you what my doctor says.
He says you ought not to smoke more than two cigars a
day, or their equivalent in cigarettes.” The word “ equi-
valent” was invested with an extraordinary solemnity by
Mr. Fotheringham. He paused that his friend might have
time to digest this golden rule, and then said, “ you know,
old man, there’s nothing more important than health. Do
you know my exercise ? ”
As no answer was returned, Tony gravely inclined his
body forward from the hips, and with his shoulders forced
backwards to an unnatural extent, uttered in a deep tone
the words “ ninety-nine ! ” ~
Leonard Vale looked at him with amazement and anger.
“ Ninety-nine, ninety-nine, ninety-nine,” said Tony
F otheringham, absorbed by this enchanting occupation.
“Great Scot l ” said Leonard, when at last the other
paused, and looked at him with beaming face, expecting
sympathy. “ By George, you are a fool l ”
“ Good old Lenny ! ” said Tony amiably in answer.
“ But really and truly, if you will do that exercise for an
hour a day, you will be a different man. And as to drink,
my doctor says ”
“ Confound you ! Will you ring that bell?” cried
Leonard. ‘
Mr. F otheringham rang the bell with a protesting air 5
and with the same air he heard Mr. Vale’s man ordered to
prepare the usual pick—me-up. When Leonard had swal-
lowed this dram, he felt more equal to the duties of tlie
day, and listened, while Tony told him again that they


a were just going to start, and that among the horses which
had been sent on was one 'for him.
“Am I ﬁt to go hunting?” asked Leonard plaintively.
He put his arm out of bed, and held it up and watched it
tremble.
COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 75
Q
“ It would do you good, old chap,” cried Tony heartily.
“ It’s a funking day with me,” said Leonard ; “my
nerves are all over the place,; I couldn’t sit on for shak-
ing.” 1,
“Well, are you coming? ” asked Tony ; “we can’t wait.
Archie told me to remind you, if you weren’t ready, that
you could order the dog-cart, and come after us and take
your chance.”
“ Who’s going?”
“ Well, there’s me, and Archie, and good old Hickory
and Mrs. Rutherford.”
Leonard Vale threw off the clothes and brought his feet
to the ﬂoor. “ Oh, I am bad,” he said miserably, as he
sat on the bed-J‘ I can’t go; it’s no good; it’s just my
vile luck.” He turned into bed again, stretched down a
long left arm to pull up the bedclothes, and lay with his
face to the wall. ‘a
Tony waited a moment, regardmg his prostrate friend
with a pathetic expression on his rosy face.
“ Oh, do get out, can’t you?” growled the friend ; and
Tony went.
Tony, descending sadly from the tower wing, found the
rest of the party assembled near the ﬁre in the hall. Had
he been quick at perceiving the moods of others, he would
have seen that Lady Jane Lock was but little happier than
the friend, whom he left cursing destiny upon his bed.
The lady was very stiff in the back and very red in the
face, and, do what she could, she could not restrain her
tongue entirely from speech. The sight of Mrs. Ruther-
ford descending the majestic staircase, wearing a perfect
habit, and moreover displaying on each step the neatest of
riding-boots, had ﬁlled Lady jane with a wrath, for which
some vent was merely necessary. A sprained ankle on
one day, and such a boot on the next 1 She had tried hard
not to speak, but at last she was forced to say something,
This something took the form of congratulation. “ I can-
not help congratulating you,” she said, with a sort of
strangled laugh, “on your wonderful recovery, or rather
on your wonderful ankle.”
Dora smiled sweetly upon her, and looked down at her
foot with an exasperating approval.
“I should think there never was such a case,” con-
tinued Lady. Jane, who was hurried away by her own
i‘is.’
I
76 0011150 I’ OlF A COUNTRY are use.
.
words 5 “ a miraculous cure of a sprains-it really ought to
go to the medical journals.”
“To tell you the truths” said Dora, with enchanting
candor, “it was really nothing ateall.”
“Really?” asked Lady jane, with concentrated scorn.
“I was more frightened than hurt,” said Dora 5 “and I
am so glad it was no worse, for I wouldn’t have missed
today for anything. I do hope that Miss Lock will be
all right when we get back.”
It was beyond the power of Miss Lock’s mother to
express gratitude for this kind wish. While Dora, radiant
and in closely-ﬁtting boots, was about to start with the
men for a day’s hunting, poor Elizabeth was in her room,
suffering from a chill. Her mother had stood beside her
bed, regarding her with the eye of an army doctor who
suspects a recruit of shamming. She had rated her for
her clumsiness, as if ‘she had fallen from a bridge edged
by high parapets for the safety of passers. ' She had ad-
ministered a dose, which she had brought many times to
the bedside of every one of her daughters 5 and ﬁnally she
had stoutly declared that the best remedy for this chill,
which ought never to have been taken, was a day’s exercise
in the open air. Not a word had Lady jane Lock said of
her objection to girls hunting 5 she was ready to pocket
her prejudices for the good of her child 5 she was eager to
hoist her into the saddle. But Elizabeth would not. She
would not hunt-she would not even get up. Is it to be
wondered at that Lady jane was unable to refrain from
bitter speech, when she saw Mrs. Rutherford radiant,
attractive, admirably equipped for the chase, and thought
of her own child, who positively rejected her advice ?
“ Elizabeth is obstinate as a mule,” she had said, not for
the ﬁrst time, to her friend Susan Dormer,‘ “Elizabeth
has so much character,” she was apt to say conﬁdentially
to less intimate acquaintances. Express it as she would,
she was well aware that this girl was able to meet her will
with a passive opposition which she had not found in any
of her elder daughters. She had not encountered this
opposition often 5 but, when she had ,encountered it, she
had found, as she found on this day, that Elizabeth had
her way. This element, so little expected in a daughter
of hers, embarrassed Lady jane more than all the other
obstacles which barred her path. She was like a skilful
g K
L‘OAIED Y OF A COUNTRY 110 USE. '27
“K
Q
Ghess— layer, who has suddenly found to his amazement
that t e most important of his pieces may refuse to
move. Imagine the attitude of a player, who awakes the
doubt if his queen have not a will of her own ! To such a
doubt Lady jane had been growing more and more alive ,
since the day on which she had presented at Court the
youngest and handsomest of her daughters.
The day's hunting was better than the last 3 and Dora,
happy in the country air and glowing with the ardor of the
chase, forgot, save at brief moments, all plots and counter-
plots, and the important duty of saving the young men,
her contemporaries. She enjoyed herself like a child, and
could not believe that the sun was not sloping to the west»,
before his time. Archie was not joyous enough to please
her 5 and she again and again demanded from him more
expressions of his happiness. When they were riding
homeward together, she attacked him on this subject.
“ Why so glum? ” she asked.
He laughed, and denied that he was not jolly.
“ You are not half such good company as you used to
be,” she said.
“ Perhaps I’m growing old,” said Archie.
As she considered his unusual solemnity, the full er-
ception of his danger came back to her. She was ialf
inclined to follow up her attack, to put this matter to the
touch, to ask him suddenly then and there if he were not
glum because Elizabeth was not there. The questionevas
on the point of her tongue 3 but it came no further. She
decided that it would be rash 3 she gave full weight to the
fact that, in spite of all their old friendship and old inter-
change of thoughts, he said not a word to her about this
girl. She could not believe that he did not think about
her, especially since he had pulled her out of the brook,
and‘ seen half her hair down 3 and yet he did not speak
about her. This fact appeared to Dora signiﬁcant of
much 3 and she made up her mind not to begin discussion
of this perilous subject. She was not too much elated by
her little victories 3 for she knew full well that, if the mis-
chief were already done, to carry off the young man day
after day, was but to feed the ﬂame. The absence, which
makes the heart grow fonder, is generally a short absence.
So Dora thought and determined to check her natural
Lmpetuosity, to be cautious, to say nothing yet, about Eliza—
eth.
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78 COMEDY OF .4 co UNTRY' H0 use.
P r
“ I was thinking of old Palfrey,” said Archie presently 5
“ I was wondering how one entertains a man who is going
to be in a Cabinet.” -
“ What? Mr. Palfrey ? The great Mr. Palfrey? Is he
coming here?”
“ We shall ﬁnd him when we get back,” said Archie, nod-
ding.
“But who asked him? What’s he coming for? Do
you know him?”
“ N o, I don’t know him,” said Archie 5 “how should I ?
He’s to speak at Langstone next week.” ‘
“But who asked him to stay with you ? ”
e “ Uncle Villiers. Do you object, Dora? ” Shall I
thrust him from my gates ? ”
Now, Dora was busily thinking whether she objected or
not. So far as the danger of matrimony was concerned,
the infusion of a lively political element was a thing to be
welcomed. And yet it vexed her that the friend of her
youth, her dear Archie, the potent young Lord Lorrilaire,
should be nobody in his own house.
“They say that an Englishman’s house is his castle,”
she said, with her chin in the air.
“ Well ‘P ” asked Archie.
“ Your castle seems to be everybody else’s house,” she
said 5 “ that’s all.”
He laughedin the best humor. “They take all the
trouble,” he said. ‘
“ And besides,” she went on, “ you are a Liberal. Why
should you entertain one of the rising lights of the other
people?” '
“They are much of a muchness,” said young Lord Lor-
rilaire 5 “ I’d about as soon feed one as the other.”
“No, no, no,” cried out Dora 5 “that’s nothing in the
world but laziness. I thought you’d say that sort of thing,
and it’s only laziness ! You ought to take a side. There
must be more right on one side than another. You can’t
not care about politics 5 and you are a power 'in the land 5
you must take a side and stick to it.”
“ Is that necessary, nowadays?” asked Archie, laugh-
ing; “ I mean the sticking to it? ”
“ Of course you can be ﬂippant,” said Dora; “ but of
course I am right.' A man ought not to let other people
make him into just What they like.”
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COMED 1’ OF .4 COUNTRY HOUSE. " 79
She said this with decision, and she paused when she
said it, that he might take from it as much proﬁt as he
would. i
“ There’s no fear,” said Archie after a time; but she
shook her head.
“One can put one’s foot down at any time,” he said
again 3 but again she shook her head.
“ Well,” he said laughing, “let us ﬂoat a little way 1 I
assure you, Dora, I don’t feel yet as if my life was real.
Sometimes all this sort of thing seems a dream ; and some-
times all the old time seems a dream 3 but I can never
believe in both at once.‘ You must give me time to feel
my feet. Feeding Mr. Palfrey for a few days can’t make
me a Tory, if there are any Tories 3 and ”
“ And what? ” asked Dora quickly.
If Archie had been on the point of adding a statement
even more interesting to the lady, he thought better of it.
He laughed instead 3 he always found it so easy to laugh,
and to laugh is often the least compromising end of a sen-
tence. ~
“Well, there’s the Castle,” he said presently, as they
came within sight of it 3 “is it all real or a dream—all this
imposing existence?”
Dora answered with a little sound of contempt.
“ You’ll ﬁnd it real enough,” she said, “when you’v
ﬂoated too far to get back.” *
“ One can always get back,” he said, laughing again.


CHAPTER XII.
“ FEEDING Mr. Palfrey for a few days can’t make me a
Tory,” Archie had said; and then he had said “ and 3”
and then he had stopped, adding nothing but laughter.
Dora, when she was alone in her room, resting and thinking
before the dressing-bell, wondered much what words had
nearly followed that suggestive “and.” She completed
the sentence for her own satisfaction in this way :--“ Feed-
ing Mr. Palfrey for a few days can’t make me a Tory, and
admiring a girl’s back hair, also for a few‘ days only, can’t
make me a husband.”
Was this what Archie had so nearly said? If so, why
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had he stopped? Had chivalry stopped his tongue, or a
sudden doubt if he were not really falling in love? She
tried to analyze his laughter, which had come in the place
of Words. Was it mere careless laughter, or was there in
it some element of tenderness? Had he laughed as a
young man laughs, detecting in himself a hidden Weakness
oflove?
Dora recumbent after the fatigues of the hunting day
tried to determine the state of her gallant young host 3 but
she failed to satisfy herself. Only of one thing did she
grow more sure 3 the introduction of the political question
into Langley Castle was a decided good. Politics, as she
told herself, are as good an antidote to love as shooting is.
If the one makes men silent and moody, the other makes
them argumentative and garrulous. Both turn the minds
of men upon each other, and divert them from the danger-
ous consideration of the other sex. So a young man turns
from a lady’s eyes to discuss local government, of which
he probably knows much less.
Dora felt sure then that she might welcome the advent
of politics and of the politician. She made up her mind
to receive Mr. Palfrey as an ally. For her own sake, too,
she felt a pleasant excitement at his coming. She liked to
meet eminent people 3 this had been among her most
favored dreams in her girlhood’s days at the rectory. To
meet eminent people, to feel the currents of political life,
to be in and of the movement—these had been among the
visions of the little daughter of the country clergyman.
Many of her dreams had come true 3 but not the dearest
dream of all. Other politicians had listened to her with
apparent interest, but not he; husband. This, as has been
said, was the disappointment of her life. And this
disappointment gave a peculiar excitement to each
new introduction to an eminent man. She was eager
to impress each impressive person 3 she felt like an
Indian with yet another scalp in prospect 3 and her heart
ﬂuttered at the hidden thought that, when all men had
acknowledged that she was worth hearing, perhaps her
husband last of all might awake to the amazing fact that
he had not married a fool.
Now, it happened that Mrs. Rutherford had never met
Mr. Palfrey, or, if she had met him at some large official
party, she had not known it. She would not have known
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€QMEQY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 3i
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him by sight but for the shop-windows. Mr. Palfrey had
attained to that stage in the life of the politician, which is
marked by the sudden appearance of his pﬁotograph in
shop-windows. The actors, whose likenesses adorn the
same windows, appear trueulent or benevolent, tender or
sinister, according to the characters which they represent;
but the statesmen all wear the same expression. Among
them the countenance of Mr. Palfrey had lately appeared.
Mr. Palfrey was recognized as one of the rising men of
his party.
Dora allowed herself more time that she usually gave
to her toilet, When this was well advanced, she sent her
maid with kind inquiries about the health of Miss Lock;
and the maid returned with the thanks of the young lady
and the news that she was much better, but would not
leave her room that evening. This too was‘satisfactory
to Dora. She had no wish that Elizabeth should be ill;
but yet a free evening was something for which to be
grateful. Of course, if the girl were really ill, Lord
Lorrilaire would feel pity, and, Where there is pity, there
is danger. But still, as Dora put the last touches to her
charming to‘ilet, she felt a sense of freedom, the anticipation
of a pleasant evening, of a new success. .
As she looked at herself in the big glass, she admitte
with her natural frankness that Elizabeth was according
to rule a handsomer woman than herself; but fascination
cannot be reduced to rules; she was content with her
appearance. She was altogether sanguine. For that
night at least all promised well. With a ﬁne ﬂood
of politics and the girl away, a real victory might be
won, and the rich young lord swept clear beyond the
reach of danger. So down went Dora in her most
becoming gown and most agreeable mood.
If Dora ‘had suspected that there was a deliberate
purpose of pennin g Lord Lorrilaire in the Conservative fold,
she was sure of it when she entered the drawing-room.
She recognized Mr. Palfrey in a moment. He was stand-
ing by the ﬁre with his head a little bent, and the
expression which a prominent politician wears when he is
pretending to listen courteously to an outsider, and is
thinking of something else. She at once drew his atten-
tion, to herself, but at the same moment she was aware of
the presence of another and an even more remarkable
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82 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
man. She saw Lord Hackbut. Archie had said not a
word of the goming of Lord Hackbut 5 and Dora at once
doubted if Archie had known of his coming. It was as
likely as not that Sir Villiers had not mentioned it 5 and
yet Dora knew that, if Mr. Palfrey were a sign of an
intended capture of Archie, the presence of Lord Hackbut
was a sign ten times as serious. Lord Hackbut always
meant business. '
Lord Hackbut was at least ten years older than the
rising Palfrey, and, so far as the public knew,‘ he had not
yet begun to rise. Nevertheless he ‘was a man of great
strength, both bodily and mental. If the public knew
little of him, and had never seen his harsh old face grin-
ning from the windows of stationers and fancy repositories,
he was well known to the few who were proud of knowing
the inner mechanism of the Conservative part . With
these initiated persons he enjoyed the reputation of having
refused all the things which public men as a rule impatient?
1y demand. He was said to have refused the highest
places about the Court, many special missions, all sorts of
ribands 5 and many years ago, in the days of his youth, to
have declined those subordinate offices in Governments,
through which the able man rises in due course to a seat
in the Cabinet. The decorative side of public affairs had
never tempted him, nor to be pointed at by the vacillating
ﬁnger of the man in the street 5 the magic words, “ That's
’im,” had never thrilled his soul. It was organization
which attracted him. From the ﬁrst he had but one
great aim in meddling with politics—to be admitted freely
behind the scenes, to learn how the puppets are worked,
and in due time to work them. He had become the most
powerful of party managers. He had assisted in the
formation of Cabinets 5 he had conducted igegotiations
between doubtful colleagues. He knew more than any
man in England of the strength of the party in this place
or that, and how far that strength would be increased or
diminished by any given policy. Therefore he was
consulted with eagerness both as to measures and men.
Before the Caucus had appeared in England, or the
American weed in English rivers, Lord Hackbut had been
a sort of Caucus in trousers, standing on legs rather bowed
and of extraordinary strength, with massive head a little
pushed forward, and keen humorous eyes. A nose, which
ethyl;
COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 83
S
looked as if it had been broken, and a ﬁ’bnt tooth which
certainly had been broken, added a certain ﬁerceness to
the appearance of this remarkable man;
Lord Hackbut was well aware of the services which he
had rendered to his party. He owed them nothing, and
he held that they owed him much 3 but he asked no com-
pensation but the free indulgence of a somewhat sardonic
humor. He worked hard for his party, and lovedto mock
the party leaders. It was of course in private life that he
thus played the mocker. On the rare occasions, when in
his own county he felt bound to speak in public, he would
so load his leaders with eulogy so extravagant, that his
audience cheered him and them to the echo, while the
eminent person, who happened to be present as the
representative of the body eulogized, would’ wear the
constrained and rather painful smile of one who suspects
irony. Irony is understood by very few Englishmen, and
liked by fewer.
So soon as Dora, entering the drawing-room, saw the
marked countenance of the great party manager, she
knew that a serious effort was about to be made to brand
a doubtful sheep with the right party mark. It was a
work after Lord Hackbut’s heart to secure for his party
the inﬂuence and wealth of a family which was in danger
of transfer. Dora was sure that he had learned all
about Archie, and that he would lose no time in
ﬁxing him, where he should be, at the head of the Con‘
servative party in the county. She felt indignation for
Archie 3 but yet she saw, or thought that she saw, more
clearly than ever that a deﬁnite plot against the young
lord’s political preferences made the other plot, which was
directed against his heart, more likely to fail.
It was clear that the formidable Lord Hackbut was it
the highest spirits. The broken tooth was visible eacls
moment. He took much delight in the society of pretty
women 3 and he had been surprised and pleased at meeting
his friend Mrs. Chauncey in that place. She for her part
faced him bravely but warily 3 she was a little afraid of the
old lord, and of his piercing eyes and voice. “ And where
is my friend Jack Chauncey?” he asked in his clearest
tones-- “ yachting, is he P Yachting l I thought that
punting was more in his line.” He laughed stridently at
his own jes't 3 and Clara laughed too, though with effort.
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She was glad (ii the entrance of Dora, even though she
knew with her fatal perception that Lord Hackbut
recognized at a glance the appearance of a beauty fresher
and more novel than her own. It was always the next
thing that this alarming peer might say, which made
people nervous in his society.
Lord Hackbut regarded Mrs. Rutherford with obvious
admiration. He took Mrs. Dormer in to dinner, but he
found Dora on his right hand, and he frankly expressed his
pleasure at the arrangement. It was to Dora that he
addressed the greater part of his talk, and he was in a very
talkative humor. He informed her at the outset that to
talk to a pretty woman was always pleasant ; but that to.
talk to a pretty woman who occasionally understood what
one meant, was one of the rarest pleasures of life. He
was outspoken as usual, and amused Dora immensely
with his rash speeches.
“ I am here,” he said, in an interval of his very hearty
dinner, “as a hanger-on of the eminent man on the other
side of the table. Dd’ you know him? No P You won’t
hear much from him now. He has a tremendous speech
on his chest, which he has got to get off next week at
Langstone. Besides, he won’t talk before me 5 he knows
that I know what a humbug he is. Look at him now 1 He
knows we are talking about him.”
" It is you who are talking about him,” said Dora;
“ So it is,” said Lord Hackbut. “ I love to talk about
him. Look at him ! Now he is trying to look impressive,
like an engraving of Pitt ,' now he is curtseying and con-
descending, and pretending to listen. I can tell you he
looks quite different when he’s listening to a Whip or to
one of his local Three Hundred. He’s one of the biggest
humbugs in Europe. He tossed up at Oxford to see if he
should be Liberal or Tory. It came down tails (the heads
belong to the other party) and we got him, and much good
may he do us. Shall you go and hear him speak?”
“ Of course,” said Dora,- “especially now when I know
all about him.”
“Yes, my dear,” said the old lord, “ you come to me
when you want to know about these fellows. It’s all a
fraud, and we are all in it. Do you believe in popular
votes and all that?”
“Yes,” said Dora ; “ I’m a Liberal.”
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Lord Hackbut laughed aloud ; and Palfrey ;uOK€d
across the table with a startled eye and an uneasy smile.
“ He believes in all that,” said Lord Hackbut, nodding
at Mr. Palfrey, “ or pretends that he does. It’s the
biggest hti’tnbug in Europe. We wouldn’t give any fellows
votes if we could help it. Do you mean to tell me that I
shouldn’t govern my county a blanked sight better than
the hat-in-hand nominees of a lot of agricultural laborers?
Better have given votes to foxes any day-afar more
intelligent. Palfrey pretends to believe in the people; if
he’s anything, he’s the biggest Radical in Europe. I bet
you he says ‘democracy ’ in the next ten minutes ,- and I’ll
lay you ten to‘ one he says it in the last ten minutes of his
speech at Langstonewin public speeches it comes in the
peroration.”
“Oh, Lord Hackbut,” said Dora, “I do hope you’ll
make a speech ! That’s what I should like to hear ! ”
“ Only a word or two,” he said, “just to tell ’em what
an honor and privilege they enjoy in listening to the words
of wisdom of the persuasive Palfrey.”
Dora was very much amused by her neighbor. Before
dinner was over, he asked her a few sudden questions
about their young host, which she answered so diplomati-
cally, that he burst out laughing again, and declared with
emphasis that she was an uncommonly clever little lady.
When she rose with the rest of the ladies, he made her a
low bow, and expressed a hope that they might be friends.
“Yes,” said Dora, with a quick look, “ and allies too,
perhaps, if we can come to terms.”
“ I ask nothing better,” said the old lord gallantly, and
‘ displaying his broken tooth.
One thing, and one thing only interfered with Dora’s
pleasure on that evening. She was disagreeably conscious
of the eyes of Mr. Leonard Vale. She had not seen
Leonard on that day until she came down to dinner; and
then he had been unable to 'speak to her. At dinner he
had sat far down on the opposite side of the table ; but
she had felt that he was continually looking at her, and
with variations of expression which annoyed her. En—
treaty, expostulation, and even rebuke seemed to her to be
directed at her from those expressive eyes. She was
annoyed; she condemned him for silliness; she feared
that the keen~eyed old man beside her would notice those
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86 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
persistent looks. She made up her mind to speak very
plainly to Mr. Vale when the next opportunity of speaking
should come. Yet, when she had left the dining-room,
she at once rebuked herself for making mountains out of
molehills. She reminded herself that the young man had
confessed himself a very weak creature, and that she had
promised to befriend him. It was certain that his “looks
meant no more than a longing for another tonic dose of
good advice. If she must ﬁnd fault with him for staring,
she determined not to speak as if she suspected an excess
of devotion. She declared to herself that that would be
foolish indeed, and would be in short like the behavior of
one of the silly women, who thought all men in love with
them, and whom she had always and unequivocally con-
demned.
And yet, when the men joined them, Dora was vexed
again by the airs of this young man. He looked pale and
dark under the eyes, aggressively interesting. He made
no determined effort to come to her 5 but he continued to
stare, till Dora felt as if all the world must notice his
staring. She gave him not a glance in return, and tried
not to think of him. She had almost succeeded in this
effort, and the evening was drawing to a close, when she
rose with some of the others to go into the next room, that
they might look at a picture there. As they passed
through the archway from one room to the other, Dora
felt a hand touch hers and a scrap of paper left in her
ﬁngers. She started and looked a quick and angry
question, but she only saw the back of Mr. Vale, as he
moved away. Clara Chauncey, who was close beside her,
began to ask questions with great interest about the
picture 5 and the others stopped before it, while Dora
moved on alone to the mantelpiece at the end of the room.
There she looked at the piece of paper with marked dis-
favor, and almost instantly allowed it to drop from her
ﬁngers on to the coals. When she said good night to the
gentlemen, she was careful to make no reply of any kind to
the mute appeal of Leonard’s eyes. He ground his heel
into the carpet, and swore under his breath, as he saw her
vanish up the staircase. \
A little later another female ﬁgure, equally light, ﬂitted
down the staircase. The gentlemen had disappeared, and
the footmen were removing the lights from the drawing-
.\
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s COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 87
room. Mrs. Chauncey came in quickly and went straight
to the ﬁreplace in the further room. “ One moment,” she
said to the man who was moving the nearest lamp; “ I
won’takeep you a moment, but I am afraid I threw a paper
into the ﬁreplace by mistake.”
The footman held the lamp conveniently near. “ I am
so sorry to trouble you,” said Clara, who was always
polite to other people’s servants, “ but I foolishly threw a
little paper into the ﬁre. Ah, there it is 1 Yes, that’s it 3
thank you ! A little burnt? Yes, so it is ; but not much.
So lucky that it stuck on the black coals ! Thank you 1”
Half of the little paper was burnt away 3 but enough
remained. Clara folded it carefully and held it hidden in
her little hand as she sped up-stairs for the second time.
Safe in her room, she locked up the little note in a safe
place, and then prepared herself for that repose which
chloral, even more surely than innocence, can afford to the
nervous female temperament.

0 CHAPTER XIII.
TONY FOTHERINGHAM slept in a room on the ground ﬂoor 3
and as a rule he slept like a good little boy, breathing
steadily' from the moment when his round cheek touched
the pillow to the moment when he was called to resume
the diet of the day. But on the night which followed the
arrival of Mr. Palfrey and Lord Hackbut, Mr. Fothering-
ham was somewhat disturbed. He turned over more than
once ; he even dreamed ,' half-awake he thought uneasily
of his precious health. Something, he feared, had dis-
agreed with him. He wondered, as he‘ moved his hot
check on the pillow, if he had been upset by the somewhat
lurid talk in the smoking-room, where “ good old” Hack-
but had denounced the age with savage speech and much
robust enjoyment. Tony had listened open-mouthed to
the awful pleasantries of the old and critical peer; and
now he lay wondering if he had gone to bed with his hea
too hot. It was eitherlLord Hackbut’s picture of his
times, or the chestnuts of which he had imprudently par-
taken after dinner, which was the cause of the rosy boy’s
disquiet. The light was long in coming. At last he awoke
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4,; ~
88 COMEDY 0F .4 co mime‘ Y H0 use.
again from ‘uneasy slumber, and there was the morning
rosy too.
It was Sunday. Tony left his bed, ‘drew his curtains
open, and pulled up his blind ,- and looking at hiss, watch,
he found that there was still more than an hour to be
passed before his usual time of waking. It was now clear
to him that something was wrong with him. He examined
his fresh young face in the glass with solemn interest, and
he imagined that he saw therein signs of the commencement
of various maladies. Something must be done. He
looked out of the window again, and felt the temptation of
the morning. Air and exercise were the cheapest and
easiest remedies within reach. He would go out into the air,
and return to his bath when the man had put it ready.
Quickly dressing himself in white ﬂannel, with a cashmere
scarf across his throat, and over all a warm pea-jacket
with its collar turned up to his ears, he opened the window
and jumped down on to the terrace. From the terrace he
descended into the park. A light hoar-frost 'was on the
grass; the sky was clear but cold; the freshness of the
air set the boy’s tennis-shoes in motion. Mr. Tony began
to trot steadily (he was there for his health} across the
grass in the direction of the main avenue.
Tony paused when he reached the road and considered
his condition. He found with pleasure that he was better
already ; he congratulated himself on the means which he
had taken to baffle the insidious enemy ,' he thought no
more of the treacherous maladies which had seemed close
upon him. He walked briskly along the road and away
from the house, until presently he remembered how wise
it is to vary the form of exercise, and on the instant his
mind jumped to his own favorite little exercise. He
glanced this way and that ; nobody was in sight. So early
in the Sunday morning rest was everywhere ; it was
wonderfully still 3 not even a twig was stirring. Tony
moved on to the rough grass by the side of one of the
great trees which formed the avenue, and under its protect-
ing arms commenced his strange and imposing performance.
a With his feet firmly planted a little apart, his body bent
slightly forward from the hips,‘ and his shoulders braced
tightly backward, he began to bend his knees and straighten
them with a regular rhythmical movement, while as an
accompaniment to the exercise he uttered again and again
in his deepest tones the suggestive words “ ninety-nine,” v %
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CZOMEDY OF‘A COUNTRY HOUSE. 8g
Q.-
. Tony was alone with Mother Nature, but not for long.
Scarcely had he begun to repeat ‘,‘ ninetyenine ” with an
unyarying regularity, when another’person appeared upon
the road, advancing rapidly towards the house. This was
a slight young man, but little older than Tony himself, in
a great hurry, walking quickly though with short steps.
The skirts of his black frock-coat, which was open, ﬂoated
and ﬂuttered behind him as he came 5 and his breast-pocket
was so full of papers, that it hung heavily away from him,
and seemed to draw him from the straight line as he hurried
forward. His appearance was out of sympathy with the
freshness of the morning and the clean air of the country.
London was in his looks ,' and he seemed to have been up
all night. His high hat, which was distinctly too large,
had not been brushed since yesterday, nor had his clothes,
which were otherwise so respectable. A thick little mat
of black hair appeared on his forehead below his hat, and
beneath the mat and from the keen, pale, nervous face a
pair of black eyes looked, eager, restless, and feverishly
given to observation. It seemed to be of importance to'
the universe that nothing should escape those eyes.
About the whole man there was an air of earnest purpose
and of self-conﬁdence. Indeed, Mr. Beck was always hur-
rying to put something right; and so many other things
were in need of his correcting inﬂuence, that it is no wonder
that he did not ﬁnd time to brush his hat.
To Mr. Beck hurrying up the road there was no sign of
any less important presence, until, suddenly passing one
of the large trees, he came close upon a boyish—looking
individual conscientiously exercising himself on the grass.
Mr. Beck stopped short with a nervous start, but with no
sound ; he had taught his nerves not to betray their sud-
den shock by noise; as an observer, he had found this
education of his excitable nerves strictly necessary. He
now stood still staring, and the interest which he had
encouraged himself to ﬁnd in all exhibitions of humanity
grew strong within him. Here was something the like of
which he had never yet seem His ﬁngers went of them—
selves to the bulging coat-pocket in which his note-book
was buried; but, when he had dragged it out, he only
twisted it about unopened in those same lean, and at pres-
ent dirty, ﬁngers, while he continued to look and look.
He was indeed an observer of life,
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Tony had not heard a sound. Any~ noiise which the
light tripping feet of the other had made on the road had
been lost for Tony in the unceasing repetition of his great
formula. “ N inety-nine, ninety—nine, ninety-nine l ’” he
said, deepening his innocent tones as became the import-
ance of the ceremony, and solemnly rising and sinking
with the rhythmical bending and straightening of the knees.
It was a rule of Radley Beck never to interrupt the pro-
gress of a phenomenon which might lead to more interest-
ing developments. He stood watching with the liveliest
interest, till Mr. F otheringham, at length conscious of this
strenuous and compelling observation, stopped between a
“ ninety ” and a “ nine,” straightened his knees for the last
time, and turned and stared in turn.
“ Hah l ” cried Mr. Beck in a high voice.
“ Eh ? ” said Tony, rather shame-faced.
“ May I ask the meaning?” asked Radley Beck, speak-
ing quickly and with a certain precise pronunciation of
words, which he had brought from Oxford and had not
yet lost in London. “ Is it a local form of religion? Sur-
vival of some country superstition? Sunday morning-
by the roadside—sun-worship still to the fore—Ninety-nine
what? ” He seemed to be murmuring the headings of
some paper. “Ninety-nine what?” he asked of Tony,
smiling friendly, and inquiring.
“Oh, it’s only a little sort of ‘an exercise,” said Tony,
abashed by the extreme interest displayed in those eyes 5
then, as enthusiasm rose again within him, he added, “ It’s
',wonderfully good for you, you know--for the lungs and
that.”
“ It is extremely interesting,” said Mr. Beck, with his
head on one side 5 “ doubtless you are a guest at Langley
Castle ? ”
“ Yes,” said Tony.
“ Is Lord Lorrilaire there?”
“ Oh 1 yes, he’s there right enough,” said Tony.
“Names of other guests ? ” said the stranger, inclining
his head again towards his left shoulder.
“ What? ” asked Tony. '
“ Will you favor me with the names of the other guests
at the Castle P So glad I met you.” .
“Thanks,” said Tony; “but what do you want their
names for? Are you a reporter? ”
COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 91
I
Mr. Beck smiled a smile full of meaning.
“Yes and no,” he answered, “as we used to say at
Balliol. I am a friend of Lord Lorrilaire.”
Tony Fotheringham looked at the other with surprise,
which was hardly complimentary.
“Well,” he said, with some hesitation, “ if you are a
friend of Archie, of course—well, there’s Mrs. Dormer for
one, and there’s good old Hickory for another-Sir Villiers
Hickory, you know—and Mrs. Chauncey, and me, and
Lenny ”
Mr. Beck, who had received each name with a little nod,
here interrupted to ask who Lenny was ; and hearing that
it was Leonard Vale, he asked again with keener interest
if it was the Leonard Vale about whom there had been a
story.
“ It was hushed up,” he said; “ yes 5 kept with some
difficulty from the press."
“ Oh, that was last year,” said Tony.
“ Quite true,” said Mr. Beck ; “no further public
interest.” After a moment he added, “And Lady Jane
Lock is of the party with a daughter? ”
“Yes,” said Tony.
“ Is a marriage probable P ”
“ Can’t say,” said Tony.
Mr. Beck wagged his liead at him with a knowing
manner.
“ Is that all the party?” he asked, peering keenly at
Mr. F otheringham.
“ That was all,” said Tony ; “ but now there’s old
Hackbut and Mr. Palfrey.”
“ Hah ! ” cried out Mr. Beck with his highest note.
“ What’s the matter? ” asked Tony rather crossly.
“ And Lord Lorrilaire? ” asked Mr. Beck 3 “ what are
his politics now P”
“ Don’t know,” said Tony.
“You don’t know!” echoed the other; “oh!” He
shook his head archly. “You are very deep,” he said.
“ There’s a Tory meeting at Langstone this week 3 does
Lord Lorrilaire take part P ”
“ Don’t know,” said Tony.’
“ Then after all,” said Mr. Beck, as if to himself, “ after
all, Lord Lorrilaire is not a Conservative.” '
“ Oh 1 yes, he is," said Tony 5 “ all decent chaps are.”

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92 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.‘
“ Perhaps I am an indecent chap,” said Mr. Beck-as
“ most interesting I Now that exercise of yours? Would
you repeat it once for me? ”
This request at once softened the heart of Tony, and
lulled to sleep his incipient suspicions. He began solemnly
to rise and fall again, and to accompany the movement
with his mystic numbers. Suddenly he stopped short ; ‘
something in the motions had brought back all his doubts.
“ I say,” he said, “ what have you been pumping me for?
It’s all private, you know.”
“ Nothing is private nowadays,” said Mr. Beck, smiling,
and with soft emphasis.
“Oh, but I say,” said Tony, with a look as if he would
collar him.
“ I will come without a struggle,” said Mr. Beck setting
out briskly again towards the house.
“ Oh, but, you know,” said Tony 5 “ what are you going
to do P ”
“ I am going to see Lord Lorrilaire.”
“ Yes 3 but what do you want with him? ”
“ I want to save him.” ~
“ Eh ! ”
“To save him. I am Beck.” He stood still on the
road and faced Tony. “ I am Beck,” he repeated.
“Good old Beck l ” murmured Tony under his breath;
but as he continued to stare with the same amazement, the
other young man said again with his mild emphasis-
“ I am Beck, of the Rising Sim.”
“ Do you keep a public?” asked Tony, still wondering.
“ Keep a public? Hah ! Ho, ho, bah I Yes, by-
Heaven, I do! That is what I do. I keep a public, the
great British public 3 and I keep them straight. Is it
possible that you do not know the Rising Szm—the rising
journal—the most inﬂuential (mark the word l) circulation
in the world? I’ll put you in it--with a sketch-here you
are !”
During Tony’s repetition of his performance Radley
Beck had been busy with his note—book, and he now
displayed to the eyes of the astonished youth a lively
o sketch of a ﬁgure with bent knees, done with a few strokes
of the pencil, and some notes added by the same instru-
ment. “ Modern.,masher--mqrning worship of goddess
Hygeia--Ninety-nine--the mystic number and the expanded
lung.” '
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CQMEDY' OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 93

“ Oh, by George I but ” began Tony.
‘f My dther ,notes,” continued Mr. Beck---“ here they
are-Approaching Marriage.”
“ But I never said there would be a marriage,” cried
Tony.
“ It doesn’t matter,” said Beck 5 “ it brings the matter
to a point 5 it makes or mars. I am a nineteenth-century
Providence. And it makes a paragraph too, and its con-
tradiction makes another.”
“ Good old Beck 1” murmured Tony again, with rising
wonder. I
They had begun again to move quickly towards the
house, and Tony, without thinking, led the way towards the
window of his room and began to enter. Mr. Beck
watched him with interest, and no sooner had his leader
got in, than he followed him nimbly over the window-sill.
“A nice room,” said Mr. Beck, when he had entered ;
“ a bath P H---m-—-m !”
He looked at it with interest.
“ It’s for me,” said Tony anxiously.
“ All right!” said Beck cheerfully 5 “I don’t want it.
But look sharp 5 and, when you have done, I’ll put myself
to rights.”
He seated himself easily on Tony’s bed, and regarded
him critically with his head on one side and from beneath
the unruly forelock which almost touched his thin black
eyebrows.
Tony was much embarrassed. In spite of his expe-
rience of the world, he was essentially a modest boy, and
he blushed at the thought of taking his bath under the
aggressively observant eyes of this stranger. What if he
were to see an account of his skin or ﬁgure in a number of
the Rising Sun, or even a rude sketch of himself, sponge
in hand? On the other hand, to make a fuss about the
attendance of this person seemed to him absurd. He
looked from his bath to his bed and back again with
comical discomposure.
“ Precisely,” said ‘the keen-eyed stranger 5 “ I see 5 I will
walk up and down on the terrace.”
He slipped out of the window in a moment; but Tony
was hardly out of his bath before his visitor was in again,
and again seated on the bed. Tony was annoyed, and the
more annoyed to feel himself blushing.
a‘:
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\
94 COMEDY 0F .4 cowvrrrv HOUSE.
“ You must forgive me,” said Beck crisply 5 “it is such
a chance to study the toilet of a masher.”
“ But I ain’t a masher,” said Tony, hurrying himself into
some garments.
“That is what they all say,” said Beck 5 “ that is the
sign of the masher. If you were not one, you would be
ﬂattered at being called a masher—but those ﬂannel
underclothes ? Surely they are peculiar.”
“Oh, yes,” said Tony, zeal triumphing over modesty 5
“ they’re medicated.”
“ Whose patent? ”asked Beck, and he made some rapid
notes of Mr. F otheringham’s answers, purposing in some
spare hour to interview the ingenious patentee. Then the
soap caught his eye, and he made a note of that and of the
valuable properties which Mr. Fotheringham ascribed to it.
Indeed, nothing escaped him 5 he tried the springs of the
bed while he sat on it, and then crept under it to examine
its mechanism from below. For very hurry Tony was
slower than usual in his dressing. He felt as if all the
furniture, his very clothes and even himself, were about to
be put up to auction 5 and, when at last he was dressed, he
escaped with intense relief, though he left the stranger
nimbly tripping about his room, and using his favorite
hair'brushes.
m
CHAPTER XIV.
No sooner had Tony escaped from the inquiring stranger
than he made haste to ﬁnd his host, and to warn him of
his extraordinary visitor.
“Never saw such a chap in my life,” he said 5 but when
Archie heard that the newcomer was Beck, he was vastly
delighted, and laughed aloud for joy. That Beck should
have hit on Fotheringham seemed to him a delightful
chance, and full of humorous suggestions 5 and he knew
in a moment, moreover, the cause of Beck’s coming, and
that seemed to him a joke even more amusing.
“ He’s all right,” he said 5 “he was a friend of mine at
Oxford 5 at least, we used to have tremendous discussions.
And now he is sub-editor of a brand-new paper, which is to
show up everybody for his good and put everything to
i
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COMEDY OF .4 C'OUNTRY HOUSE. 9!
rights for the good of the universe. You never saw such
a fellow, Tony? No, I’ll bet you didn’t. He used to tell
us at Oxford that his hat covered half the cleverness in
England."
“ Good old Beck ! ” cried Tony cheerfully. After a
minute he added thoughtfully, “ His hat’s a doosid sight
too big for him.”
“Ah, but you see, his head grows so quick,” said Archie;
“ the hat will ﬁt him before night.” '
“Oh, that’s nonsense, you know,” said Tony, wagging
his close-cropped head wisely.
Archie was going at once to greet his former friend in
Tony's room; but Tony assured him that he would inter-
rupt Mr. Beck’s toilet. They therefore went straight to
breakfast ; and, when they entered the breakfast-room,
there was Mr. Radley Beck with his back to the ﬁre, and
his head on one side, looking wiser than a magpie. His
toilet had not detained him long.
The rest of the guests assembled at Langley Castle were
just settling themselves down to breakfast, some seated,
others standing and inspecting the dishes on the side-
table, but all obviously conscious of the presence of the
remarkable stranger, who stood silent and smiling, and
enchanted with the certainty that he was producing his
effect. He loved to impress. He stood still silent and
smiling when Archie came in, and did not go forward
to meet him. He only looked at him, as if he would ins-
tantly see through him without an effort.
“Well, Becky,” said Archie, coming to him and shaking
his limp hand heartily, “ this is capital l ”
“ I hope so,” said Beck, breaking his impressive silence
with speech like a bird’s chirping; “ I had an hour or two
to spare, and I came to say something to you.”
“ Out with it, then,” said Archie ; “or have your break-
fast ﬁrst; ” and he propelled Mr. Beck towards the table,
introducing him by name, as he did so, to his other guests.
Mr. Beck gave little bows and quick glances to right and
left, and there was a general movement of interest; but
the little gentleman would have been genuinely surprised,
had he known that there was only one person present,
besides his host, to whom his name suggested anything at
all. This person was Mr. Palfrey, who after a good look
rose from his chair and offered his large white hand with
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96 COMEDY or A co UNTRY’ HOUSE.
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a bland smile of comradeship, while he said, as if in search
of complete certainty, “‘ Mr Beck, of the ” and here he
coughed, for he could not remember the name of the par
ticular organ of public opinion with which the new-comer
was connected.
“Yes,” said Mr. Beck, looking sideways and upwards
at the eminent politician; “ Yes, Mr. Palfrey, I am Beck.
of the Rising Sun.”
“ I am delighted to meet you at last,” said Mr. Palfrey ;
i I need not say that I have long known you in print."
Mr. Beck emitted a slight purring noise.
Young Lord Lorrilaire was delighted by the coming of
this old acquaintance. He had guessed in a moment that
Beck, hearing of the arrival of Lord Hackbut and Mr.
Palfrey, had started on the instant to prevent him from
being captured by the Conservative party. It was so like
Beck. Archie foresaw much amusement in eluding both
Lord Hackbut and Mr. Beck. It was a joke which suited
his present humor; and there was only one person with
whom he would share it. He seized the ﬁrst chance of
speaking to Dora alone, and was made even more happy
by her ready sympathy. Indeed, Dora was content with
the whole aspect of the game. Elizabeth still kept her
room, though her mother stated curtly and with ill-con-
cealed chagrin that there was nothing the matter with her.
Lady jane Lock’s grimness was itself strong evidence that
Dora’s side was winning; and Lady Jane seemed to think it
hardly worth while, even in answer to her host’s questions,
to try to make her child’s indisposition interesting. The
truth is, that Lady jane was astounded by Elizabeth's
obstinacy, and half inclined to say that she would not try
to do a mother’s duty to a daughter so ungrateful. She
was very red and very straight ; and she would allow nothing
but arrowroot and nourishment of a like kind to be sent
up to Elizabeth, who was a young lady of most healthy
appetite; but, though she maintained an appearance of
ﬁrmness, she was evidently despondent. And so Dora
Rutherford was well content, seeing that the dangerous
girl was sulking, as she said, in her room, and that Archie
for his part showed no depression of spirits. And so too
she listened with rising pleasure to Archie’s quick sketch
of the intentions of his political friends. It all suited her
game admirably well- The young man’s mind would be

.91 IF“: /\ 1 ‘t' i i air.
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as:
COMEDY 0F .4 COUNTRY HOUSE. 97
busy with politics for that day at least; and therein was
the day’s safety. She encouraged him to amuse himself
by dexterous evasions, and foresaw amusement for herself
too in the sight of the sport and in the society of these
interesting men.
Lord Hackbut did not appear at breakfast ; but when
he came downstairs he at once asked for Lord Lorrilaire;
and for a staunch and uncompromising supporter of the
establishment, he showed a most strange annoyance at
hearing that his young host had gone to church. “ What
did he go there for?” he said with a growl, which may
have been an oath. He was in a somewhat ﬁery humor,
not certain that there was not a threatening of gout. At
the sight of Mr. Beck regarding him with his jackdaw air
and his mysterious smile, he uttered another growl, which
may have been a greeting, turned his back, and shut himself
for the morning in the smoking room, of which he locked
the door. He pretended to be deaf, when Beck soon after-
wards came and shook the handle.
Returning from church, Archie saw Beck awaiting him
on the terrace and Lord Hackbut’s man at the front door.
Beck came hurrying, but had scarcely opened his mouth,
when the servant presented Lord Hackbut’s compliments
and said that his lordship would take it as a kindness if
his lordship would come and see his lordship in the smoking-
room. With cheerful friendliness and an air of pleasing
all parties, Archie passed his arm through Beck’s, and with
a nod to Dora, led his friend away to the smoking—room.
He talked, as he led him, with a ﬁne ﬂow of words 3 and
when they were now close to the door of the smoking-room,
he made a remark which he knew to be what he called a
sure draw for Beck. So they entered the room both talk-
ing at once 5 and Archie, shaking hands with Lord Hack-
but, appealed to him to judge between them. The old
lord remained silent, and looked at Mr. Beck with a very
obvious intention; and Radley Beck for his part hung his
head on one side, smiled and remained. Archie, ignoring
the desire of each, continued to chatter for a few minutes,
and then seeming to remember suddenly a forgotten duty,
uttered some words of apology as he ﬂed, shut the door
behind him, and left his two pursuers together.
At luncheon both Lord Hackbut and Mr. Beck appeared ;
but neither of them took part in the general conversation.
4
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98 come»? 0F .4 COUNTRY HOUSE.
Only, as the meal drew to a close, the old lord ﬁlled a
pause by asking incisively across the table--“ Mr. Peek,
do you go back to town to-day?” And, as the other
gentleman smiled and murmured “Beck,” he added, “ I
hear that you brought no luggage with you.”
“Oh, never mind,” cried Archie to Beck, for he, like
everybody else, had stopped to listen 5 “ I am sure Tony
will lend you any amount of clothes.”
Tony turned a face of amazement and comical indigna-
tion on his friend 5 and Beck began to shake his head.
“ I am bound to be back tonight,” he said, moving his
little shoulders as if he were suddenly reminded of the
weight of the world.
“ But at least you’ll stay to dinner,” said Archie; “I
am sure that Tony ”
“ Oh, I say," said Tony; “ yes, of course 5 I should be
awfully glad,” he added, “but really and truly I’ve only
one dress suit, you know.”
Nevertheless Archie insisted that Mr. Beck should
return to the ofﬁce of the Rising Sun by the latest train 5
and Mrs. Dormer’s permission having been asked and
obtained, it was settled that the sub—editor should dine in
his morning clothes.
It now seemed as if Lord Hackbut had made up his
mind to defer operations until after the departure of the
irritating little man, whose presence increased the like—
lihood of an attack of gout, for, when luncheon was done,
he betook himself again to solitude and an old volume of
“ Baily’s Magazine," and made no further attempt to
secure an interview ‘with his host.
Beck, on the contrary, aware that his time was short,
came straight to Lord Lorrilaire and said, without
preamble, that he had come for a short talk and must
have it. Archie laughed and did not refuse 5 but he led
Mr. Beck with other of his guests through all the gardens
and hot-houses, and showed him every horse in the stables,
before he would allow him to begin the conﬁdential talk 5
and when he did allow him to begin, he displayed the
most provoking ﬂippancy, making paradoxical excuses for
the Conservative party, maintaining that it was more
liberal than the Liberal, and arguing that it was absurd of
the Rising Sun, or any other organ or organist,» to care a
.501: whether he, Lord Lorrilaire, enrolled himself with
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COMEDY OF A COUNTRY’ HOUSE. 99
“the Ins” or “the Outs.” Finally he attacked Beck
with great good-humor, reminding him that he used to be
an avowed disciple of Mazzini, and asking him with what
eyes the great Italian patriot, the preacher of the highest
motives in political affairs, would regard the methods and
manners of the new catch-penny or catch-halfpenny jour-
nalism. Radley Beck shook his head but kept his temper,
and made a few neat remarks in defence of his business ;
but he gained no knowledge whatever of Lord Lorrilaire’s
present position or future intentions.
When the party met in the drawing-room before dinner,
Archie found an opportunity and told Dora Rutherford
of the success of his day; but Dora was not so sure that
his success was ﬁnal. “ Look 1” she said, directing his
attention ﬁrst to Lord Hackbut and then to Mr. Beck;
“neither of them looks a bit crestfallen ; they are both as
pleased as Punch.”
“ That’s because it's time for dinner,” said Archie, and
he went away smiling to offer his arm to Lady Jane Lock,
and to ask after her daughter.
When they entered the dining-room, Dora found with
keen pleasure that her place was between Lord Hackbut
and Mr. Beck, who had taken her in. She found, as she
had guessed, that both men were in great good-humor,
and she promptly set herself the task of increasing their
amiability. She knew by instinct that this was to be done
by listening with intelligence and charm. Of the two men
Lord Hackbut was by far the more attentive to his dinner ;
and Mr. Beck, whose favorite food and drink were bloaters
and soda-water, was able to favor his charming neighbor
with a little series of his choicest remarks. Naturally the
ﬁrst topic was the surprising fortune of Lord Lorrilaire,
and Mr. Beck spoke neatly and tersely of the Archie
Rayner of their Oxford days. Dora tried to draw from
him his opinion of the transformed Lord Lorrilaire ; but
he slipped over the subject with a few general remarks.
“What he needs now,” he said, “is advertisement. He
should hand himself over to me. \Vith his wealth and
name he only needs to be forced on the attention of the
Eublic, and there he is--or rather where isn’t he? To
lush unseen is an anachronism—it is contrary to the
spirit of Democracy. Even the modest primrose has ‘
come out from the nver’s brim ; it is a badge, aipoveer 3;; it ,41
‘is. agreaadeatmore a primrose.”
100 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
'4‘3.
i...
Dora murmured her doubt whether Archie would ever
care to become prominent, and asked with an enchanting
deference “if perhaps Archie would not do well to content
himself with the duties and pleasures of a country gentle-
man.” The sub—editor scouted the idea of a man of ability
contenting himself with pottering about his property and
riding after a fox. “All out of date,” he said. “He
must accept the democracy, and exterminate the fox.”
Dora gave a little cry of horror.
“ Horses are an anachonism,” said Beck, “ at least as a
means of locomotion. They will be the food of the demo-
cracy. To kill your own food for fun is atrocious in these
days. Archie must give up the monotonous pheasant,
and let the children go nutting in his woods.”
“And mustn’t a country gentleman shoot or ride any
more P ” asked Dora.
“ Certainly, if he wish to,” said Mr. Beck, smiling upon
the fair questioner; “he can shoot glass balls and ride a
tricycle.”
“Oh l” cried Dora; and “What’s that?” asked Lord
Hackbut, turning towards her with his most amiable grin.
“Mr. Beck says that the democracy will eat horses,”
she said.
“I should not wonder,” said the old lord, who was as
famous for his knowledge of horses as of the political
situation ; “ and asses too,” he added, with a most carni-
vorous grin.
Mr. Beck was enchanted by the fair lady, who listened
to him with so keen an interest. Her manner of listening
gave him a higher opinion of her cleverness than if she had
dazed him with epigrams, and increased also with every
moment his admiration of her beauty. He pressed upon
her the names of his favorite photographers, and shook
his head gravely at her contempt of a purely chemical
notoriety.
“It is out of date,” he said; “my dear lady 5 it is an
anachronism, this absurd fear of the public, the generous,
warm-hearted, inquisitive, enormous public. The Demo~
cracy wants beauty in the shop-windows. Be photo~
graphedl let me draw attention to you—a 1ine---a para
graph. Permit the public to be interested in your person-
ality.”
"ﬁt; ciyéd her askance like'a snake-charmer ; but Dora
' ' ou‘ld only laugh and Shakﬁ her head in he)? tum‘
COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 101
~ “Write for me too,” he said to her, when the moment
had come for the ladies to go. “ An occasional paragraph
or sketch-J The world as seen by a woman of fashion! ’--
It would be enormous.”
“ Oh, no ! rather small, I think,” said Dora, as she
moved towards the door.

CHAPTER XV.
THERE was no doubt that Lord Hackbut had dined well 5
he seemed to show it in every crease of his face and of his
clothing. He had clean forgotten the threatening gout 5
he felt expansive 5 he put a great arm on the back of his
chair and looked down the table at Sir Villiers Hickory.
“ Villiers,” he said, “this is good wine. It is too good
for these boys.”
“It belongs to one of them,” said Sir Villiers, drily.
“So it does, by George!” said Lord Hackbut, gazing
upon Archie 5 “ what luck the boy has ! To be young and
to have such wine to drink; to be young and to have as
many horses as he wants 5 and coverts too, where foxes
and pheasants breed peacefully side by side, begad! as in
the Golden Age. Lorrilaire, I drink your health! I had
nearly advised you to leave politics to Palfrey, and to
breed horses—not to eat, Mr. Peek.” He displayed the
broken tooth in a grin of contentment.
“Beck,” murmured Beck, mildly persistent.
Archie laughed, but felt uncomfortable 5 he did not like
to be the topic of conversation.
“ He has got the best house in the county,” continued
Lord Hackbut, “ and the best stables and the best gar’
dens, and—and the best cook, and ”
“The best cream,” said Tony Fotheringham, wagging
his head with decision.
“ The best what P ” cried out the old lord.
“ Cream,” said Tony; “oh! it’s tremendously impor-
tant; it’s so good for the nerves, you know.”
“ Nerves!” growled Lord Hackbut 5 “ men don’t have
nerves.”
“We’ve all got ’em,” said Tony, “ except Archie.
‘is awfully ~bad witlr’eng."
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102 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
. we make utter that...
“ Eh? what?” said Leonard Vale, starting at the sound
of his name. He had been absorbing claret silently, and
thinking of other things.
“Look at that,” said Tony, triumphantly. “ Good old
Lenny! Did you see him jump P ”
“ It is a nervous age,” said Radley Beck, sententiously.
“ Were we nervous, Villiers P ” asked Lord Hackbut
with a growl of scorn. “ These boys are a puny race, and
ﬁt to think of nothing but their digestions.”
“ It is a tremendously important thing to think about,”
said Tony, with raised eyebrows.
“ We didn’t know we had digestions.”
“ Ah ! we know we’ve got ’em,” said Tony--“ at least,
I mean we know we haven’t got ’em.”
“ Very neat, Mr. Tony 1” said Beck, “ very neat indeed !
I must make use of that.”
“ You ought to drink,” shouted Lord Hackbut, drown-
ing the last words of Mr. Beck; “ drink is what you want.
Wine like this would make men of you, if anything could.
Everything that’s worth anything has gone out with drink.
Statesmanship has gone out with drink. Strip Palfrey, and
you will ﬁnd a blue ribbon on him somewhere.”
It was now Mr. Palfrey’s turn to start. He caught
Beck’s look of keen inquiry, and shook his head with a
smile which seemed to say that everybody made allow-
ances for “dear old Hackbut I” It was a smile which Mr.
Palfrey was obliged to have always ready when he was in
the society of “ dear old Hackbut.”
“ And as for you boys, by George ! ” said Lord Hack-
but, “ I do believe that you drink nothing but lemon and
soda. Your blood is lemon and soda.”
Mr. Palfrey led the general laughter ; but Archie expos~
tulated. “ We ain’t so bad as that,” he said 3 “ here’s
Tony.”
“ Oh, I say, don’t set him on me,” said Tony.
“ Tony is as strong as a house,” said Archie.
“ Mr. Tony is very well ribbed up,” said Beck, “if I
may be allowed the expression.” Tony blushed; he felt
the penetrating eyes of the little sub-editor and the old
lord glowering upon him with terriﬁc eyebrows. “ Doubt<
less,” said the latter grimly, “ he is as strong as they build
houses nowadays.”
“ Capital! capital!” murmured,lBeck5 “ you must let


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COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 103
“Then you must pay me for it,” said Lord Hackbut,
turning upon him, “a penny a line and Sixpence for my-
self.”
“ You would be cheap at the price,” chirped Beck with
animation.
“ Or a shilling, because I’m a lord,” said Hackbut; “ it’s
a commercial age. And you ought to drink too, Mr. Sub-
editor ; you ought to drink something better than printer’s
ink and water. Drink must come in again. Look at
these boys ! They are all grudging me my bottle of claret
because they want to begin pulling at their rubbishy
chopped-straw in paper. Drink, you young dogs, and we’ll
have another bottle 1 That fellow looks as if it would do
him good. Here you, Mr. What’s—yer name Vale, ﬁll your
glass and drink, as your fathers drank, to Wine and
Women.”
Leonard, who had been taking but little notice of the
old lord’s talk, smiled responsive at this direct invitation.
He put his unopened cigarette-case back into his pocket,
and ﬁlled his glass again. “ Women and Wine 1 ” he said,
and drank.
“ No, no l ” cried out Lord Hackbut ; “Wine and
Women, that is the order of merit--and both between
twenty and thirty years old 1 ”
“ Lord Hackbut is very shocking, Mr. Palfrey,” said
Beck, smiling sweetly across the table ; “it is lucky that
we know our age, and know it to be one of progressive
temperance. After all, it is an age of progress.”
“An age of humbugl” shouted Lord Hackbut; “we
are living in an age of decadence, I tell you; and we pre—
tend not to know it. There’s not a feature wanting,
though I can’t mention the worst of ’em. We are all
Romans of the worst period, given up to luxury and
effeminacy, and caring for nothing but money. Courage
is so out of fashion that we boast of cowardice. We care no
more for beauty in art, but only for a brutal realism.
Sport has lost its manliness, and is a matter of pigeons
from a trap, or a mountain of crushed pheasants to sell
to your own tradesman. Religion is coming down to
jugglers, and tableeturnings and philandering with religions
brought, like the rites of Isis, from the East; and as for
patriotism, it is turned on, by George! like beer, at
in » a i“ ‘ k ‘a “ ‘n l ' -
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m4 COMEDY’ OF 14 COUNTRY HOUSE.
pullers! What is our foreign policy except to sit trem~
bling, and trying to think we aren’t afraid of the irruption
of barbarians from the North? I tell you it is an age of
humbug and long—winded talk. Why, if we were not in
the plain decadence, Palfrey would be leading a colony to
West Australia, instead of sitting here with an undigested
speech in his stomach. There is not an ounce of manli—
ness in the country; and as for the women ”
Here he paused, and only Tony was heard murmuring,
almost inaudibly, “ Good old Hackbut l ”
“ Oh," said Mr. Beck sweetly; “oh, spare the gentle
sex 1 ”
“The gentle sex ! ” cried out the old lord with his most
sava‘ge grin. “ Nothing draws your gentle sex like a child
hanging by its toe-nails to the high trapeze, or the chance
of a wounded pigeon in their laps. If there were a Gladia-
ator ﬁght in the Albert Hall next season, and the beaten
man went down, the women would be ready with their
little thumbs; they’d want his blood. Yes, my young
friends, you all have the honor of belonging to one of the
most corrupt generations of the human race. To ﬁnd
your equal one must go back to the worst times of the
Roman Empire, and look devilish close then.”
“ I always thought the Romans were a bad lot,” said
Tony, wagging his head.
“ And yet,” said Mr. Beck, slily, “we have learned
something—something since those days.”
“ Yes,” growled Lord Hackbut, “the use of dynamite.
And now,” he continued after a minute, “ smoke and be--
look at that young Vale there,” he cried, interrupting him-
self; “ do you mean to say that he would be possible in
any other age?” The old lord grinned on Lenny, who
smiled without indignation in reply, and lighted his
cigarette.
“ Oh, Lord Hackbut,” said Mr. Beck, expostulating.
“ And you too, Mr. Peek,” cried Lord Hackbut, who was
running a muck-with keen enjoyment, “ you would be im—
possible in any but a corrupt age. What do you say,
Lorrilaire? I don’t know how bad you are ; but you
agree with me P ”
“Not I,” said Archie.
“ That's ﬂat, any way,” said Lord Hackbut, brought to
a sudden stand, and grinning not unkindly.

COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 105


“ If I thought we were as bad as that,” said Mr. Beck,
after a pause, “ I should not care to live.”
“There you make’ another mistake,” said Lord Hack-
but, turning upon him 5 “ it’s uncommonly amusing to live
in an age of decadence. You see the funniest sights, and
you get every conceivable luxury, and you die before the
irruption of the barbarians.”
“ But seriously, Lord Hackbut,” said Beck sweetly,
“ don’t you think that the Democracy ”
“ Democracy be damned !” said Lord Hackbut.
After this Lord Hackbut, who had had enough of his
wild career, fell into a refreshing silence 5 and presently,
as the air was becoming fragrant with the smoke of
cigarettes, a footman entered to say that the brougham was
at the door.
Radley Beck slipped at once,from his chair and looked
at his watch. He said good-bye to Lord Hackbut with a
pressing manner. “ I really do wish,” he said softly, “ that
you would write me some letters—proofs of the Deca-
dence, or some such title.”
“ Penny a line are my terms,” grumbled the old lord in
answer. “ Go home and wind up your Rising Sun, and
bring along the Golden Age.”
Mr. Palfrey got up to say good-bye to the sub-editor 5
and Archie went with him to the front-door, and insisted
on lending him an ulster which was some sizes too big for

1 him. With his foot on the step of the carriage, Beck took
Archie’s hand and held it a minute, and said with soft in-
sistance, “I shall save you in spite of yourself.”
4‘ All right I " said Archie 5 and the brougham rolled
quickly away.
It seemed as if Lord Hackbut had talked too much.
For the rest of that evening he said scarcely an audible
word, though an attentive ear might have heard occasional
mutterings as of a storm passing away.
“ What do you have such a friend as that Peek for? ”
he asked Archie, as he took his bed-room candle.
“ Oh, he’s not a bad chap,” said Archie.
“ He’s a little cad l ” said the old lord. 4*
“ Oh, no 5 I don’t think so,” said Archie.
The old lord looked at him again, as if he were sur~
prised at his daring to differ from him. “ You have your
gwnn opinions it seems,” he said, and went muttering and
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96 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
On the next morning Archie expected a more serious-
conversation with Lord Hackbut, and had made up his
mind to submit to it with patience and respect; but,
though the old lord stared at him at breakfast, and said
something about appealing from Philip drunk to Philip
sober, which may have referred to his extravagant talk of
the day before, and to a purpose of more temperate dis-
cussion, he allowed the hours to pass without a further
sign. Only later in the day, when Archie, roaming aim-
lessly about his extensive dwelling-place, which was still
so strange to him, wandered into the library, he found
Lord Hackbut there with Mr. Palfrey and Sir Villiers
Hickory. They were all so much interested in their con-
versation that they did not notice him for a moment 3 and,
when they saw him, they all smiled upon him divers
smiles, but pursued their ‘subject no further until he left
them.
And so this Monday passed away uneventfully, a grey
doubtful day, and distinguished by a certain dulness which
seemed to oppress the whole party, even the young host
himself. The novel amusement of abandoning himself to
the chances of life was beginning to pall upon him. The
desire to will something for himself was stirring again,
and made him restless; and he was annoyed at the same
time to ﬁnd that there was nothing for which he cared
enough, on that day at least,to make him purpose the attain~
ment of it. He was sick of a slight malady of real indiffer—
ence, which was unlike, and far less pleasant than letting
himself drift with a lively curiosity; he told himself that
he was sick, and hoped that it would pass with the day.
And, under all, the boyish Vagabond was awake in him
again; and, as he wandered from room to room of his
. spacious abode, he was bored with heavy curtains and
thick noiseless carpets, which seemed the adjuncts to a
padded listless life ; and his fancy went a~roving on upland
paths, on broad hill-sides, by hanging woods and folded
sheep, or tramping on the good high road from country
loneliness to the strange city, and to the crowded quays
whence ships went sailing to every corner of the world.
It seemed better to be a gipsy pedlar than the lord of
broad acres, to wander at his will than to yield to a
round of dull and doubtful duties which others found for
him. However, he must stay and plat)r the host awhile,
and only his fancy might go qrgovinié.
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COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 107
The only event of the day which was worthy of the
name was the reappearance of Miss Lock ; and even this
excited the most languid interest. Dora Rutherford
promptly roused herself to attention; but, noting with
satisfaction the apparent indiﬂ'erence of Archie, she yield-
ed again to the prevailing calm. More than once in the
course of the day she felt an inclination to scream, but
restrained it; and, when the society of the other women
became intolerable, she shut herself in her room and wrote
a long letter to her husband. Then she felt better, and
slipped out of the house for a solitary walk, which pro—
bably would have restored her to her wonted state had she
not encountered at the very door Lady Jane Lock
accoutred for her daily constitutional, who annexed her
without more ado, and marched her for the due number of
miles, talking to her and at her with unﬂagging resolution.
Dora submitted with a meekness which surprised her-
self, and made her think that she was going to be ill; she
:could ﬁnd no comfort but in the fact that she had been a.
good girl, and had written a nice letter to her husband.
She felt so meek, that she was inclined to let slip the des-
tinies of all young men whose lives she had determined to
arrange for them, to return humbly to her home, and to
limit her abilities to varying the daily dinners.
The world became somewhat gayer at dinner-time,
though a short return of gloom was caused by some com-
ments of Lord Hackbut, which were more audible than he
knew. Becoming aware of the presence of Elizabeth
Lock, he remarked to Mrs. Chauncey that women with
daughters to marry were lost to all sense of decency, and
a moment later, that he hated a girl in a country house,
for it stopped all conversation. Of those who heard these
opinions, the only one who showed no embarrassment was
Elizabeth herself. She looked at Lord Hackbut with a
slow wonder, in which contempt was hardly indicated;
and she looked so handsome, that the old lord, regarding
her with more attention, expressed his approval of her
beauty with the same unintentional distinctness with which
he had regretted her appearance. It was one of his deaf
days, on which he was apt to surprise the world with com-
ments more than usually candid; but there were some
who maintained that this deafness was maliciously assumed.
\a
.4
108 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE restlessness of young Lord Lorrilaire did not pass
with the day. When he had said good-night to his latest
guest and was alone in his room, he felt hot, and opened
his window wide to view the boundless world of out-of-
doors. Out-of-doors had a great charm for Archie ; and
as he looked now at the wide country, which lay mystical
under a rising moon, his fancy went beyond his own park
palings, beyond his farms and ﬁelds, out on to the common
road which had led so many million feet from marvel to
marvel. He thought of the untrodden dazzling tops of
the Rocky Mountains, and felt his face tingle with their
rarest air ; but even the next parish offered freedom and
adventure. Even in the next parish he would be out of l
the toils which he fancied closing on him. His place’
seemed a burden, and politics, and marriage. Surely his
boyhood was not ended yet, nor need not be. Surely one
more spring might set his heart longing for pilgrimage, as
men’s hearts longed in Chaucer’s smokeless England, and
he might tread the road with light pockets, and whistle in
the presence of the foot-pad.
Archie was discontented. He thought of the three
gentlemen whom he classed all together as old, and whom
he had interrupted in the library. What had they been
plotting? What leading-string had they been making for
his wild colt-blood ; he was inclined to kick. And he
thought of Lady Jane Lock too with a certain indignation.
It was not for himself that he was indignant with this
admirable woman, but because her determined prosaic
Q image came between him and another. She withered all
the poetry which was in him ; she was an embodiment of
settlements and things, and of all which the world, that
world which to the boy staring at moonlight seemed shal-
low, jabbering and preposterous, said every day of love
and marriage. Some airy hidden fancies of his heart fell
dead at the intrusive thought of Lady Jane. Archie felt,
instead of the placidity which he had expected to remm
. x A ,. . . _
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COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 109
to him with night, an increase of disquiet. It was as if
some sprite had caught him. He was impelled, as it were,
to be out and away, if it were only into his own coverts.
The old poaching song came unbidden to his lips 5 it was
a shining night and the season of year; the idea of poach—
ing in his own wood and the chance of being hunted by
his own keeper were almost irresistible. He looked and
longed; but at last he refrained, and closed the window.
Perhaps he could not have made this great renunciation,
had he not made up his mind that on the next day he
would do something. He would be away from his oppres-
sive castle all day long. He would rise early and be off
before his guests were stirring. He would drive himself
over to Langstone, catch the early train to London, and
have a talk with Tom Rutherford. He had not known
Tom Rutherford until he had married Dora 5 and yet of
all his friends he was the one to whom he turned most
readily and with the surest trust when he wanted advice.
He wanted advice now 5 he did not wish to be swallowed
alive 5 and even if Rutherford could not help him, a day,
a whole blue day, would be his with all its possibilities,
and at least sixteen hours in which he could think for him-
self. Soothed by this purpose of early ﬂight, he lay warm
in bed, and promptly fell into a deep and happy sleep.
Among other gifts, Archie had that of waking when he
meant to wake 5 and so, when morning came, he opened
his sleepy eyes at the precise hour. He bestirred himself
and got the water for his own bath, and he did not ring
his bell until he was nearly dressed. Then he summoned
his astonished man, and sent him to order some breakfast
for him at once and the dog-cart soon after. When he
had breakfasted and was driving himself through the keen
air, he felt a great elation 5 he was adrift no more 5 he felt
himself a man with a man’s will 5 he was bound to will
something before night. Nevertheless he certainly had
not left his boyhood behind him 5 the cart was well hung
and the horse a good goer, and, as he sent him along the
good smooth road, he felt as happy as a lord. After all
he was one.
A great surprise awaited him at Langstone. As Archie
was driving quickly towards the town, a local bill-sticker
was employed in pasting ﬁne large bills on all vacant
s and other suitable places. He too had risen
it 14R“)
. ~r .
m I ‘’ %¥?%sa%z*a Micky-E’ .0 v‘ 5:;


O
in
no COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
early; and already the waking town was gay with many
posters, when Lord Lorrilaire approached its outskirts.
Just where the country faded into the town, the ﬁrst bill
posted on a paling met the driver’s eye. The paling was
uneven and the bill distorted, but Archie saw the name of
Mr. Palfrey, and knew that this was a notice of the coming
great Conservative meeting. But the strange thing was
that when he had passed this notice by, Archie found that
he had an impression of having seen his own name. It
was impossible, he thought, and yet he looked with start-
led curiosity for the next bill. He had not long to wait 5
here was a hoarding with half a dozen of them, and half
a dozen copies of his own name stared back at young
Lord Lorrilaire. He had pulled his horse up short, and
sat staring. He could not read it otherwise. It was
announced that the Rt. Hon. Mr. Palfrey, M.P., would
speak to the assembled Conservatives at Langstone, and
in letters almost equally impressive it was asserted that
the chair would be taken by Lord Lorrilaire.
Archie burst out laughing. He was by no means
pleased, and was surprised by his own laughter 5 but it
was thus that his thronging emotions expressed themselves 5
they exploded in laughter. Then he remembered the
decorous groom, who was sitting at his back with stiff collar
and folded arms, and who only allowed himself to read the
bills out of the corner of his eye 5 this checked his
laughter. He said to himself with decision that this was
too bad of his uncle Villiers. He had consented cheer-
fully to receive Mr. Palfrey as his guest 5 but not a word
had been said to him about even attending this much-
advertised meeting. And here he found himself announced
to the universe, or to such part of the universe as it might
concern, as chairman, president, patron—ticketed for ever
and ever, for it seemed to him to amount to this, as the
leading Tory of the countryside. He glanced forward up
the street, which was still almost empty, and saw the bill-
sticker moving to a new point of vantage 5 he started his
horse at the sight, half meaning at the moment to rob him
of his wares, but, when he came to him, and had called
him, he did not know what to say. He put down his
hand for a bill and read it slowly through 5 and when the
man looked as if he expected its return, Archie told him
curtly who he was, folded the bill and put it in the inner
‘ J
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a It ”
w r. are; afaaawmt‘stiia
COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. r11
pocket of his great-coat. He felt himself blush, as he
named himself, and knew that he blushed for this new
publicity, this wide~cast advertisement. He was indig—
nant with those old rogues at home, who had arranged
this plan ; his hand was on the rein to turn the horse and
urge him back with even greater speed, and his lips were
beginning to mutter the protest which he would address
to his uncle, and the excuses which he would offer to Mr.
Palfrey. He knew now why Lord Hackbut had postponed
his conﬁdential talk with him; he laughed again at the
thought of the wise old Hackbut. His hand was on the
rein, but he did not press it. It became clear to him,
thinking quick thoughts, that it was more then ever good
to hurry up to town and see Tom Rutherford. He thought
that he, if any man, could point to the wise course in these
strange circumstances. With sudden anxiety he pulled
out his watch and looked at it; he had no time to spare ;
the station was at the other end of the town. Ten
minutes later he was in the quick morning train and speed-
ing to London.
It was among the well-known advantages of Langley
Castle that it stood at a convenient distance from London,
withdrawn in solitary dignity far beyond the circle of
suburban villas, but not so far withdrawn, but that certain
good trains could do the journey to or from Langstone in
a little more than an hour. Afterlittle more than an hour
Archie was in a hansom, and driven rapidly through the
streets to the Rutherford’s house.

CHAPTER XVII.
TOM RUTHERFORD was in his study, but he was neither
reading nor writing ; he was thinking of his wife. Thoughts
of Dora had been more than usually intrusive; and at
last he had left his table and stood with his back to the
ﬁre,.frowning a little, condemning himself for weakness,
wishing that his wife would come back to him, determined
not to ask her. It was one of his ﬁxed rules not to inter-
fere with his wife’s amusements unless he was sure that he


H2 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
zeal proper to her years, would always amuse herself with
discretion. If she was happy at Langley Castle, he would
not call her home 3 he hardly confessed to himself that he
was hurt because she did not come uncalled. He obsti-
nately asserted Dora’s right of amusement 3 and maintained
'against himself her natural right of ﬂitting, while he was
chained to the desk. He had fallen headlong into love of
this bright creature, in part of her innocent waywardness,
her glancing charm 3 and he told himself in the plain Eng-
lish, with which he always spoke to himself and to others,
that he would be both brute and fool if he limited her happy
liberty without sure cause. Thus the rule of his treatment
of her was non-interference. If ever he should feel that
interference were right, he would act promptly and with
decision ; but there should be no petty meddling with her
wishes. And yet he loved her, as a man of strong feelings
loves, who has chosen not to fritter his feelings away but
to control them. He loved her 3 and it hurt him that she
had shown no desire yet to come back to him from this
holiday visit. When he married, he had pictured her
always beside him, the charm and ornament of his indus-
trious life, the Ariel to his toiling Caliban. He told him~
self roundly that he had been a fool not to foresee the
truth. To foresee facts a little less incorrectly than other
men was the claim which he silently made for himself, the
reason which he gave himself for believing that he would
be a more trusty guide than some others for his contem-
poraries. And now in this matter, this most important
matter of the companion of his life, he confessed that he
had deceived himself, blinded by love like a school-boy,
as he told himself. This was the disappointment of his
married life.
As he stood with his back to the ﬁre, he was no bad
representative of the race. There was a lack of grace 3 it
was strength and ﬁrmness which the face, form, and
attitude suggested. He looked strong and well made as
the solid old-fashioned furniture, the heavy writing-table
and wide book-cases, which he preferred, and as free from
useless decorations. He had the ﬁne fair skin, too, of the
typical Englishman; and he could lead a life mainly
sedentary for months at a time without losing his fresh
color. Such men seem to have stored up some impossible
supplywof healthy air in the days when they excellqd on
a
- ass"? ediééigiaég
L'OMEDY 0F .4 an owner HOUSE. 113
and old Hackbut.”


the river or in the football ﬁeld, and to refresh themselves
therewith in the office or the library. Though he was a
man of middle age, he showed no trace of time, unless his
ﬁgure was a little more set and the brown hair ‘a little
thinner on the top of his head. His face was ruddy, his
eyes clear and blue, and his nose aquiline, broad in the
bridge, a little depressed at the point. His square chin
had its ﬁrmness emphasized by a deep cleft. The ﬁrst
impression which he made was of a man conspicuously
clean-looking, and the next was one of power. As to his
temper, the observer would guess in a moment that he was
amiable, generous, quick to feel anger, and strong to con~
trol it when he chose to control it. Indeed his openness
was striking ; the most suspicious acquaintance could not
suspect his straightforwardness, his plain dealing.
Planted on his hearth—rug and staring at the carpet, with
a slight frown on his broad forehead and his sensitive lips
pressed ﬁrmly together, Tom Rutherford was disturbed by
the entrance of his servant. He looked up with prompt
inquiry, for his man had a standing order not to come into
that room in the morning without adequate cause. He
ﬂushed as he heard that Lord Lorrilaire was there 5 this
arrival was in some sort an answer to his wishes 5 he would
hear of Dora. He had to wait, how ever, for news of his
wife.
Archie came in so full of his own affairs, that he had
hardly shaken his friend's hand before he unfolded the
poster and laid it on his writing-table. “ Look at that,"
he said. Tom came from the ﬁreplace and looked.
“ Well P ” he said.
“ I never was asked,” said Archie; “ I never heard a
word about it; and I am advertised all over Langstone
like this.” He rapped the offending instrument.
“ Do you mean,” asked Tom deliberately, while the
ﬂush deepened on his cheek, “ do you mean that they
have announced you to preside at a meeting without ask-
ing your permission?”
“ Yes,” said Archie 5 “pretty fair cheek, isn’t it? ”
“ And who on earth has had the sublime impertinence
to do such a thing? ”
“ Oh, it must be my uncle Villiers,” said Archie, “he
“ No, I won’t laugh,” he said with
>97‘ ‘1 }AJ"4I\ “r
v
5% 4} 2 .ew‘t'.
n4 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
decision 5 “it is monstrous. Why, what are you? I
thought you were a Liberal.”
“ So I am,” said Archie 5 “ or at least I was—yes, I am
a Liberal I”
“ Well, of all ” began Tom Rutherford, but stopped
for want of adequate words.
He saw it all. He knew both Lord Hackbut and Sir
Villiers Hickory 5 and it needed no explanation to make
it clear to him that this was a bold stroke for the capture
of a young politician at a period of doubt. He laughed
again, but he was none the less extremely indignant.
“ You must stop it,” he said, letting his good ﬁst fall on
the treacherous bill.
“ But can I P ” asked Archie 5 “ you see the meeting is
for to-morrow night."
“Of course you can,” said Tom 5 “you can go home
and tell your uncle that you won’t go to the meeting at
all t”
This advice agreed admirably with Archie's inclination 5
but yet he hesitated. He told Tom that he felt under
great obligations to his uncle, to whose industry and know-
ledge of the world it was mainly due that coming into a
title and fortune had been so little of a bore. He con-
fessed to him, too, that he was now so little zealous for the
interests of the Liberal party, that it often seemed to him
absurd to oppose the traditions of a long sequence of
Lords Lorrilaire for the sake of the mere lees of a boyish
enthusiasm.
“I was beginning to think,” he said, with a rather rue-
ful smile, “that I might as well settle down into the
groove, and do my duty to the place and to the county 5
and that, so far as I had to have any politics, I might as
well wear the old clothes that are expected of the family.”
Tom listened with visible impatience.
“ Might as well 1” he echoed, “ might as well I The
worst phrase in the language l As for the Liberal party, I
am at two with its leaders myself for the present 5 and,
unless they come to me, I shall take no active part in
politics. But I am a Liberal none the less. Liberalism
is not the fad of Mr. This or Mr. That 5 it existed long
before they were born, and will exist long after they and
their fads are gone. I take the liberty to be a Liberal.”
He began to walk up and down, as the warlike spirit


L . *1 a ts 1” - s” s a a» A A w r at.»
COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 115
increased within him. “ People say,” he went on, “ that
one party is as Liberal as the other. That may be true ; .
and, if it is, I prefer to belong to the party which is Liberal
by descent—though perhaps that is a Conservative senti-
ment. The clothes belong to the Liberals, though, by
Iove! if they will go bathing for seventeen years or more,
they can’t wonder at their being stolen by somebody. But
all this has nothing to do with your case.” Here he
stopped opposite to Archie, and became very emphatic.
“If you were the bluest old Tory,” he said, “who ever
wore top-boots in a drawing-room, you should not let
yourself be advertised, like a pig for sale, without your
own consent. If you take my advice, you will go back to
Sir Villiers Hickory and say that you will not attend the
meeting, and that he may be chairman himself.”
“ Yes,” said Archie ; “that is what I wished to do, but
I wanted your advice ﬁrst.”
“I am really glad you cared to ask me,” said Tom,
with a quick change from righteous wrath to want!
affection.
“ I shall come often, if you don’t look out,” said
Archie. »
“ All right,” said Tom, who was extremely shy of pro-
testations.
“ But look here,” said Archie ; “ here's another question.
What excuse shall I give to the good people of Lang-
stone for my non-appearance P ”
“ Your uncle must see to that,” said Tom ; “ he made
the announcement, he must ﬁnd the excuse. Only of
course he must not say anything about your sympathy with
the cause. Tell him that if he says that, you will placard
Langstone with a confession of Radical faith. My dear
boy, you are much too good a fellow to be worked by
wires like an automaton doll. A man is bound to choose
for himself in all matters.”
Archie laughed. He readily consented to stay to
luncheon. He already felt a pleasant excitement in the
coming interyiew with his uncle ; and he was heartily glad
that this matter was settled. He was inclined to talk,
and he told Tom Rutherford his ﬁrst impressions of the
county and of his possessions therein, of Langley Castle
and the eople now assembled there. Only, as the older
alga/n, di not fail to note, he said next to nothing of
“if “5* 2 i


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U6 COMEDY OF A COUNTRYHOUSE.
Lady Jane Lock and her daughter; and this omission was
the cause of the greater emphasis with which Torn, when
he had listened long in silence, expressed his opinion that
Archie was acquiring a very dangerous habit of passivity.
Archie laughed at his warning 3 but Tom asserted that he
would wake up some morning the slave of this habit, which
he had acquired in play, and ﬁnd that he could only wait till
somebody pushed him this way or that, and that he had
lost all power in moving whither he chose. “ A man
should choose for himself in all matters,” he repeated with
meaning.
A strange shyness prevented Tom Rutherford from
talking easily about his wife, even to Archie, who was like
a brother of hers, and whom he liked so much. In one or
two pauses be nearly asked questions or made remarks
about her 5 but when the time of his guest’s departure had
nearly come, he had heard nothing of her except the
important fact of her good health, and the news, which
gave him a more doubtful pleasure, that she was the life of
the party. Tom would have liked especially to ask if she
had said anything about leaving the place, but he could not
put the question to his satisfaction; and at last Archie
pressed him to come down and join the party, since it was
impossible that they should spare Dora. Tom felt a
strong impulse to say that he would go down with him
there and then, but he checked it with severity, and only
said grimly-“ Then you are allowed to ask people to your
own house P ”
“ When I am a good boy,” ,said Archie, laughing.
“ You'll ﬁnd it no laughing matter,” said Tom, “ when
you have formed your fatal habit. You will have many
masters, your uncle, your aunt, your cousin ”
“Who P ” asked Archie.
“ Isn’t he a cousin, or sort of cousin, that young
Vale P ” l
“ Poor Lenny 1” said Archie ; “ I don’t think he could
master anybody.”
“ You are acquiring him with other bad habits,” said
Tom; “ and let me tell you it will be a long time before
you lose him. ~I don’t like him--do you mind my saying
so P ”
“ I don't mind,” said Archie; “ I didn’t fancy him at
ﬁrst myself; _ I like him better now.”


COMEDY 0F .4 COUNTRY HOUSE. 117


it
“ Since you’ve heaped beneﬁts on him,” said Tom;
“ that’s always the way.”
“ Oh, I’ve done nothing,” said Archie in sudden discom~
fort ; “ he had very hard luck.”
“ My dear boy,” said Tom with emphasis, “ he deserved
no better. I tell you he is a bad lot 5 he has a bad strain
in him 5 and some day you will ﬁnd him out--I hope
before he does you a mischief.”
“Why, I fancied,” said Archie, “ that he must be a sort
of friend of yours. Dora seems to like him.”
It was a cold douche to Tom, who felt himself ﬂush.
“ Women are bad judges of men,” he said shortly, and
changed the subject. He could say no more of Leonard
Vale. He had refrained from criticising him to Dora in
accordance with his rule of not interfering with her likes
or dislikes without sure cause. Now this casual statement
that Dora seemed to like this young man struck him most
unpleasantly, raised sudden tumultuous doubts of the
wisdom of his former silence, and afurther troublesome
doubt whether his present abuse of the young man was
wholly the result of his liking for Archie. This stopped
his tongue. If he were gratifying, in any degree, a
personal prejudice, this abuse of an absent man seemed
mean to Mr. Rutherford; he would say no more. He
kept silence, but found no comfort therein.
Presently Archie departed, having again pressed his
friend to become his guest, and assured him that he might
come at any time without notice. There was time to
spare, and he determined to walk to the station. The
variety of the London streets moved him to interest at
every step, as they never failed to move him when he had
been long away. The West End was waking from its
annual apathy, for most of its inhabitants, whose homes
were in London, as distinct from those who came in the
summer from country homes, had returned to their
dwellings ; and, for the afternoon was fair, there was not a
few smart carriages in the streets, and a cheerful stir on the
pavements. Archie walked along pleased with the passing
show and with the pageant of shop windows, and forget-
ting for a time the spirited action which he purposed.
Peaceful and alert he looked about him, noting a thousand
“ triﬁes, until at the corner of a popular street he paused
before a line of posters, laid on their backs in the mud,
H8 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
and announcing the contents of the various evening papers.
Among these so-called evening papers was the Rising Sun,
which came out so early in the day as almost to justify its
title, which had been the cause in its dawn of abundant
jocularity. The choice of name had been ascribed to the
fact that its editor was an Irishman, and to the fact that, if
the sun ever rose in London, it was after midday, and to
other causes suggested by the humorist 5 but it is certain
that its name and the debate thereon had been an excellent
advertisement before the appearance of the ﬁrst number,
in which, after the addition of many more facetious reasons,
which might be the true one, it is suggested, but not
asserted, that the title was metaphorical. Anyway it rose 5
and there under the eye of the happy youth was a table of
the contents of the number which had risen on that
particular day. Archie stood looking down and smiling at
the thought of Beck, the sub-editor. There seemed to be
abundant matter in the sheet, and it was more aggressively
announced that the contents of any of its rivals. Each
line was a piquant incitement of curiosity 5 but the last few
lines caught the attention most quickly, being printed in
the largest letters, and suggesting the most entrancing
contrasts.
This is what Archie read-
“ The Favorite of Fortune." “ Radical youth in high
places.” “ The Socialist Peer.” “ Politics and Hunger.”
Archie read with a smile and a sigh till he came to the last
line, and then he began to wonder. He put a copper into
the palm of a hoarse man, who was standing with a pile
of Rising Suns all open on his arm, and took a copy of the
enterprising sheet. Standing there at the street corner he
folded it back, and found the exciting headings all set forth
in the paper too, and under the headings a brief and
picturesque account of his own sudden gain of wealth and
title. There was no doubt about it. He looked round
him nervously, half-expecting to ﬁnd a crowd forming
around him 5 he was relieved to see the careless crowd
passing both ways, and for the most part not even glancing
at the bills. He felt like one slightly bemused with drink 5
the sound of trafﬁc seemed unreal, and he looked back at
the paper with concentrated attention, as if there were a
chance that he would ﬁnd quite different words in it. The
words were plain enough, and plainly set forth the story of
COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 'ug


his sudden rise in the world. He remembered that to
Radley Beck privacy was an anachronism.
But what of these other headings, this Radicalism and
Socialism i‘ These also referred to him ; and he read
with growing confusion that his talents were at least equal
to his fortunes; that Oxford in his undergraduate days
had rung with his brilliant, audacious and revolutionary
doctrines ; and that he used to wear a red tie in the streets.
Had he worn a red tie P Had sober Oxford rung with his
vagaries P He had read no further when he remembered
in a moment why “ Politics and Hunger ” were words so
familiar to his ears. In his last year at Oxford, the year
of his greatest fermentation, he had joined a little club of
the most enlightened, and had written for them a paper
called “Politics and Hunger.” He remembered that he
had been proud of the title ; he remembered now clearly
that his friend Beck had made a fuss about the paper, and
had asked to be allowed to keep it. Archie read on with
hasty, anxious eyes. Here was his old boyish extravagant
essay, or rather here it was not, but only the most epigram-
matic and extravagant bits cut sharply from their context,
and snapping like a series of pistol-shots in the face of a
scandalized society.
Archie folded the paper and looked at his watch; he
looked quite coolly to see if he had time to wring Beck’s
neck before his train started. In the next moment he
perceived that to wring a sub-editor’s neck would be no
proof of moderation of views ; that moreover this was only
his friend's way of saving him in spite of himself; and
ﬁnally that he had only just time to catch his train.
He called a hansom, and, as he was borne away from
the prostrate bills, he burst out laughing again ; he could
see his uncle Villiers’ face, as he showed him the paper.

CHAPTER XVIII.
So soon as Archie reached home, he carried the paper
straight to his uncle, who was in the library. He expected
to produce an effect, and he was not disappointed. The
clear keen eyes of Sir Villiers had scarcely fallen on the
paper, when he uttered a sound as if somebody had seized
mo COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
him by the throat, and turned so red that Archie’s
thoughts ﬂew to apoplexy. But no repetition of the alarm-
ing sound nor of any sound more intelligible came from
this well-controlled middle-aged gentleman, until his eyes
going quickly down the page came to the scraps of the
essay. “And this—this,” he then said, crumpling the
paper and thrusting it at his nephew--“ this infernal stuff?
Did you write it? ”
Archie explained hastily, and with his most soothing
manner, for the idea of apoplexy returned with each
alternate moment, that they were the worst scraps of a
boyish essay written by him at Oxford.
Sir Villiers rose and with trembling hanos tore the paper
across and across; then he stuffed it into the ﬁreplace, and
thrust the poker down upon it as if it could feel his wrath.
Archie had hoped for an effect, but this seemed altogether
too serious; he had supposed that nothing could move
from his propriety this cool, well-appointed man of the
world; now in his eyes his uncle banging the poker into
the ﬁreplace looked like a furious old man, full ten years
older than yesterday. The boy looked at him, open-
mouthed and pitiful ; he was uncommonly sorry 5 he knew
not what to say. As he saw his uncle turning after a last
bang at the grate and making for the door, his wish to offer
some comfort made him stammer a lame request for
advice.
“ Advice 1” cried Sir Villiers, not even looking at his
nephew; “what good is advice when you have written
that?” He made no pause but went straight to the door,
fumbling with its handle, uttered an angry exclamation and
wrenched it open.
Archie, left alone, felt very unhappy. Here was none
of the fun which he had expected from the interview. He
sat down in a chair and looked ruefully into the ﬁre,
wondering whether the wrath of this good uncle, to whom
he felt under decided obligations, would last for ever ;
whether he would go away and transfer all the troublesome
details of stables, cellars, and such things abruptly to him ;
and whether he would take it for granted that the author
of these Radical fragments, now unhappily given to the
world, could not preside at a public Conservative meeting.
That at least would be a small gain 3 but it seemed
equally likely that he would have to face another scene
t x
l’ J ‘l
. J 5’. t$£wh§
roman? OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. ' :2:
equally unpleasant, and state most aggravating reasons for
/ declining to attend this ill-omened meeting. Thus, won-
dering and uncomfortable, he sat till the door opened and
Lord Hackbut came in. The old lord came in with a
most sardonic grin on his face. .
Archie jumped up to meet him. “ You have met my
uncle ? ” he asked.
“ Yes,” said Lord Hackbut.
“ I am afraid he is awfully annoyed,” said Archie.
“ Villiers takes things too seriously : he always does.
Where’s this paper he spoke about? ”
“ There,” said Archie pointing, at some black volatile
fragments, the remains of his explosive essay.
“ Well ! ” said the old lord. “ What was it all about P ”
,Archie explained as well as he could the substance of
the offending article 5 but the man of long experience cut
'short his description of the youthful “Politics and Hunger.”
“I know it,” he said with a chuckle; “clever boys all
begin with it. It don’t matter. The only question is
what you must do about it. In my early days it might
have been the horsewhip, but that would strike your friend
Peek as an anachronism, I’m afraid.” Here his broken
tooth reappeared with an effect of savage humor.
“ Besides,” he continued, “ he would stick it in his paper
and make money by an increased circulation, and have
you up in court and make more money. You must write
to the paper and say it is unauthorized, and does not
represent your views. Write to the Times—not to your
friend’s dirty sheet.”
“ Yes, I can do that,” said Archie.
“ Yes,” said the old lord 5 “ and I will see too that
especial notice is taken by the confounded press of the
fact that you preside at our meeting to-morrow night. To
preside at a Tory meeting is the best answer to a charge
of Radicalism.”
There was an awkward pause, of which the awkwardness
was Archie’s, and then he said, “ Yes, but the worst of it is
that I can’t go to your meeting.”
“ What? ” said the old lord, bending his head towards
the youth as if he had suddenly grown deaf-J‘ What do
you say? ”
“ I had made up my mind, before I saw that paper, not
to go to the meeting.”
a t


122* COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
Lord Hackbut looked at him sideways like a grim
inquiring raven. At length he said, “ You don’t still
believe in all that,” and he nodded at the charred remnants
of the newspaper.
“ N 0,” said Archie stoutly 5 “ but I don’t believe in the
other stuff either. I am rather uncertain what I am, but
I know I am not a Conservative 5 and I know that I won’t
preside at a meeting because I’ve been announced to
preside without my consent. It seems to me that that was
just as unfair as what Beck did.” He grew hot as he
spoke, and ended with some indignation in his tone.
“ No, we ain’t as bad as Peek,” said the old lord slowly,
and still viewing Archie with his curious sidelong look.
“ We made a mistake,” he said presently 5 “it was your
uncle’s fault 5 he said you agreed to everything which was
settled for you.”
“ It was more my fault than his,” said Archie quickly 5
“ I have given him plenty of reason to suppose that I
would agree to anything.”
Lord Hackbut lowered himself into a large and low arm-
chair, and stuck out his great under-lip till it projected
beyond his large bent nose. “ Well,” he said at last, “ I
am not altogether surprised. I was inclined to think that
you were not such a hopeless sawney as your relations
supposed.” _
“ Thank you,” said Archie softly.
Lord Hackbut seemed to be in deep thought. Presently
from his almost prostrate position he looked up queerly at
the young man, and said, “ Well I” ~
“ Well? ” echoed Archie.
“Since it appears,” said the old lord, “ that after all
there is something in you, why shouldn’t we make a com-
pact P I will give you my word that you shan’t be bothered
about this meeting, by your uncle or anybody else, if
you will promise to have nothing to do with the other
party.”
The impulsive youth was on the very point of express-
ing ready agreement, when, as if he felt the atmosphere of
diplomacy which surrounded the older man, he hesitated.
So soon as he hesitated, he perceived that he was offered
nothing valuable except that non-attendance at the meet-
ing which was already certain, while he on his side was
about to pledge himself either to be a Conservative or to
a
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A, r. ‘ “1M3; t"?
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COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 123
abstain for ever from politics. He then suggested with
becoming deference that Lord Hackbut should promise
that nothing should be said, either at the meeting or else-
where, which should connect him in any way with the one
party ; and that he, on his side, should promise not to
join the other party for at least a year.
“ Nor to assist them with money P ” asked Lord Hack-
but promptly.
“ All right 1" said Archie, after amoment’s thought ; “ I
will give no help of any kind to any political object
for a full year from to-day.”
“ Agreed l ” said the old lord, hoisting himself out of the
chair with surprising alacrity. “ The fact is,” he then said,
“that there is a trumpery cogging sheet in Langstone,
which has been three parts dead for the last ten years ; and as
soon as they see what your friend Peek has printed, they
will be down on you to put your money in it. If the
editor could pay for a ﬂy, he’d have been over to-day.”
Archie looked at his friend with adoubtful eye, but pres-
ently he could not help laughing. “ I have promised,”
he said ; “ but if anything is said which implies that I
sympathise with your people, I’ll send a cheque to that
Langstone paper.”
Lord Hackbut was now standing ﬁrmly on strong bowed
legs with his back to the ﬁre. He chuckled over his own
thoughts. “ Well,” he said at last, “ I have more hopes of
you. You may grow into some sort of man yet.”
“ Thank you,” said Archie again. “ I suppose,” he
suggested with deference, “ that you will persuade my uncle
to take the chair to-morrow P ”
“ No,” said Lord Hackbut; “ I’ll take it myself; it’ll
annoy Palfrey.”
It seemed to Archie as if his day had been unusually
full. He had risen early ; he had been up to London
and come back again ; he had been roughly shaken, as it
were, into a more adequate conception of his own import-
ance in the world. Who could be blind to the strong
desire for his capture when he had witnessed such measures
taken for that end? A town placarded by one kind friend,
and the streets of London ﬂooded by another! It seemed
to Archie, looking back to his leap from bed in the early
morning, as if it was a day preternaturally long, and as if
he had grown to manhood in its few hours of light. As
124 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY‘ HOUSE.
he went upstairs to dress for dinner, he thought with
satisfaction that he could ‘ give some twenty minutes to
rest and to quiet consideration of much which Tom Ruther—
ford, and of something which Lord Hackbut had said. He
foresaw the comfort of his bedroom, so much larger and
more luxurious than any bedroom which he had enjoyed
in earlier days, with a novel satisfaction 3 and the idea of
the newly-lit ﬁre, in which heretofore he had acquiesced _
indifferently as a part of his new splendor, now warmed
his imagination while he was yet upon the stair. When
with a smile of content he opened the door of his room, a
new surprise awaited him. No comfortable ﬁrelight was
there, nor pleasant warmth. With the aid of one candle
his man was emptying a chest of drawers, and a pile of his
clothes sat solid on his writing—table.
This little surprise at the end of the day produced in
Archie a sharper annoyance than the far more important
events of its earlier hours. “ What are you doing? ” he
asked rather sharply.
The man turned and showed a surprise equal to that of
his employer. “ Doesn’t your lordship know P ” he asked 5
“your lordship has been moved into the little buff room.”
“And where is the little buff room?” asked Archie,
beginning to smile.
“At the far end of the bachelors’ passage, my lord.
I’ve put out all the things, and I was just going to put
away some of your lordship’s things downstairs till after
the ball.”
“After the ball?” repeated Archie, vaguely.
“ Yes, my lord, the ball on Thursday night.”
“ Oh, yes, yes,” said Archie 3 for the man was looking at
him with as much wonder as was compatible with respect.
“ Yes, my lord,” continued the man, who was made loqua-
cious by the coming event 5 “ Mrs. Dormer told the house-
keeper that the house would be quite full from to—morrow till
Friday, and that she was sure that your lordship would
not mind being moved for three nights 3 and as this room
will be wanted and the little buff room is so very small, I
thought that I had better take some of your lordship’s
things down to my room till the guests had gone.”
“Yes, yes, of course, quite right,” said Archie 3 and he
went off to look for the little buff room. As he sought
this more humble apartment, he remembered that his aunt
COMEDY 0F .4 COUNTRY HOUSE. 125
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had‘said something to him of dancing after dinner one
night, and that he had wondered for a moment if this dan-
cing were to be for the entertainment of Mr. Palfrey 5 and
if that eminent statesman Were to sit, like an Oriental
politician, cross-legged and contemplative on the drawing-
room ottoman, while damsels arose and danced before
him. Archie, seeking his room, which was after all quite
large enough to be found without undue diﬁiculty, hoped
with an easy heart that, if Palfrey waited for the little
dance, he would like it. The question of his own enjoy-
ment raised other questions, and not one of them was
easy to answer. However, it was easy to say to himself
that be generally did enjoy things when they came.
It was certain that he could not prevent this dance
from coming. In the ﬁrst place it was too late to inter-
fere 5 in the second he felt that he had asserted himself
enough for one day, and that it was enough to have
offended one near relation 5 and ﬁnally he shrank more
from thwarting a woman’s scheme than a man’s. And
after all the scheme seemed harmless enough 5 or at least
it seemed that it would be entirely his own fault, another
effect of his own dangerous passivity, if harm came of it
to him. Sufficient for the day had been its own adventures
and contentions.
Such thoughts occupied Archie, as he dressed himself
with more than usual speed, for indeed the ﬁre in the little
buff room was no comfort at all. He felt himself being
gradually roasted 5 in despair he pulled back the curtains
and dashed the window open, and allowed himself to be
alternally cooked and chilled on one side and the other 5
and soon he emerged ﬂushed and gasping. and inhaled the
air of his grand staircase as if it were a highland hill.
“ So there is to be a ball,” he said to his aunt, when she
entered the drawing-room.
“ Why, what a dreamy boy you are 1” she said, smiling
sweetly 5 “ I told you of our little dance.”
“ I didn’t know it was to be a County Ball,” said Archie.
Mrs. Dormer laughed low. “ It’s only a few of the
neighbors,” she said 5 “you must do something for the
neighbors.” _
“ But there’s to be a house full of people, too.”
“ Oh, one must have some people,” she ‘said vaguely 5
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126 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
ingly hungry. I wish I had any appetite. Lord Hack-
but ! You are to take me.”
“ Enchanted,” said Lord Hackbut, offering his sturdy
arm 5 “we will be happy comparing doctors.”
The lady smiled again with the same sweet vagueness.
“ You are a bad man,” she said absently, as she put her
hand on his arm and followed her guests into the dining-
room 5-“ you are a bad man, but you do amuse me.”
—_n
CHAPTER XIX.
ARCHIE could sleep anywhere 5 and, though the little buff
room was small and the bed too short for him, he slept as
soundly as if he were in a log-cabin in the heart of a forest
of pines, or rolled in his blanket under a hedge in a cool
summer night of England. He slept soundly 5 but, when
he was awake again, he was soon_ aware of the feverish
atmosphere of the house. This was the day of his uncle’s
great Conservative meeting and the day before his aunt’s
little dance 5 and almost everybody was affected by the
coming events. At his very door he ran against a house-
maid unnecessarily moving something from one place to
another 5 and, had he enjoyed any experience of a large
establishment, he would have inferred at once from that
one housemaid’s air that all the household were in a state
of unusual commotion. All that day they would be
spasmodically busy about unimportant triﬂes, enjoying a
ﬁne fuss and bustle, running against each other in the
passages, and coming frequently for orders which they
frequently forgot.
The nervous agitation was by no means conﬁned to the
servants. Lord Hackbut was perhaps the only man in
the house who kept his usual state 5 or, if there were any
change in him it was merely a stronger 'infusion of irony
which was caused by the nervousness of his neighbors.
If Sir Villiers Hickory was ‘agitated, he controlled his
agitation well. Archie at least, who met his uncle with
manifest anxiety, perceived no change from his usual
manner, and no change in his habits, except that he asked
him rather formally if he approved of certain orders which
"Zhe’zwhsfsending to the stables. It was necessary tamaklg n
/ comm r or A cowvmr HOUSE. 127
arrangements for conveying Mr. Palfrey and his speech to
and from Langstone, and also for meeting the guests who
were coming on that day for the dance of the next even-
ing. All these arrangements Sir Villiers had made as
usual; but he was now careful to ask his nephew’s ap-
proval of them; his nephew hastened to acquiesce. In
calculating how many people were likely to attend Mr.
Palfrey and his meeting, Sir Villiers made no mention of
Archie, and Archie inferred with relief that his uncle had
accepted Lord Hackbut’s compromise.
In Mr. Palfrey, as was natural, the prevailing fever was
, more manifest, though in him it showed itself for the most
part in an excessive ostentation of ease. He was more
talkative, more friendly, at times almost jocular ; but he
could not sit still for long in one place ; his silences were
sudden and eyes glazed. When he was walking about,
his lips moved; sudden tremulous smiles came and went
on his face. “Do you see him?” said Lord Hackbut,
when Mr. Palfrey for no reason had wandered out of the
room ; “ he is rehearsing an impromptu. His man has gone
into Langstone to arrange for an interruption. You know
the sort of thing; you will see it in the paper to-morrow ‘-
it costs ﬁve shillings--‘ A voice in brackets asking, How
about Whatdyecallem?’ and then Mr. Palfrey resuming,
‘I think I hear some good friend asking, How about
Whatdyecallem? I will tell my good friend all about
Whatdyecallem.’ Here he stops for laughter ; and when
the laughing is done, out comes the impromptu.”
Archie laughed politely ; and Tony would have laughed
too, had not his whole attention been given to his pulse,
which at the moment he was counting furtively. Tony
was conscious of an accession of fever, which was doubt-
less due also to the general atmosphere of the house.
If the men were nervous, the women were no better.
It is true that Miss Lock showed no sign of agitation, but
seemed intent upon the ﬁne work which she was doing.
It is true also that Mrs. Chauncey sat quiet in her place ;
but Clara Chauncey at least was in a state so electrical,
that it may well be believed that she would have emitted
sparks in the dark. She was talking to Dora, talking
with deference and with zeal, but forcing herself to talk
quietly and in a low tone, that Lady Jane might not hear
Dora rose to leave therocm, and
125 Q'QMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE-
Clara, still talking, followed her ; and so soon as the doc!
had closed behind them, the pent-up irritability, which
was the form which nervousness took in Lady Jane Lock,
found vent in words. She had observed, before, the
advances which Mrs. Chauncey was making to Mrs.
Rutherford, and, though Clara had not become less
anxiously civil to herself, she resented these advances to
the enemy as mere desertion. In her eyes there was nr-
excuse for the presence of Mrs. Chauncey but obsequioll
devotion to herself. “Really, Susan,” she said to Mrs.
Dormer, when the door closed, “ I am grateful that some
decent women are coming here to-day. I really cannot
think how you can sit there smiling.”
“You know that I am told to, dear,” said Susan Dor~
mer, who showed no sign of any disturbance of the
nerves.
“Told to!” echoed Lady Iane, with a voice made
hoarse by the desire not to be audible at the further end
or‘ the room. “Told to! Told to sit quiet and see such
‘ things going on in the house?”
“ What things, dear? ”
Lady Jane replied with a look full of meaning and a
side glance at Elizabeth.
“ Shall I ‘go away P ” asked the girl calmly.
“Certainly not I What do you mean? You can go on
with your work and not listen.”
“But I can’t work with my ﬁngers in my ears,” said
Elizabeth with a faint smile, and slipping the work into
its silken bag she left the room.
“ I can’t think what has come to her,” said Lady Jane
after a short silence; “that is the way she answers me.
But who can wonder at it? A nice well-brought-up girl _
to ﬁnd herself in the society of such women I ”
“ Good gracious, Jane 1 ” murmured Mrs. Dormer
placidly, “ you don’t mean me? ”
“ I mean your guests,” said Lady Jane with warmth.
“Well, you know, dear,” said Susan unruﬂied, “I’ve
told you before that I was obliged to ask somebody, and
of course you would not have liked another girl, and
nowadays when you come to young married women----”
“ I can't see the necessity of Mrs. Rutherford.”
“ I didn’t ask her, dear."
‘ “ N0.
Her conduct throughout has, without W
‘1.1%
COMEDY 0F .4 COUNTRY HOUSE. 129
excuse. But Mrs. Chauncey? You did ask Mrs. Chaun- '
cey. May I ask why I am expected to meet a Mrs.
Chauncey ? ” .
“ Oh, poor dear Clara 1 ” said Susan blandly 5 “she was
Malingerer. What can you expect from a Malingerer P ”
Mrs. Dormer’s smile, as she thus disposed of a whole
noble family, was absolutely seraphic.
To Archie at the further end of the room a word of the
'women’s talk came now and then, and made him uncom-
fortable. He wished more than ever that there was some
deﬁnite occupation for the day. At least he could not
spend any more of the day in that morning-room trying to
ﬁnd amusement and instruction in the daily paper, and
vaguely troubled by suggestions of female gossip and by
the feverish atmosphere of the time. Movement in the
outer air was always the best cure for his troubles. He
put down the unsatisfying journal, and went out from the
room and from the house.
So soon as he was out of doors, Archie bethought him
of an object, and forthwith he stepped away at a good
steady pace to visit an outlying tenant, who had had a
difference of opinion with the agent. The difference was
slight, and the real object of the walk was that gradual
soothing of the ruffled spirits which comes from good
walking. It was a sullen day and neutral-tinted 5 and
there was little to turn away the wayfarer’s eyes from the
road on which he went. He missed his way once or twice,
and, since the road were nearly empty, he was forced to
rap once with his stick on a cottage door, and a little later
to stoop under the porch of a sleepy little alehouse, before
he found his doubtful farmer. When ‘at last he did ﬁnd
him, he found that the small difference had been adjusted,
and so, when he had sat awhile in the kitchen chatting
with the farmer’s wife, and had accepted and eaten a big
slice of her cake, he set off to trudge home again in a more
contented mood.
He walked, and walked with good effect, for temperate
sane thoughts seemed to keep time with that temperate
sane exercise, which is at once the cheapest, the easiest,
and the best. And yet as he drew nearer to his home,
his spirits drooped a little. It was an upland farm which
he had visited, and he could not help fancying that he was
now sloping downward to aﬁlaxer atmosphere. He even
13o COMEDY OF A c0 UNTRY H0 USE.
wondered, boy though he was, if he had said good-bye for
ever to the old liveliness of life. Still he kept his steady
pace with the real British faith in doggedness, and chid
himself for idle fancies. He thought that a man should
keep moving to some good end, and take the ups and
downs of spirits as they came. When he was now within
the limits of his Park, he was still far from the house 5 and
it was there, in a secluded part of his domain, that he saw
a sight which gave him a more real cause for depression.
That which Archie saw, and which made him stop sud-
denly in his walk, was by no means a remarkable spectacle.
In front of him and moving likewise towards the house
were Dora Rutherford and Leonard Vale. He looked and
wondered why the sight annoyed him. He could not
change the fact by the wondering 5 he was much annoyed.
He had known that these two were very great friends 5 he
had told Tom Rutherford in London that Dora seemed to
like Lenny; and he had told it then carelessly, with no
second thought at all. Perhaps in some idle moment he
had wondered why Dora was interested in this man, whom
he could not help regarding as a poor creature; but he
had thought little about it. But now there was something
in the look of the two, as they moved slowly over the short
grass, which annoyed him very much. It was hard to say
what this something was 5 but Archie seemed to see in the
long thin ﬁgure of the youth an air of tenderness and
devotion which, as it seemed to him uneasily regarding
them, Dora should have resented. He wished to see her
quicken her pace and walk with prouder air 5 but her steps
were slow, and she wore the air of one who listens 5
Archie could even fancy sympathy in the bend of her ﬁne
head. The earnest talk, which he imagined between them,
vexed him as he was seldom vexed. There came back on
him with a sharp vividness a scene, which he had all but
forgotten; he saw Dora fall with a cry beside the little
stream in the valley, and the strange looks of Leonard
Vale as he hurried to her side, the extravagant signs of
grief and fear.
“He is a poor creature, anyway,” Archie said to him-
self. He recalled Tom Rutherford’s opinion of Lenny,
and then it struck him, as it had not struck him at the
time, that Tom had said not a word more about Lenny,
when he, Archie, had once blurted out the statement the];
censor or .4 summer’ some.
~ :3;
Dora. seemed to like him. What right had Dora. to be so
friendly intimate with one whom her husband held so
unworthy? The sight of Dora walking slowly beside this
bending and devoted youth made him for the ﬁrst time in his
life angry with her. He promptly condemned himself for
this unreasonable anger ; but he was angry. He stood
still, till they had walked’ beyond his ken, and then walked
on again also. But now there was no longer any doubt
that he was out of sorts ; his feet dragged; he felt a most
real reluctance to enter his noble portals. It seemed as
if that castle of his was an emblem of the elaborate tire
some structure of Society, raised for the purpose of increas-
ing needs and needlessly complicating life, inventing daily
duties which did good to nobody, fostering in its hot
luxurious rooms mean ambitions and dangerous desires.
Had this hot-house air and idleness changed the playmate
of his boyhood to a shifty ﬂirting woman of fashion? He
was sure not, and yet was not content. Standing there,
he had a vision of a fair hill-side above a laughing sea, and
feeding sheep, and simple life wherein a chief duty would
not be to ﬁnd something for other men and women to do
for him. He saw Tom returning in the evening from the
plough, and Dora bringing in the dinner. Where was the
Golden Age? Our fathers looked back for it and we cor-
rect v.their error. If he could look forward, might not that
be an error also? Or was it not too far away, beyond
all dreaming, too far for comfort to the young hopeful heart
greedy of a nearer good P
The enormous weariness of little things weighed on him
like a nightmare. This monstrous dwelling-place, at which
he stared, had been added to and adorned by generation
after generation of short-lived, toiling men, till now, in the
fulness of time, the end of all the care and all the toil was
seen to be this colossal and intricate structure which
weighed upon its owner’s soul. The wasted labors of
mankind seemed ﬁxed for ever there; there it stood, a
solid, inevitable fact, vast, labyrinthine, and obscure as
the laws of England. Thence his thoughts leapt to the
speech which Mr. Palfrey would deliver that evening ; and
he foresaw with a new clearness the clever evasions, bril-
liant misrepresentations, effective repartees, the whole, too,
a monstrous and elaborate erection, and not one useful
undistorted fact pressed home to the gaping hearers. All
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I32 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE‘
things seemed to young Lord Lorrilaire at that dark
moment to have been made on one pattern; castles,
orations, reputations, the ﬁne gradations of social state,
the ingenious measures of politicians, all were no better
than imposing shams, all the vain product of a dinning
universal machinery; and this Mr. Palfrey, who had
dedicated himself unasked to the ‘service of his fellow-men,
had been building through long weeks a brand~new Lang-
ley Castle of deceptive phrases, which, when the next day’s
papers had gone their way to the dust bin, would straight~
way vanish into air, with all its shadowy porticoes, its long
connected passages and topless towers, and vanishing,
leave not a twopenny loaf behind.

CHAPTER XX.
ARcHIE’s imagination was capable at times of these amaz‘
ing feats. He saw two young people returning from an
afternoon’s short walk, and lol what a fantastic building
he, too, had raised in ﬁve minutes on how small a founda-
tion 1 The universe was a universe of laborious vanities,
because a young man and a young woman had walked
together in his park, or rather because he could not
understand at a glance why they conversed with an
earnest air.
The truth is that Archie was not wrong in thinking that
the talk of Dora Rutherford and Leonard Vale had been
less common-place and more interesting than that which
generally accompanies the sober constitutional. Archie
had really witnessed the return from an interview of
reconciliation. Dora had been much offended on the
Saturday evening, when the respectful Mr. Vale had
pushed a note into her hand. She had allowed her con-
temptuous eyes to read the offending scrap, before she
dropped it, and she had admitted to herself at once that
the words were harmless enough. The writer had merely
implored her to give him a chance of speaking to her, and
she had decided at once that the prayer was entirely and
satisfactorily explained by their league for the saving of
Lord Lorrilaire. When she came to argument, Dora
. could prove to herself in a moment that the incident was
COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. I33
of no importance, but she had not waited to argue before
she felt offence. She was offended 5 and she wished at
once to punish the young man for his momentary depar-
ture from that humble attitude, which it pleased her to
believe was and always would be his attitude towards her.
She meant him to know at once that in forcing a clandes-
tine note upon her, he had passed those limits which she
ruled so accurately. Of course the note was harmless;
she would not even imagine the possibility of his writing
1» to her a note which was not addressed as to a superior
being 5 but nevertheless he had been guilty of stupidity,
awkwardness, a marked fault in taste; and he must be
made to recognize this fact immediately. Dora had lost
no time in teaching Leonard Vale that she disapproved of
his conduct, and her method was such that no doubt was
left in his mind of the reality of her disapproval. If she
had cast at him an indignant glance, or turned on him
with ﬂashing eyes, or even swept by him without a look,
he would have been but little abashed. His instinctive
recognition of the ways of women would have assured him
that she was but half offended 5 and he would have replied
to the dramatic display of indignation with the contrite
air and the imploring eyes, which, as he would have felt at
once, were expected of him. But Dora simply ignored
the incident, and Mr. Vale was promptly miserable. He
could detect no sign of indignation nor of pardon. She
neither averted her eyes, nor seemed to notice his pathetic
looks. Only during two whole days he found not a
chance to say to her anything more interesting than
“Good morning 5" the days were tedious beyond all
endurance. If she had shown signs of ignoring his exis-
tence, it would have been a comfort to him but she
seemed to be quite well aware of his existence, and for the
rest, to be in her usual health and spirits. With bitter
mortiﬁcation he felt himself of no more weight with her
than a grain of dust 5 at moments he hated her. He went
away with a certain ostentation like a spoiled child, and he
cursed her under his breath like an ill-governed man.
Then Clara Chauncey had taken her opportunity. For
the ﬁrst time since Dora’s coming she had sought the
dejected youth, and had treated him to a nice mixture of
banter and sympathy. She had examined his wounds
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i r ‘ *ﬁgith ,3, e901 inquiring eye and had pronounced her opinion
:34 COMEDY 0F 4 COUNTRY HOUSE.
on them with her usual frankness 5 and at last with much
dexterity she had won from him that story of the note,
which she knew already. Then with all the air_of a good
comrade she had offered to go to Mrs. Rutherford and
make his peace 5 and Lenny had been effusively grateful.
And now Clara Chauncey was able to make use of that
better opinion of herself, which she had been building up
so craftily in Dora’s mind. She could approach Dora now,
and be sure of a kind reception, be sure that Dora saw
the coming of one who had suffered much from the unkind-
ness of the world, and who came to her for advice and
help. So Clara had come to Dora, and with straight gaze
of the round brown eyes, and almost blunt directness of
speech, had spoken to her of Leonard Vale. Dora had
been easily captivated by this frankness, and by the clear
perception which Clara showed of the young man’s weak-
ness, and of her own paramount inﬂuence with him. Mrs.
Chauncey spoke with candor of her own old friendship for
the boy, but confessed that she had no power over him,
and expressed her wonder at Dora’s extraordinary inﬂu-
ence. All this was very pleasant to Dora, conﬁrming in
every point her own theories of the situation 5 and it was
not long before she consented to hear the young delin-
quent’s apologies, and to set him once more in that straight
path, in which it seemed that only her direction could keep
him. “ It is simply life and death to him,” Mrs. Chauncey
had said, gazing at Dora with the unabashed curiosity of
a child 5 “ I can’t understand it." Dora had laughed at
this exaggeration of her powers, but yet the wonder of
this other woman, who was by no means stupid, was like
delicate incense to her.
When Leonard Vale after three days of discomfort was
permitted at last to plead for pardon, he was very careful
to preserve the expected attitude. He oﬂ'ered no excuse
except his pitiable weakness, his fatal habit of doing the
wrong thing; and he begged for pity and pardon as from
a being, whom he knew well he had no right to approach.
And“ yet Dora, though she made light of the affair and cut
short his protestations, was not quite happy during the
necessary interview. The suppliant seemed more feverish
than she liked. She saw in a moment that this feverish-
ness was but another proof, where no other was needed,
(1' mm weakness 5 she thought him ill too, hectic
COMEDY OF A co wvmv HOUSE. :35
and dark about the eyes; she was really sorry for him.
Since she alone could help him, she must not allow any
idle fancies of hers, any shrinking from a somewhat
feverish atmosphere which she seemed to feel, to divert
her from this interesting duty. And yet she was glad
when the interview was over and they had returned to the
house, and she could shake off with her neat overcoat the
feeling which displeased her. She wished that her pupil
would begin to show a little more strength, a little less of
this almost abject devotion which made her uncomfortable
in spite of her arguments. She felt as if she too caught a
little fever from so hectic a creature; and yet he was
interesting in his weakness. She had a love of risk, and,
though of course there could be no risk here, the idea that
others might think that she was playing a risky game
thrilled her a little. She knew her own strength; the
games, which she was playing there, were not really
perilous, but they required courage and skill; she meant
to win the games. She was like a conﬁdent lady, who has
tamed a soft sleek tiger, whom only the spectators think
dangerous ; she would show them how she could lead him
and teach him. Poor human tiger l He did look ill too;
she must not be too hard on him; he never showed the
merest pin-point of a claw; his education could be con-
ducted wholly by methods of kindness.
And now the clay, which had been tiresome for almost
all the inmates of Langley Castle, began to slide imper-
ceptibly from its dull greyness to the less dismal shades of
evening. The Castle became gay with lights, and ﬁres
burned more brightly; and presently carriages arrived
bringing the new guests, who came for the next night’s
ball ; and carriages departed carrying Mr. Palfrey and his
fortunes, for the orator was to dine with the Mayor of
Langstone before unburdening himself for ever of that
oppressive speech. And Lord Hackbut went too, with
Sir Villiers Hickory and some other gentlemen, who were
among the new arrivals, and who, as persons notoriously
connected with politics, felt it a duty to show an interest in
a leader’s speech, if it were to explode anywhere within a
measurable distance.
So bustle and animation closed the day which had dis-
played a want of vitality ; and among the young men and
young women who had come to dance, no one showed a
135 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.


kinder spirit or a more innocent—seeming wish to be
happy and to make others happy than little Mrs. Chaun~
cey. To the elder women her manner seemed almost to
apologize for her presence ; and on the younger she looked
kindly, a little sadly, as if she could not venture to bring
her sorrows near to their young happiness. Only she
sought the girl who suffered so much from shyness, and
won her mother’s heart by inducing her to smile and even
to answer once or twice. This mother always said after-
wards, when Clara’s name was mentioned, as it often was,
that she knew that there had been ill—natured stories, but
that she must say for her part that she had never known
a more good-natured kind-hearted little woman, and that
that was something. I
About noon the next day, which was Thursday, Tom
Rutherford was standing in his study with a little note in
his hand and a dangerous look in his face. His writing—
table was covered with papers and signs of work, and on
the ﬂoor near the ﬁre lay the morning’s paper, which con—
tained not only the full report of Mr. Palfrey’s speech, but
also a short letter from Lord Lorrilaire. Archie had
written brieﬂy that he much disliked writing about himself
and his opinions, since he was well aware that he had done
nothing which should make either him or his opinions a
matter of interest to the public 5 but that he was compelled
to say that the fragments of a boyish essay of his which
had been published in a popular evening paper, had been
published without his consent, and that they did not
express his opinions. When Tofn Rutherford had read
this sort of letter and had sssured himself that the name
of Lord Lorrilaire did not occur in the account of the
Conservative meeting at Langstone, he had thrown down
the paper with cordial approval of his young friend. He
had thrown down the paper without even reading the
report of Mr. Palfrey’s oration ; he knew Mr. Palfrey, and
the points which he would make in the present state of
affairs.
But Rutherford had not been at work long when he was
interrupted by his servant, who brought a note, and
apologized for his entrance by pointing out that the. note
was marked “Important.” He had found the note In the
letter~box ; there was no stamp or post-mark on it; had
been pushed into the box with no knock or ring to
nounce it.
COMEDY‘ 01? A cor/Amer HOUSE. 137
Alone in his room Tom held the little scrap of paper
with the charred edge; a dark ﬂush was on his face;
The words on the scrap of paper were not important; they
were even meaningless without the part which had
been burnt off. “Pray give me a chance of speaking to
you i I must see you. I am most awfully ” and that was
all, for ﬁre had made the rest illegible. But this crumpled
and charred fragment had been wrappd in the smoother,
neater note, which now lay on the writing-table beneath
Tom’s eyes, a short note too, written in French and in a
foreign-loooking hand. The French language is, it is said,
more capable than our clumsier tongue of delicate sugges-
tion. This note was suggestive, perhaps delicately
suggestive, playful, ironical ; it professed to come from a
friend, and to convey a poor scrap, which had drifted to
him by chance (for it slip ed out, as if by accident, that
the friend was masculine --a poor miserable sample of
autumn leaves which were ﬂying to and fro, as the writer
poetically put it, in gay profusion.
This little note, like the, accompanying fragment, had
no signature. He dashed his ﬁst down upon the little
mean note, which lay open on the table before him. The
pain helped him; he saw that one of his nuckles was
bleeding, and he wound his handkerchief round his hand.
Then he placed the two notes in their envelope, and this
envelope in a larger one of his own, sealed it carefully and
locked it in a safe drawer. From the tumult of feelings
one purpose had already emerged. He would go down
to Langley and take his stand by his wife. It was the
natural impulse of this man to protect the weak; and,
when an attack was made on the woman, whom before all
he was bound to protect, there could be no doubt of his
ﬁrst duty. But, though there was relief in having decided
on action, Tom Rutherford was still hot with anger. He
was angry with himself for having let his wife go alone to
Langley. He was angry with this base anonymous writer
who was trying to injure his wife. He was angry with
Dora, too, who should have taken care that Iris wife gave
no excuse, however slight, for vile malicious tongues.
And there was yet another against whom his anger turned
with sudden ﬂare. He had not a doubt but that it was
Leonard Vale, whose tricks and manners had set malice
to work 3 he could see the romantic airs of this profess

138 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
sional philanderer, who had always stirred his wrath; he
could imagine the smug complacency with which he enjoyed
the chance of being talked about with a charming woman.
Tom could not scourge himself for his folly, nor strike the
writer of the note, for he had not a doubt that the
writer was a woman 5 but, when he thought of Leonard
Vale, his wounded ﬁst clenched itself and his jaw was set
like a ﬁghter’s. Nothing, it seemed, could allay the heat of
his anger but the giving of good blows. He controlled
himself with a strong effort, knowing well that, when he
went to Langley, he must consider nothing but the interest
of his wife, and that there was small hope that her interests
would be furthered by a violent attack on the man whom
he wished to beat. Forcing himself to calm, he put away
his papers and books, each in its place, selected an after-
noon’s train, and gave orders for the packing of his
portmanteau. It was lucky that Archie’s pressing invita-
tion to him made his unannounced appearance at Langley
suﬂiciently natural 5 and he could trust himself to act
with sense and sobriety, even under the eyes of his
anonymous friend, if she were there.

CHAPTER XXI.
AT Langley Castle during all that Thursday there was still
fever and fret. It was true that the great orator’s speech
had been lifted from within and delivered to an expectant
world, and that this element of disquiet had passed away.
The Right Honorable Palfrey had received the congratula—
tions of those friends who had heard his speech, and yet
more hearty congratulations of those who had not heard it,
and who had hoped to make up by warmth of admiration
for their undeniable absence from the meeting. The
Right Honorable gentleman had an air of relief, as one on
whom a successful operation has been performed 5 he was
rid of a secret burden 5 he was breathing freely again. Mr.
° Palfrey felt a further relief when he said good—bye to Lord
Hackbut, who departed in his own carriage for the other
side of the county 5 and, when he was in the London
train with his legs comfortably wrapped in his rug, he
even whistled a little, a little out of tune, and unfolding


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COMEDY 0F .4 COUNTRY Home. 139
the Punch of the day before, smiled superior at the
political cartoon. He felt that all speech’ making and no
play might make even him a dull boy, and that this was
one of the moments when, safely delivered of his oration
and from the sardonic eye of Lord Hackbut, he might dare
to be decorously frivolous.
But, though the fear of the politics thus passed away
from Langley, it seemed as if there was no abatement of
the whole amount of feverishness. A double portion went
into the preparations for the ball. Mrs. Dormer’s little
dance was assuming vast proportions. A little army of
workmen had occupied the house and spread themselves
over the adjacent ground. Within was the moving of
furniture, the transfer of confused guests from room to
room, and putting up and taking down of decorations,
collisions in the passages, bustle and dust. Without the
whole terrace was being covered by a vast tent~like
erection, which sprawled around the house and stretched
even to the base of the old tower. Every room in the
house was full; and indeed, that all the guests might be
taken in, a general shufﬁing of inmates had been found
necessary. Among others Dora had resigned with becom-
ing cheerfulness her spacious and sumptuous apartment,
and had taken herself and her ball-gown to a little single
room, which was good enough, as she said, for one who
had had no invitation. In the tornado of changes only
one being remained absolutely serene. Susan Dormer,
having unloosed the whirlwinds, sat, as her physician ad-
vised, in a state of wholesome placidity. Calm as a con-
templative idol sitting cross-legged with the soles of its
feet turned up to heaven, she sat with her little mouth
delicately ajar, and seemed to smile absently on the con-
fusion which she had made.
The newly arrived guests, who had come for excite—
ment, enjoyed and increased the excitement which they
found. They were eager to see everything, and especially
their young host, whose sudden comet-like elevation and
exaggerated wealth made him the most interesting person
of the hour. Archie was very amiable. He was happy
1n ‘the thought that half his troubles had ended with the
delivery of Mr. Palfrey’s speech, and that he had secured
a_ respite at least from political difficulties. The poli-
tleians had gone and had said no further word on their
r40 COMEDY OF .4 co mime? HOl'fSE.
topic; Sir Villiers had preserved a like reticence ; and
Archie, when he had read his own letter in that morning's
paper, felt that he could delay a little while all efforts to
decide on his future political course. He was amiable
then, and he tried hard, even in the wild confusion, to be
courteous and cool. He led the way to this and that ; he
answered all sorts of questions, of which many were per-
sonal 5 he was patient and pleasant.
At last, however, the limits of Archie’s patience were
reached. He felt that he had earned a respite, that he
would stand no more from guests and workmen, until he
had gained a short hour of solitude and silence. With
alert attention he sought a chance of escape and "with
prompt decision seized it. He slipped away through a
back passage, and fairly ran till he had gained the covert
of the nearest trees. Thence he walked straight away,
only eager to be beyond the rapping of hammers and
clatter of talk. Straight away he walked till he should re-
cover his lost serenity.
Now it happened thata like desire of solitude had taken
possession of Dora Rutherford. Dora too was conscious
of a fever in her blood, and in time the divers noises of
the day made her so restless that she could not sit still and
smile at people. So she too had stolen away and set forth
alone in quest of her lost serenity.
At the distance of two miles or more from the house,
Archie and Dora met. They were on a straight piece of
road, and they saw each other some time before their
actual meeting. They could not have avoided each other
without an appearance of strangeness 5 and each had time,
as they drew nearer, to become more and more critical.
Archie on his side recognized a sudden return of his
annoyance of yesterday 5 he viewed the slender ﬁgure on
the road with the same discontent. He was glad that on
this afternoon at least that she had no companion; and
yet he was annoyed with her, and sentences formed them-
selves, which he knew well that he would be wise to keep
to himself. What could he say? How could he speak
plainly to her of Leonard Vale? Direct speech of this
kind could merely offend her, and do no good. And,
besides, there was really nothing with which he could ﬁnd
fault, nothing but a mere impression which might have
been produced in him by the mere feverishness in the air.
\ COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE‘ 14!
Dora, on her side, was nervous and discontented. She
had not been thinking of Archie ; and the sudden sight of
him reminded her that he was the object of her visit, and
that it was strange that he had not been in her thoughts.
She was vexed with her intrusive fancies ; and her vexation
went out to meet the young man who was coming walking
alone. So soon as she thought of him, she disapproved
of his solitude. This lonely rambling, when his house
was full of guests, had too lover~like an air. In her vexa-
tion she was inclined to ask him sharply, if he had with-
drawn himself to muse upon the sullen lady of his love;
but she too was wise enough to keep the question to
herself.
When two friends are busy with unspoken mutual criti-
cism, they are apt to talk on general questions, in which
the personal criticism ﬁnds partial expression. It is often
an exasperating form of conversation.
So it happened now that Archie, when he had turned
and had walked beside Dora for a little while in silence,
said suddenly, “I don’t think much of this world of
ours.”
y “World of mine?” said Dora, who felt herself chal-
lenged.
“Your fashionable world,” said Archie.
“ It’s no more mine than yours,” said Dora.
“ Well, I'm out of it for an hour, anyway,” said Archie.
“ It is over there,” he added, nodding towards his distant
abode; “ chattering and clattering and gossiping to its
heart’s content.”
“ I have no patience,” said Dora, “ with commonplace
abuse of the world. Country bumpkins, like you and me,
grow up outside it, and only read about it in cynical
novels ; and then, when we do see it, we take every light
word seriously, and think that every woman, who paints
her eyes, is desperately wicked.”
“ Well, I prefer clean faces,” said Archie. ‘
“ So do I 3 but it doesn’t follow that everybody is
wicked.”
“ I never said that everybody was wicked. What
strikes me about your world is----”
“It isn’t my world,” objected Dora.
“Well, what strikes me," continued Archie, “ is that the
atmosphere is tainted. Now I take it that all the good
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I42 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSEz
people over there,” and he nodded again towards Langley,
“ are eminently respectable; but they don’t seem to me to
care about anything in the world but other people’s vices.
They talk about other things as if they were bored to
death, and then somebody chucks ’em a reputation, and
then they become as lively as--as anything.”
Dora could not help laughing; but Archie went on
rather quickly, “Now the mischief is,” he said, “ that
you plunge a nice young woman into that sort of air, and
she soon learns to breathe it as if there were no better.
She ﬁnds that it is a matter of course that she should be
talked about with somebody, and she knows that she
means no harm, and yet ”
He seemed uncertain how to ﬁnish his senteri'ce, and
Dora, who felt, as is common in such conversations, that
these general comments had a personal ﬂavor, hastened
with more warmth to a defence of society, which seemed
to include a defence of herself. With greater emphasis
she repeated her favorite theory that her world, as Archie
chose to call it, was not half so bad as it was said to be.
She enforced her view with impetuosity 5 she was enforcing
it on herself as well as on her hearer 5 she could not afford
to doubt it, for on its truth rested her whole private defence
of her own conduct. If her world were as bad as cynical

people said, she felt that the liberty which she allowed
herself was indefensible.
Archie replied with a like heat, for to dispute of men
and women, while the disputants are thinking of each
other, most quickly increases the temperature.
“ You may be right about women,” he said, “but I
know something about men.”
“ N 0,” she said 5 “ you are a country boy, and how can
you know anything about men of the world? "
“Yes, thank Heaven 1” said he, “that I am a country
boy.” He drew a deep breath as if he would inhale the
country into his lungs. “But at least,” he said, after a
minute, “ I must know more about men than you do. I
am quite certain that there is not one Englishman in a
million who can stand leading an utterly idle life, and not
one in the whole country who can be idle in that sort of
atmosphere,” and he nodded again towards his castle-
“ without going to the---to the dogs.” ‘
“And so I suppose,” said Dora, with a sudden ﬂush,
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COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. I43
“ which she resented, “that one is to do nothing to help a
man, who is idle by no fault of his own, and in danger of
going to the—to the dogs?" She gave a little scornful
laugh, but she was very uneasy 3 the discussion was-losing
its generality.
“Well,” said Archie, “if it’s a question of helping a
chap, I think it had better be left to his mates.”
“1 don’t agree with you at all,” said Dora hotly; “ a
woman has so much more tact.”
“ She can’t know what she is about,” retorted Archie ,'
“ she is playing with ﬁre.”
“ Oh, that’s the usual talk," said Dora angrily; “ it’s a
mere appeal to women’s cowardice. There is nothing
which exasperates me more than this mean feminine fear,
this perpetual assertion that friendship between a man and
a woman is impossible. Do you believe that a man and a
woman can’t be friends i’ ”
“You and I are a standing proof to the contrary,” said
Archie; “ we always have been friends, and we always
will be friends—won’t we, Dora? ”
He asked this ﬁnal question with some anxiety, and
Dora promptly felt that the conversation was on the very
edge of direct personality. His very next words might
call in question another and more newly founded friend-
ship of hers.
“ We will always be friends,” she said lightly, “as we
were in our bumpkin days.”
“ I tell you what it is,” he said ; “I wish with all my
heart, or with more than half my heart at least, that we
were back in our village again, and out of all this fuss and
rubbish, and eternal gabble about this trumpery person
and that trumpery person. Don’t you ﬁnd it refreshing to
think of the Rectory dairy, and our orchard, and your
mother and mine trotting about with port wine and things,
or your mother gardening in her sun~bonnet, and mine in
her ’back drawing-room composing her dear old novels.
T 0 me it’s like a plunge in running water on a dusty day.”
“ There is no way back to Arcadia,” said Dora, rather
pompously 3 she was apt to be pompous when she quoted
her scholarly father.”
“ Yes, there is,” said Archie bluntly 3 “ that’s only femi-
nine cowardice, if you like ”
“ I don’tlike,” interrupted Dora. tartly.

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“What's to prevent you and Tom from taking the old’
Manor House? You can have a long lease, or buy it out“
right.”
“ Andtyou think Tom would play Darby to my Joan P ”
“ Why not? He could work there better than in fusty
London, and, when his time came, he could stand for that
division of the county.”
“Darby, M. P.,” she said with mockery 3 “and you?
What wouid you do? feed sheep?"
“ Oh, I ” began Archie.
“ Oh, you l” she cried out 5 “ you would be a pedlar ;
that’s what you would like.”
He laughed but did not deny it. “ It wouldn't be bad,”
he said. }
“ Oh, you are sentimental,” she said scornfullyg “ you
talk like a man in love.” She knew in a moment that she
had said more than she meant to say ; there was no unsay-
ing the words, and so she made haste to be more jocular,
and to pursue the theme, as if there was no danger in it.
“ I can fancy you on the tramp," she said, “ with your wife
ﬁve yards behind you and laden with the household goods,
or the pair of you at luncheon by the roadside with your
feet in a dry ditch.”
“ Well,” said Archie calmly, “ even a pedlar is the better
for a good wife.”
“Yes, for a good wife,” she said quickly ; “that’s the
rub. How is a man to know which girl will make a good
wife? No ‘man should marry until he is at least thirty,
and has seen a great deal of the world and women. Then
there is some slight chance of his making a sensible
choice.”
Archie only laughed in his usual provoking way. Per~
haps he felt that these general declarations concerning
matrimony had a sharply personal direction. “ So no
man is to marry,” he said, “ until he has been well soused
in this world of yours?”
If this was meant as a counter attack, it was successful,
for Dora dropped the marriage question and leapt to the
defence of society, repeating again with unnecessary
vehemence her belief in the essential innocence of that
body. “ It’s all the fault of the papers,” she said 5 “ they
publish every scandal; nobody publishes the record. of
all the decent people who do nothing outrageous. If


comm? OF A 00 wvm? HOUSE. :45


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there's a row at No. 77 Boodle Street, all the world
re-echoes with it 3 but who hears anything of all the
respectable routine of all the numbers from I to 76 r;
“ I give you up Boodle Street," said Archie ; “ it’s not
in the Directory; perhaps it’s a street in Arcadia.”
“ Don't be frivolous,” she said 5 “ you ought to get your
friend Mr. Beck to publish a newspaper of good news,
instead of lists of murders and accidents, and all the
scandals.”
“ Upon my word,” said Archie, “ I think he would like
the idea—the villain! His telegrams would tell us that
the old bank at Whatdycallit was as far from bankruptcy
as ever, that Mr. Wright had given his usual subscriptions
to the usual charities, and that all the husbands on the
left side of Macassar Place had come home to tea at the
usual hour. It is perfectly certain that the posters in the
streets of London are the real fountains of Pessimism. I,
for one, shall think better of your world to~morrow, if I
avoid the papers and survive aunt Susan’s little dance.”
“ It is not my world,” said Dora with calm persistence ;
“and I am sure that I hope you will survive your aunt
Susan's little dance.” .
If there was a deeper meaning in this last wish, Archie
ignored it. He looked at his watch. “I ought to be
back with my ﬂock,” he said, “ with your innocent if
fashionable sheep. That is the sort of Arcadian shepherd
that I am.” He began to whistle a fantastic air with his
walking-stick held like a ﬂute, and he danced down the
road before her.
“Good old Archie l ” cried out Dora--“ good old Archie l
“as Mr. Tony would say.”

CHAPTER XXII.
BY this time Archie and Dora had come in their walk to
the upper edge of the old wood, through which Dora had
climhed on that eventful day when Archie had helped
Elizabeth Lock out of the water. Their homeward way
lay through this same wood, but they entered it by a
different track 3 and, as they went quickly down, they
came in the very heart of the wood to a small clearing, in
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14.6 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
which stood the cottage of one of the underkeepers. It
was a low, comfortable cottage, which looked almost as
much as if it were a growth of the soil as did the old trees,
whicm grew at a respectful distance around it 5 for moss
and ivy had covered much of its nakedness, and the
thatched roof came so low that it left but a narrow strip
of stained wall between the eaves and the dead leaves
which lay deep at its foot. However in this ‘narrow strip
of wall there was a wide old-fashioned window 5 and Dora
Rutherford, when she had emerged from the trees and
regarded the little house with ready appreciation, was
moved by a moment’s curiosity to advance to the window
and look in.
Dora peeped in at the window, but immediately turned
away again. Archie was passing the cottage without a
look, and she moved as if she would go with him. But
then she stopped, and looked back, and then, obedient
to a sudden impulse, she ran to the young man, caught
him by the arm and drew him to the window.
It was a rich glowing picture which the underkeeper’s
cottage exhibited to the young lord, a deep effect of twi-
light and ruddy ﬁrelight 5 and in the ﬁrelight and illum-
inated by the warm glow was Elizabeth Lock. She sat on
a low three-legged stool with a picture-book spread open
on her lap 5 and by her side and full of wonder stood a
small, pale, freckled boy, to whom she showed the pictures.
Her own splendid tints showed with an imperial sumptu-
U'usness in that humble place, and there was a warm smile
on her face, as she told a story for each page. Her lorig
fur boa lay on the ﬂoor and curled about her feet like a
familiar snake. The child was not pretty, was not even
interesting in appearance, though his mother turned from
the dresser again and again to look at him, and each time
said to herself that it was no wonder that a lady, however
glorious, should be kind to her Tommy. Tommy was an
interesting invalid, hardly yet recovered from some child-
ish malady 5 and the glorious lady had come several times
to see him, and had sent to London for the picture-book,
which entranced him.
Archie, looking in upon the dusk and the warmth and
the kindness, felt a sort of warm glow about his heart also 5
but Dora plucked his sleeve impatiently and he yielded.
“ For a wonder she didn’t look sulky," said Dora still,


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COMEDY‘ OF A C‘UUNTRY HOUSE. 147
drawing him away by the arm. She meant to provoke him
to speech, but he said nothing.
“ Quite the effect of a Madonna 1” she said ; and then,
since he still was obstinately silent, and she felt that she
must make him speak, she gave a little laugh and cried out,
“ That’s the sort of girl who ought to marry." N o sooner
had the words leaped forth irrevocable, than she gasped
and perceived all which she had dared. Now she hoped
that he would not speak, for his words might tell her that
all was over and that he was in love with Elizabeth Lock.
She felt rather than saw that he was opening his mouth,
and with a convulsive cry she pinched his arm ﬁercely.
“ Hullo? ” said he 5 “ not your ankle again ?”
“Oh no,” said she gasping; “it was only a sudden
something. We were talking of marriage, weren’t we ?
We were saying that no man should dream of it before he
is thirty. It is a tremendous risk.” She stopped and
looked up at him now, as if she would make the word
“ tremendous ” even more tremendous than itself.
“ You ought to think Well of marriage, anyway,” retorted
Archie promptly.
“ Oh, I l I l ” she cried impatiently ; “ what have I got to
do with it? I am caught and caged. But you? you are
a free bird still, and not nearly thirty years old.”
“Few birds are,” said Archie 5 “ and as to marriage, I’ll
tell you when I am going to be married.”
“ Promise me that,” cried Dora, and she ran lightly
down the path before him, laughing as she ran.
In the small room, to which she had descended, and in
t that short time before dressing, which she was apt to give
to a brief review of the situation, Dora Wondered at her
folly, and rebuked herself sharply for her rashness. Why
had she displayed this dangerous girl in a moment of
charm so unusual? She asked herself the question, and
could ﬁnd no answer. Some impulse had moved her, a
touch of remorse, a sudden desire of fair play, her love of
daring, the sudden temptation of risking all her ﬁne work
of days in one thrilling moment. She became very grave
as she thought that such are the acts to which men point
maintaining the unreasonableness of the other sex. Was
she, too, a creature of feminine impulse? How great the
mischief which she might have done! As she sat there
looking into the ﬁre, grave and critical of herself, she
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148 COMEDY 0F .4 co UNTRY HOUSE.
could imagine Archie, the poor innocent, bursting into
that cottage in the wood, kneeling at the knees of that
sumptuous being, and begging her to take him and his bag
and baggage, lands and houses, messuages, tenements,
and hereditaments. This might have been the result of
her moment’s madness 5 she trembled as she looked back
upon that moment, and imagined herself looking in though
that low window, and beholding the simple youth upon
his knees. Any ﬂeet, wild acquiescence in this marriage,
any ﬂying fancy that it did not matter to her whether it
were or were not, had been followed by as quick reaction 5
she had recoiled as far 5 she had been aroused again to
uncompromising deﬁance. If her heart had softened to
the girl, the girl’s mother had made it harder than ever.
Indeed, over the feminine tea-table there had been a brisk
passage of arms. Some of the new-comers had embarked
with vivacity on the common topic of their maids, and
Lady Jane had remarked with decision that she knew of a
treasure, who wanted a place. Dora had askeda question
about the treasure 5 and “Oh,” said Lady Jane Lock in
the presence of these women, who were all more or less
strangers, “ she wouldn't do for you 5 she is one of the old-
fashioned kind, with old-fashioned ideas.” -
Then Dora had said very sweetly, “that she should
never think of taking a maid on Lady Jane’s recommend-
aﬁonf’
“And why not? ” cried Lady Jane, very red and
- straight.
“ Because you could never help speaking too kindly of
any woman.” Dora had answered, almost tenderly.
There had been quick sword-play among the tea-cups,
and Dora felt that she had borne herself well 5 but yet,
when she left the other women after tea, she was more
eager than ever that Lord Lorrilaire should remain a
bachelor. To see Lady Jane Lock ﬂushed with triumph
would be more than she could bear. And the recognition
of ,this recovered zeal brought with it a strange relief. She
was delighted to ﬁnd that she was more interested than
ever in this duty which she had set herself. This was
the object of her coming. She had come to save Archie
from a determined mother-in-law 5 this demanded all her
care, all her energy 5 she must not waste a thought just i
now on any other man. An eventful evening was before


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her, an opportunity of brilliant tactics, perhaps a serious
conﬂict. At all hazards she would carry Archie out of
the press. And she would dance too, dance often, dance
with Archie whenever danger threatened ,- and so combine
the duties of a guardian with the pleasures of a happy
dancer.
Dora, under the hands of her maid, saw with pleasure
in her glass that the new zeal had given new color to her
cheek, new brightness to her eyes. A very radiant young
creature shone back upon her from the reﬂecting plane.
The last touches were being given to this brave show,
when suddenly without a word of warning, without a pre-
sentiment which might have come so easily, she heard
that her husband was in the house.
“ Of course you know, ma.’am,” said her maid, provoking
and discreet, “that Mr. Rutherford has arrived.”
“ What? ” cried out Dora, who could not help a sudden
leap under those ofﬁcious hands, nor suppress a cry as her
hair was twitclied by the movement.
“Mr. Rutherford has arrived, ma’am 3 and Lord Lor-
rilaire is trying to ﬁnd a room, as the house is so very full.”
There was a tone of respectful fault-ﬁnding in the maid’s
voice which annoyed Dora. Indeed. annoyance was her
ﬁrst and Strongest feeling, as she heard of her husband’s
arrival. The sudden news added to her excitement and
produced a new irritation. She perceived that he could
not have chosen a worse time for his coming. She disliked
the idea, which she knew that he disliked also, of his
appearing an unexpected guest when there were guests
enough already, a trouble more on a troublesome evening.
It was ridiculous for a husband to arrive uninvited, where
a wife had already intruded without an invitation. This,
however, was a small matter. That which vexed her
keenly, was the knowledge that his presence on this
evening would be an embarrassment to herself. She had
decided that this evening was critical for Archie. and that
therefore all her skill and all her energy must be devoted
to watching, guarding, and, if need were, rescuing by
sudden action the friend of her childhood. Now, if Tom
had come but a few hours earlier, she could have explain-
ed the situation to him 5 he would have been kind if a
little contemptuous of her diplomacy ; he would have
understand-why her attention was engrossed by somebody
” i'iaﬂh'tg’ii'ffv'ii iii‘il 1.. i“ 1-H ’“ ‘h
15° COMEDY 0F .4 cowvmy HOUSE.
else; he would have kept himself in the back ground, and
left her to concentrate her attention upon her important
duties. If he had only come a few hours earlier, no
mischief would have been done; indeed, if he had come
and had found the house upside down and scarcely a
corner vacant, he would have gone back to London before
the ball. Of this Dora was certain ; and she was certain
too that the best thing of all would be that he had not
come at all. She was annoyed with the awkwardness of
events. She had wished for his coming, and he had not
come. Now, when a few hours were at hand, during
which his presence was an embarrassment, he had come
too late and too soon. She was vexed with the concur-
rence of events, vexed with her husband, and vexed with
herself for her vexation, for it agreed with no one of her
*theories that she should be ever vexed by the presence of
her husband. If he had only stayed in London for a few
more days, she would have gone to him gladly so soon as
the Locks had gone, and asked for his sympathy with her
victory. Now she was sure that she would be conscious
all the evening of her husband’s eyes, that her attention
would be constantly distracted, and the power of helping
Archie reduced by at least half. She foresaw herself
nervous and embarrassed, perhaps at the critical moment
unconscious of the crisis or rushing to the wrong action.
And all the time another question disturbed Dora.
Why had her husband come suddenly and without notice i’
It was not like him. As she asked herself this question,
she felt an anxiety which was almost fear. She told her-
self that there must be some answer perfectly simple 3 but
deep within her an unacknowledged uneasy doubt of her
own conduct made her fear. She saw with disgust in the
glass that a deep blush was spreading over face and neck.
“Make haste l ” she said impatiently to her maid 5 but
the effect of this impatience was only to delay, for the
maid, ﬂurried by her mistress’ eagerness and with ﬁngers
made tremulous by her mistress’ nervousness, wasa more ‘
clumsy helper than usual.
Dora was now eager to say a few words to her husband,
before they were swallowed by the world below; even a
hint of the part which she had to play, would be of some
use. He would certainly come to her room before he
went downstairs, and, if she were dressed and he: maid
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COMEDY 0F .4 cowvmy HOUSE. 1 51


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dismissed, she would be able to tell him in a few words and
without offence that she could not spare him much of that
momentous evening, She was impatient of his coming.
When at last Tom did come, the door, as he opened it,
let in the loud roaring of the gong. It was already late,
and Dora’s toilette was not quite ﬁnished. As she jumped
up to greet him a diamond ornament, ill secured, slipped
from her bosom, and catching in her lace tore a small
rent therein 3 her maid went down on her knees with
muttered expressions of dismay ,- and Tom came to kiss
her. She took no notice of the rent in her lace, as she
looked at her husband’s face. She was relieved. She saw
no sign of catastrophe, nor of ill-humor. And yet, though
they met as usual, with the usual few words of welcome
and affection, she felt an embarrassment between them.
She did not ask why he had come, and he said brieﬂy that
he had had no idea that there was a full house and a ball
in prospect, and that Archie had found him a corner to
sleep in. He said too that they were late, and that he
would go down and ask Mrs. Dormer not to wait for her.
She agreed quickly; she was hurriedly gathering gloves‘
and fan and handkerchief ; the open-cared maid was
ﬂuttering and fussing about her ; there was no chance of
even a word of explanation. When Tom had gone, and
in the minute which ﬂew by before she followed him, she
was sure that there was something strange in him. She
could not have describ'ed any difference in look or manner 5
but her delicate perception assured her of something new,
and she wondered again and again with an unpleasant
anxiety, what was the real reason of his coming. She ran
downstairs, late and disquieted, and foreseeing with annoy-
ance that she would be thinking and wondering through
half the evening about her husband and about his thoughts
of her, while all her attention should be given to the
watching and guarding of Archie.
During dinner she to some extent recovered her equani—
mity, and she consoled herself with the thought that
before the arrival of the ball people she would ﬁnd a few
minutes for private talk with her husband 3 but it seemed
to her that the men sat longer than usual over their wine,
and, when some of them came to the drawing-room, they
reported that others, among whom was her husband, had
pgmiﬁ *0 the Smoking~room, since cigarettes had been for
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152 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
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hidden on that evening in the dining-room, where the ball
supper was to be laid. Dora began to think with renewed
anxiety that her husband was avoiding those few moments
of private talk. Was there anything between them, which
he did not wish to be put into words? The recurrence of
such questions proved her nervous state, and showed her
the absolute necessity of a supreme effort. She tried hard
to postpone all thoughts of her husband to the morrow,
and to concentrate herself on her duty as guardian of a
rich young man. She tried hard but with only partial
success.

CHAPTER XXIII.
WHEN the men, who had gone to the smoking-room, at
last appeared, the ﬁrst of the neighbors had already come
and were standing about, waiting for the music to begin,
and uncomfortably conscious of the feeling of superiority
which distinguished those who had dined in the house.
Dora had given up all hope of an explanation with her
husband 5 and, as she awaited the music, her courage was
ready to respond. She resolved not to think of her hus-
band during that evening 5 she would keep her task clear
before her 5 she awaited the trumpets. Quick-eyed and
alert, she marked the coming of the smokers and among
them her lord, whom she would straightway dismiss from
her mind. In the same minute she noted an absence also.
There was no Leonard Vale among them. She supposed
that he would appear presently with a new ﬂower or some
such extravagant explanation of delay 5 but, when the
dancing began and still he did not come, she began to
wonder. ,
‘.5 Isn’t it sad about poor Lenny? ” asked a soft voice
beside her, and‘ turning, she looked into the sympathetic
brown eyes of Mrs. Chauncey.
“ What’s the matter with him ? ”
“ Oh, he is very seedy,” said Clara. “ Such a dreadful
_ He could not face the ball. goor fellow! It
i: 1s'uch a disappointment! He was so looking forward to
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“ What a pity l” said Dora simply.
“I ran up to see him, poor dear
for a minute, and to take him my salts.
fully shocked P ”
The childlike eyes seemed to ask the question quite
seriously.
“ Not at all,” answered Dora, laughing.
“ I thought you would be,” said Clara gravely; “ but
he and I are such old friends 5 that does make a difference,
doesn’t it? You would never do such a thing, I am sure.”
“Don’t be sure of anything,” said Dora rather tartly.
The soft voice irritated her ,- it seemed as if it would put
her to sleep, when she needed to be very wide awake. As
for Lenny’s absence, that was a distinct relief. It was an
embarrassment the less. She had ignored this cause of
embarrassment, when she had considered the presence of
her husband ~; but now, when she was certain that Leonard
would not come near her during all that fateful evening,
she felt a surprising relief. Suddenly, the presence of her
lord and master appeared less troublesome. To some
extent he would distract her, but after all not much.
There was Archie, the poor boy in danger, the rich boy so
hard beset ; there before her eyes was her duty, the object
of her care. She could give all her mind to this duty, and
postpone all thought of her husband till the morrow.
This absence of Mr. Vale certainly simpliﬁed the situation.
As the rooms ﬁlled, her spirit rose; social feeling and
the atmosphere of the dance possessed her, and, as the
music of the valse penetrated with gaiety and sadness
ﬂowed around her, there was pleasure too. Young, brila
liant and brave, she was sure of herself and of the future.
Indeed she needed all her conﬁdence. As the rooms
filled, a rumor began to move among the people. The
man latest from‘ London had brought it in a column of
that day’s number of the new Society paper. It was a
rumor of an engagement. Dora’s quick ears were among
the ﬁrst to catch it 5 half a sentence spoken halfway down
the room had told her all, and the expression of a fat lady,
who was shaking the hand of her host, conﬁrmed it. One
glance at Archie’s face showed how serious was the crisis.
“ Have you heard it? ” asked Clara, who was again at
her elbow.
l” said Clara, “ just
Are you dread~
, f‘ What?" asked Dora quickly.
I 54 COM'EDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
“ The engagement.”
“ Whose?”
“Poor young Lord Lorrilaire.”
“ No 3 I don’t believe it,” said Dora stoutly. Her eyes
were ﬁxed on Archie; she hoped still; and yet, though
her words were bold, she feared.
“ Lenny told me," said Clara softly.
“ How did he know? ”‘
“ I don’t know,” said Clara innocently 3 “ he had heard
it somehow 5 I think that it was that which made him ill ;
he is quite knocked over by it ; it was a bold stroke of
Lady Jane.”
“ Did she send it to the paper? ”
“So Lenny says.”
“ Lenny l ” cried Dora impatiently ; “ how feeble of
him 1 how weak he is! Why isn’t he here instead of
lying down with a smelling-bottle P "
“ Poor Lenny l” murmured Clara.
“ He is the only person who knows anything, and I
can’t see him.”
“ I suppose not,” murmured Clara.
“ If he has any proof that Lady Jane sent the paragraph, "
I could go straight to Archie and show him this crude
trap. He would be ashamed to step into such a thing.
Do you know? What did he say to you? Has he any
proof?” ~
“ Oh, I am so sorry,” said Clara, looking with round
innocent eyes 3 “ I never thought of it. If you could only
see him for a minutel In an hour it may be too late.”
Dora looked across the room and actually trembled. ' *
Archie was not with Miss Lock ; that was the only
comfort; she could not see the girl, who was not one to
be hidden in a crowd; but at any moment this eminent
maiden might sail back into the room, and Archie might
go to her and lead her out again. Dora saw it all almost
as clearly as if the scene were there.
“ He said,” continued Clara, with a little infantine pout,
“ that nobody but you could do anything 5 that, if he
could see you for one minute, he could tell you.”
“ Why doesn’t he come P ”
“ He really could not. He looks so dreadfully ill. He
would terrify the room. Of course I told him that it was
impossible for you to go to him.”
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COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 155
“ You went," said Dora shortly.
“ Oh, I am so different. I said that you would never
dare.”
“ Dare?” cried Dora, as at the sound of a trumpet; “ I
dare everything.”
“ Oh, no," objected Clara softly, but ﬁrmly, “I really
think not."
“ How ridiculous I ” cried Dora angrily; “ what is it ? to
run up to the Tower Wing for a minute! I would do
something really dangerous to save Archie from that
woman. To send a paragraph herself about her own
daughter! If I could prove that, I would save him even
at the last moment.”
“Lenny has the proof,” murmured Clara.
“ Then why don’t you fetch it? "
“ Really, dear,” said Clara with a little laugh, “ I can’t
keep on running up to the Tower Wing. Of course it is
nothing, as you say, but the truth is that I have been up
twice already; and besides, he won’t tell me anything; he
is racked with pain, poor fellow! and he won’t say any-
thing except that nobody but you can do anything, and
that he must see you. I tried to explain to the poor
creature that it was out of the question.” _
“Why is it out of the question? ”
“ Isn’t it out of the question ? I thought that you were
so conventional.”
“ Conventional !” cried Dora full of scorn, and with eyes
still ﬁxed on Archie.
“ Isn’t it out of the question P ” repeated Clara. Dora
answered nothing, but continued to gaze across the room.
“ Would you go? ” asked Clara, with the tone and air of
a child who persists in asking wearisome, innocent ques-
trons.
“ N 0,” said Dora ; “ certainly not.”
As the words left her lips, she saw Archie move and go
towards the door at the further end of the room. She saw
that, without obvious intention, she could reach the door-
way at the same time ; she started from Clara's side,
gained her goal, and turning, found Archie’s face not two
yards away. There was a slight block at the doorway 5 he
could not force a passage; she had time to look at him;
she had never seen his face so grave. She felt the immi-
nence of the crisis ; she perceived, most momentous sign


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:56 comma? 0F .4 column’ HOUSE.
There was a movement in the little crowd, and Archie,
advancing, passed a man, who instantly laid a hand on his
arm, and murmured some question with a fatuous friendly
smile. There could be no doubt what that question was.
“ I am afraid I am not so fortunate,” said Archie rather
stifliy. The mere words were comforting to Dora, but the
tone was equivocal, and his looks ﬁlled her with uneasi-
ness. He made his way through the doorway, passing
close to her, and without a sign of recognition 5 there was
an alarming air of purpose about him. “Is it true?”
asked somebody on Dora’s other side.
“Oh, I think so,” answered another 5 “it always is true
in that family.”
Dora set her little teeth,and began to make her way in
the wake of the threatened youth. She had scarcely
moved, when she was stopped short by a ﬁrm impediment.
Lady Iane was in the path, ﬁrm and strong, like a rock of
red sandstone. “ Dear Mrs. Rutherford!” she said with
frank geniality.
“Yes?” said Dora feebly, fearing lest the next words
would announce the awful fact.
“ How very ill you are looking! ” said Lady Jane.
“Thanks,” said Dora, moving as if she would pass. But
the crowd remained, and Lady Iane blocked the easiest
passage.
“ I am quite distressed,” said Lady Jane 5 “ you look so
ﬂushed and nervous. Perhaps the sudden appearance of
your husband.” She ﬁnished her sympathetic speech with
a strident laugh.
“ You are, as always, too kind,” said Dora quickly,
pushing forward as she spoke. But Lady Jane Lock was
not an easy woman to pass in a doorway. Low of stature,
and very ﬁrmly planted on her feet, she barred the way to
anybody who was not active enough to leap over her. '
“You young married women,” she said, “ go in a great
deal too much for excitement. I shall speak to Mr.
Rutherford about you. I shall recommend a good long
spell of quiet life in the country.”
.“ With you, I hope,” said Dora quickly 5 “ will you let
me pass, please ? "
“Why, whom are you looking for? I am sure you are
very ﬂattering to him. We did not have to run after our ~
partners. How sad about poor Mr. Vale, isn’t it? ”
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comwr 0F .4 00 UNTRY HOUSE. 1 51


“Very,” said Dora ; “ but I must go. I am looking for
Archie.”
“ For Archie !” exclaimed Lady Jane, in apparent sur-
prise ; “ ain’t you afraid of being de trap ?” The triumph
in her eye was maddening. Wild suggestions came to
Dora; she was impelled by some memory of pantomime
tricks to point to something behind her obstructor, and to
slip by, as she turned, or to trip her up, if need were.
Prudence, or a sense of the decorum which the world
required, prevented the ignominious prostration of Lady
Jane Lock.
“ I am never afraid of being de trap with Archie,” Dora
said bravely, and was answered by nothing but a laugh full
or’ intention and discord. Dora could stand no more;
trembling with indignation, she turned her back on the
enemy, and retraced her steps with speed. She went
straight to Glara.
“ I will go,” she said.
“ I will go ﬁrst and tell him,” cried Clara promptly.
“Quick then!” cried Dora; “that is better; I shall
ﬁnd you there.” w
“ Yes,” said Clara.
“ Oh, that woman !
Anything to beat her! Quick! ”
she added, pushing Clara by the arm 3 “quick! I can
only be away two minutes.” -
Little Mrs. Chauncey slipped away from the room. She
had a talent for gliding here and there, through crowds
and other obstacles, and always unobserved.

CHAPTER XXIV.
DORA was right in thinking that the face of young Lord
Lorrilaire was eloquent of purpose. When he had passed
the doorway in which Lady Jane Lock had barred the
passage of Mrs. Rutherford, he walked straight and quickly
across the room beyond to the opposite door. This door
led into one of those. smaller rooms which careful ball—
givers prepare for conversation ; and here Elizabeth Lock
was sitting with a young man, who had been her partner
in the last dance. Two or three people made way for
Archie, as he came, with knowing looks ; a young couple
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I58 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
came out from the little room as he reached the door;
and, as he entered, the young man rose from beside Miss
Lock. Elizabeth rose too, as if she would return with
him to the ball room 3 but Archie went straight to her with
so plain a claim on her attention, that the other youth,
after a minute’s hesitation, smiled and bowed, and wentuout
alone. He had scarcely passed the doorway, when Archie
had asked Elizabeth to be his wife. The exact form of
words had been settled as he crossed the outer room.
“Oh, thank you,” said the girl, with heartfelt gratitude ;
she held out her hand to him with the frankest cordiality.
He took her hand respectfully in his, staring at her with
wonder ; he had expected success, but not gratitude; he
did not know what to say.
“ It is so good of you to ask me,” she said.
“ Good of me P ” he asked, still wondering.
“ Yes, and I thank you with all my» heart," she answered,
and she shook his hand before she let it go.
“Then it’s all right,” he said rather stupidly; “it’s
agreed then ; you will marry me? ”
“ No, no, no! "
“ What P ” i - ,
“ Did you think that I would be so mean i’ ” she asked
indignant; “ did you think that I would marry a man
because he asks me—because people talk ? I can’t express
myself properly, but you know what I mean 3 you know
that you only ask me because people are talking, and you
are generous and nice and not like other men, and so you
come and say this, and I can never thank you enough. It
has been so horrid! I hated to run after you in London,
and I hated coming here, and staying, and staying, and get—
ting new gowns at the end of the season, and I almost hated
you 5 I should have hated you if I hadn't liked you ; and now
there’s some horrid gossip in some paper, and so you
come to ask me, and it is so awfully good of you and I
shall never forget it.”
Archie had not a word to say. The girl had spoken
quickly and eagerly, as if she had long wished to say the
words. She looked so frank, so honest, and so friendly,
that he did not doubt her for a moment.
“What can I say?” he said “You must not think
that I----” And here he stopped, and she laughed.
“ You know that what I say is true,” she said 5 “ so do
let us say no more, and talsaaeshashtaths..hallrssif
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COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 159
w sh ’
But he still stood looking at her rather foolishiy. He
was relieved, but yet not much; he was almost offended
by her extreme pleasure in refusing him; he was grateful
but not gratiﬁed; he would have liked to see in her a
little regret, a suspicion of tenderness, a shade of doubt.
“What am I to say? ” he asked at last. “ When I go
out of this room people will come to congratulate me.”
“N of if we go out together, ” she said. ‘
“ But we can’t stay together, since you won’t have it so,”
he said rather gloomily.
“ Say there is nothing in it,” she ‘said ; “ and so will I.
It will be much harder for me, for women never will let
one alone 5 they are much more curious than men.”
“ I shall say that you won’t take me,” said Archie.
“Oh, please don’t,” she said 3 “I should have such a
dreadful row with mother.” ‘
He laughed at the change in her voice, but without much
enjoyment. “ You will have to tell her,” he said.
“ Yes,” she said ; “ more or less, to-morrow ; I want to
be happy now, so take me back, please.” She looked so
kind and glorious, that he wonderedif he were not foolish
to yield so easily to her wishes. “I shall have to tell
mother to-morrow,” she said 3 “ but I shall put most of the
blame on you.”
“What a shame !” he said, and he began to laugh
again.
“It won’t hurt you,” she said, “and I shall catch it
- enough any way. I shall only say that you only said What
you said because it was expected of you, and that it was
impossible for any girl to say ‘ yes.’ ”
“ But that’s not true,” he said.
“ It was impossible for me to say ‘ yes.’ ”
“ Why ? ” ‘ '
“You mustn’t ask that,” she said quickly; “you mll
begin it all over again.”
“Well, why not?” This time it was he who held out
his hand to her.
“ N o, no, no,” she said again. “You are really glad to
be free.”
He would have protested, but a voice, or so it seemed,
from deep within him said plainly that he would be glad
when he woke in the morning. So he kept silence. He
was still‘sgtanding ﬁrst on one leg and then on the other
H "
‘if’ ‘'
5&1’ g is; MA \
a -_ 4*
mnim.mmﬁﬁm w a“; m e :4
160 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
unwilling to go or stay, conscious of the unsatisfactoriness
of things, not knowing what to say, when a dancing young
man, conscious of nothing but the importance of dancing
every dance and each with the proper person, hurried in
and claimed Miss Lock. She promptly put her hand on
the arm of the new-comer, and with a last look full of
friendship and intelligence for the rejected Archie, passed
out into the more brilliant light of the ball-room, while her
new partner chirped of ﬂoors and music.
Archie, ﬂushed, excited, provoked, amused, felt no wish
to follow the girl, and a strong wish to avoid the crowd
for a few minutes at least. He pushed aside the muslin
curtains which draped the long window, and opening the
window itself, passed through it into the great tent, which
covered the terrace. In the tent too there were some
people, and he fancied curious looks and comments 5 and
so he turned again and went out from the tent and down
the steps, which led from the terrace to the park. It was
a night most wonderfully fair for this late autumn time,
and, ﬂushed as he was, Archie felt only an agreeable cool-
ness as he met the air. He drew a deep breath from the
sweet night, but the next moment, before he had stepped
from the lowest step to the grass, he started. He was
close to the shrubbery which concealed the little door of
the old secret staircase of the tower wing, and in the shadow
of this shrubbery he spied the ﬂutter of white drapery and
heard a deep sepulchral tone. Was it the family ghost?
With half-attentive ear he had received the tale of the
distinguished Rayner ghost. What if, whenever the repre-
sentative of the family was rejected, the Castle Spectre
was condemned to walk?
“ N inety-nine ! ” said slowly and solemnly the same deep
voice, and Archie put his hand on his mouth that he might
not stop the ceremony with untimely laughter. Tony had
led a partner forth to view the beauty of the night, and
then, as he considered the rashness of the act, and the
danger of a sudden chill, sentiment had given place to
science, and he had begun to demonstrate to the astonished
maiden -the method of his salutary exercise.
“Ninety-nine, ninetynine, ninety-nine !” repeated the
Castle Spectre in pursuit of health 5 and Archie HOW
allowed his laughter natural way, but it was stopped at
the ﬁrst note by a scream. The incantation ceased, Tony’s
4
COZPIEDY' OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 161
disciple screamed in sympathy, and Archie, leaping through
the small shrubbery, found Clara Chauncey leaning against
the wall, pale and breathless. The door of the secret stair-
case was half-open beside her.
“What is it? ” asked Clara, gasping, conscious of a
human presence.
“ It’s Tony,” said Archie.
“ Oh, oh 1 ” gasped Clara 5 “ how silly of me I I thought
it was your ghost—“the family ghost-they are the only
things I am afraid of. A minute, and I shall be all right.”
Supporting herself against the wall with one hand, she pulled
the little door to with the other. “Oh, Mr. Tony,” she
said, as Mr. Fotheringham and his partner now appeared,
“ I shall never forgive you. My nerves ! ”
“ If it’s your nerves,” said Tony, “ you can’t do any-
thing better than this exercise, which I was just showing
to Miss Robertson. You bend a little forward, you see,
and go up and down so, and you keep saying, ‘Ninety- .
nine ! ’ ”
“It is a comfort to see you,” said Clara, “and to know
that you are human.”
The girl, who now felt herself informally introduced,
asked if she could do nothing for Mrs. Chauncey; but
Clara declined all help, saying with emphasis that she
would be quite well in a minute, and rebuking Tony for
allowing his partner to stand about in the open air. Thus
aroused to a full sense of his iniquity, Mr. Fotheringham
tucked Miss Robertson’s hand within his arm and hurried
her away to the safer atmosphere of the tent.
“We must go too,” said Clara, after a minute, with a
smile. She was aware that Archie was regarding her
with some curiosity and was wondering how she came
there. She stood straight that she might test her steadiness,
and Archie offered her his arm ; but as they began to move,
they heard a stumbling noise behind them, and in another
moment the little door was burst open again, and a man
rushed out. In his haste he dashed against Archie, who
seized him and held him fast. He saw that it was Leonard
Vale.
“What is it?” he asked, shaking him not too gently,
for Leonard was panting and seemed incapable of speech.
He looked from Lenny to Clara, who seemed to have
recovered all her strength. “ Here l you look after him,”
6
162 COJWEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
he cried, pushing him to Clara ; “And I’ll see What’s the
matter.” Leonard made a clutch at him as if he would
prevent him from going, but Archie, striking aside his arm,
dashed through the door and up the secret staircase.

CHAPTER XXV.
WHEN Dora had made up her mind to visit the Tower
Wing, she made no long delay. She waited a while that
Clara Chauncey might have time to say that she was
coming, and then she too slipped away from the ball-room.
Upstairs she ran, hurrying, as people hurry who wish to
give themselves no time for hesitation. By this time she
knew the house well, and she had no need to stop and
think before she reached the Tower Wing and stood at
the door of Leonard Vale’s den. Nor did she stop there 3
she knocked at once and sharply on the door, and so soon
as he had answered, she turned the handle and went in.
She caught her breath 3 she felt the dim luxury of the room,
the shaded lights and sumptuous things 3 she saw Leonard
Vale standing opposite, near to the window, his hands on
the back of a chair. She looked‘ quickly for another
ﬁgure.
“ Where is Mrs. Chauncey? ” she asked.
“ Mrs. Chauncey P Clara P ” he said vaguely.
do you want with Clara Chauncey?”
Dora closed the door and came a step nearer, saying
eagerly-
“ She says that you have some proof that Lady Jane
sent that paragraph to the paper 5 it is my only chance of
stopping Archie’s marriage 3 you must tell me quick ; 1
can’t stay a minute.”
“ Not stay P ” he murmured.
“ Only a minute. Quick l”
“ Not stay,” he repeated, “when you’ve done so much
for me 3 when you’ve come here, here to my rooms, here to
me P ” ' '
Dora looked at him with growing displeasure. As she
saw more clearly in the dim light, his pale face seemed to
be ﬂushed unnaturally, and his eyes had a glassy look. "
“ What
a T311 me at once,” she said ﬁrmly and distinctly, “,what C
,ar'»
it»
‘" “was
a;
N" 5r
In).
cosmic? OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 163
you know of Lady Jane and the paper; tell me at once, or
I shall go.”
“ Oh, don’t go,” he said plaintively.
“ Will you tell me P ” she asked, and she moved back-
ward to the door and put her hand on the handle.
As she went back, he came forward. “ Why don’t you
trust me, Dora P ” he asked. ‘
“ Dora l How dare you ? ” she cried out in answer.
“ And how dare you 1 ” he cried with sudden anger;
“ it’s too late for these airs. What right have you to be
so charming and so cold‘? ”
Dora stamped her foot upon the ﬂoor. “ Stay where
you are,” she said, and he stood still. “ Now tell me, if
you can think and speak, what proof you can give me that
Lady jane Lock sent that paragraph about Archie’s engage-
ment to the paper. That is all which I choose to hear.
Tell me that, and don’t say a word more, and take care
how you speak to me.”
“And take care how you speak to me,” he answered
ﬁercely 5 “ you’ve gone too far for that. What would
your Lady Iane say if she knew that you ,were here now
with me, alone with me?”
“ Are you threatening me P ”
“ No—yes—I don’t know what I say; you make me
mad.” He stumbled over the footstool as he came, and
caught the table that he might steady himself.
Dora had turned the handle of the door, but now in the
moment’s silence she stood still with the door half-open in
her hand. “Be still!” she said in a whisper; “there is
somebody coming.” She peered into the passage, which
was almost dark ; but a light hung on the wall at the far
end, and, if any one were coming, she would see him there.
She heard a fatuous laugh behind her, but she could waste
no time in scorn ; she watched the light. In a minute she
drew back into the room with her hand pressed hard
against her side. “ It’s Tom,” she said, “ my husband.”
As she fell back from the door, Lenny rushed at it.
“The key’s gone,” he cried-‘‘ here, quick, this way!”
He dashed open the door of his bedroom. “There’s a
way through, a staircase ; I’ll show you—quick ! for God’s
sake, quick 1 ” _ i
“ No,” said Dora. “ I won’t run from my husband.”
f‘ Are you mad? Come.”
164 COMED Y OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
“ You must explain,” she said.
“ Explain ! Curse the woman ! Will you come? "
He caught her by the arm, but she wrenched herself from
his hand. “ Will you come? ” he cried 5 “ do you think
I’ll stay here to be murdered? Curse you !” He rushed
into his bedroom, and in the next moment the door from
the passage was opened and Tom Rutherford came in.
Dora had retreated further back into the room 5 tumultu-
ous feeling, shame, scorn, and fear, possessed her 5 she
stood erect with an effort 5 she would not touch the table
on which that man had leant.
“ Who was with you here?” asked her husband.
“ How dare you speak to me like that? ” she cried out
at him, and then suddenly sank down upon a chair, and
was shaken with a dry sobbing, for no tears came.
He did not come a step nearer. “Tell me who was
with you,” he said. '
She made a great effort to control her sobs, and sud-
denly she sat up listening 5 she heard sounds of somebody
coming from the bedroom 5 she was in amazement 5 she
could not think that he was coming back. The door,
which Lenny had slammed behind him, was opened, and
Archie came quickly into the room. He was out of breath 5
he looked quickly from husband to wife.
Tom stepped towards him with relief plainly written in his
face. “ It was you who just left Dora?” he said.
“Yes,” said Archie.

CHAPTER XXVI.
WHEN the night had passed, reaction came with the morn-
ing. The cold light of a day of late November displayed
the seamy side of all the bravery of the ball. Without and
within men were removing decorations, which adorned no
more 5 on the terrace lay bare poles where the gay pavilion
had stood. The hothouse ﬂowers, a little dissipated~ and
weary, had gone back to their hothouses 5 the hothouse
women, their petals also touched here and there by glare
of light and too late hours, were sleeping in their beds.
In the rooms servants were busy restoring things to their
usual place 5 other servants slipped silently ‘down the pass ,
COMEDY OF A COUNTRY.HOUSE. 165
ages with little trays for the late risers. Only the eminent-
ly energetic appeared at the breakfast table, and among
them the most eminent of the energetic, Lady Jane Lock.
Lady Jane had slept less soundly than she was wont to
sleep. Who knows what visions had haunted her admir-
able pillow? Had she dreamed of the names of dress-
makers, staymakers, carriage-makers, or calculated incomes
in her sleep, and estimated gems? Doubts, as she lay on
this side, hopes, as she lay on that, these were her portion.
She had supped well, too, and at a late hour. Is it strange
that she was restless ? She awoke hot and irritable ; she
was inclined to linger on her couch, but a sense of duty
made her rise, a sense of duty and an overpowering curio-
sity. She could not believe but ‘that all would be well 3
and yet she was beset again and again by uneasy doubt.
How far did she understand Lord Lorrilaire P and how far
did she understand her own child? It was this latter ques-
tion which exasperated her. She stole across the passage in
her dressinggown and slippers to see if Elizabeth were yet
awake ; but Elizabeth was sleeping like an infant, with a
smile upon her lips. She was inclined to shake her, but ‘
she knew well how much might depend on her child look-
ing well on that day, and with admirable self—control she
refrained. She would not mar such beauty-sleep which
might be worth-what might it not be worth in solid cash?
She went back to her own chamber and ﬁnished her toilet.
Even when she was completely dressed, her daughter was
still sleeping; and the good mother descended the stair~
case, anxious, curious, but summoning all her forces, that
she might bear herself with dignity before critical feminine
eyes. She only hoped that Susan Dormer would not be
there.
Susan Dormer was there. When Lady Jane entered
the dining-room, and saw her friend smiling vaguely
over the tea-pot, it seemed to her positively malicious in
that restful lady to have come down so early on
the morning after the ball. There was only one other
woman present, and she was a vigorous young lady, who,
perhaps for lack of other charms, made a point of proving
on all occasions that she needed no female indulgence, and
could rough it like a man.
She had trotted backwards and forwards between her
place and the side-table, and, as she would have put it,
‘5' 5 x
p 2* 1, v, _. ~
eﬂﬁiiséimamwampt a‘.
166 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
done herself remarkably well. Two ladies, and not more
than three men, of whom one was Mr. Fotheringham,
who had risen for health’s sake, were dotted here and
there at the large table ,' and it did seem to Lady Jane that
Susan could have joined the small party for no other
object than her aggravation.
Susan smiled on her too with such provoking amiability,
as she poured out her tea and gave it to her, as she always
gave it to her, in spite of daily instructions, black and
bitter. ’
“Mr. Tony was telling us such a strange tale as you
came in,” said Mrs. Dormer ; “ he was wandering about in
the park, and heard a female shriek, and I don’t know
what 3 I have not the least idea what it is all about, but I
am sure that it is dreadfully improper.”
“ Who shrieked? ” asked Lady Jane, turning upon
Tony.
“ Oh, it was nothing,” said Tony, abashed 3 “ she only
took me for the good old ghost.”
“ You for a ghost ! ”
“ Yes, you see I was just doing my little exercise—you
know it, don’t you, Lady Jane P ”
“ No.”
“ It’s awfully good for you, you know; you just bend
your body ”
“My dear Mr. Tony,” said Mrs. Dormer, “you really
must spare us the details ,' I am sure they are most
improper; and besides, poor dear Jane is not good at
bending, are you, dear? ” e
To this Lady Jane returned no answer 3 and her friend
continued: “ Well, there was a female shriek, and a lady
at the foot of the old tower stairs with her hand on her
heart, gasping, and my nephew Archie ﬂying to her
support
Lady Jane looked up now, and felt herself burning.
“ Ah,” said Susan Dormer, answering her friend’s
unspoken question, “ Mr. Tony is dreadfully discreet ; he
won’t tell us the lady’s name. And I am sure there is a
mystery 3 for now I hear that Leonard Vale has gone to
London by the milk train and in his dress-clothes ,- and no
human being ever before travelled by the milk train.”
“ Has he gone alone?” asked lady Jane, savagely, as
she sat down her cup of bitterness.
I»


a
‘a “" v
‘enema. vets-
COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 167
“ Presumably, my dear,” said Mrs. Dormer.
“I thought perhaps ” began Lady Jane.
“ Oh, naturally, dear,” said Mrs. Dormer, suavely.
“And Mr. Tony will not divulge the lady’s name? ”
said Lady Jane again. “ Perhaps he knows if the gentle
man has gone alone P ”
“ He hasn’t taken his man,” said Tony, innocently.
Mrs. Dormer began to laugh.
“But the story is not ended yet, Jane. Lenny went by
the milk train ”
“ Lenny ! ” exclaimed Lady lane, with disapproval.
“ And who do you think went by the next? ”
“ I really can’t say,” said Lady Jane, “and I do not care
to guess.”
“ Archie,” said Mrs. Dormer.
“What?” cried out the other lady. Awful doubts
rushed in upon her. What was this? Had Archie ﬂed ?
Was this the end P She half rose.
“ Oh,” said her friend Susan, “ he has gone an hour ago ;
you can’t catch him.”
At this the manly young lady could not suppress a
squeak of appreciation ; and a minute later Tony, who
was rather slow at perceiving the force of a speech, nearly
choked over his cup. Then was seen the true strength of
an indomitable little woman. Lady jane controlled herself
with an heroic effort. She did not plump down again into
her seat, though her knees were loosened. She left her
place and walked bravely round to her hostess, with her
teacup in her hand.
“ I do wish, Susan,” she said, “that you would not try
to poison me."
“ Oh, good gracious ! ” said Mrs. Dormer.
“ Kindly ﬁll my cup with hot water. Has your nephew
gone for long? ” she asked, as she returned to her place.
It was a sublime example of female courage ; her heart
was beating wildly as she asked the question. Perhaps
Susan Dormer felt a little sorry for her friend. It is
certain that after regarding her for a minute with a gentle
contemplative air, and with her little mouth innocently
ajar, she answered her question with a small dose of
encouragement.
“ He may come back,” she said; “he did change his
clothes, but he has taken no others with him, and his man


I68 COMEDY 0F54 COUNTRY HOUSE.
is to wait for orders.
are safe.”
Lady Jane laughed, but the laughter sounded harsh in
her own ears.
“ I certainly hope to see him come back,” she said 5 “ he
was not here to receive us, and if he is not here to say
good—bye, I shall certainly think him the strangest host
that I have ever met.”
Her voice almost broke before she reached the end of
her sentence; she felt as if she could not speak another
word upon the subject. But now, to her great relief,
another batch of guests made their appearance, and
among them Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford. Dora and her
husband came into the room together. Lady jane Lock
looked at them curiously, and with no friendly regard 5 but
if there were any change in either of them, it was too
subtle for the somewhat dull perception of this lady.
Dora sat down at once at the table, and her husband got
her some breakfast. ’
“ We are obliged to be prompt,” he said to Mrs. Dormer,
“for we go by the 11.30. Oh no, thanks,” he added, in
answer to a vague murmur of his hostess 5 “please don’t
bother Sir Villiers: he has enough to attend to; I have
ordered a ﬂy.”
Lady Jane, listening, was tormented by new doubts.
Was Mrs. Rutherford going because her defence of Lord
Lorrilaire was no longer necessary, or because she had
given up his defence in despair? Or was her husband
taking her away for reasons of his own?
“You know that Archie has gone? ” asked Mrs.
Dormer.
If he dosen’t send for luggage, you
“ Yes,” said Tom; “ he sent a line to my room to say
that he should not be here to say good-bye.” .
“And Mr. Vale too,” said Lady Jane, whom anxiety
and irritability would not suffer to be silent; “it appears
that Mr. Vale has gone off in his dress-clothes, and in
what Susan calls the milk train. Is it not extraordinary?
I say there must be some joke in it, and I am sure that
Mrs. Rutherford is in the jest.”
“ N 0,” said Dora.
“ Do you mean to say that you ain’t in the secret? ”
Dora looked up as if she were ready to engage, but
only shook her head slightly and drank her tea.
a
,a.
comm Y 0F .4 co owner HOUSE. :69
“ If you have done your breakfast,” her husband said
to her, “ you had better see if your maid has ﬁnished the
packing ; she ought to be off in ten minutes.”
He rose, as he spoke, with his watch in his hand, and
there was a general rise of those who had breakfasted,
among whom Dora left the room.

CHAPTER xxv'n.
WHEN Archie reached London, the day was still young;
he drove straight to Leonard Vale’s lodgings. The sitting-
room, into which the visitor was shown, suggested yester-
day’s atmosphere, a faint smell of dust, a faint smell of
patchouli. A' blousy house—maid, with her cap awry, who
in the absence of the gentleman’s gentleman had admitted
the visitor to this sanctum, now pounded on the bedroom
door. Lenny was lying down within, but, when he had
learned who awaited him and a certain time had passed,
he came out, clad gorgeously in a silken smoking—suit, but
looking white and angry. They exchanged no words of
greeting, and there was an awkward pause.
“Well, what is it?” asked Leonard at last, with a
forced laugh; “ I don’t know what right you’ve got to
question me, but ﬁre away."
“ I don't want to question you,” said Archie ; “ I know
enough!’
“Well, then, what do you want? I am deucedly tired,
and, if you’ve nothing to say, I’ll go to bed.” He spoke
with a sickly air of indifference.
“I only come to tell you,” said Archie, “that you
mustn’t live any more in my house.”
“Your house! your house!” cried out the other with
sudden fury 5 “I was there before you ever dreamed of
owning it; but it’s always the way-‘Put a beggar on
horseback !”
“ I never begged,” said Archie.
“I suppose you mean that I did? ” -
“ No, not from me, at least,” said Archie; “I pressed
it on you."
“You negdn’t remind me that I am in your pay; I
know it well enough,” said Leonard Vale bitterly.
r70 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
“ Never mind that,” said Archie 3 “ we need not go into»
that ; you seem to be comfortable enough here anyway--
only would you mind my opening the window? I am'a
lunatic for fresh air.” He waited a minute, and then, as
Leonard said nothing, he pushed open the window.
“I may live here, then?” asked Leonard presently,
‘ with all the sarcasm which he could command.
“Live where you like, except in any house of mine,”
said Archie bluntly.
“ And I suppose,” said Lenny, after a pause, “ that you
will announce to the world that you have been obliged to
turn me out of the house.”
“ I shall announce nothing to the world,” said Archie.
“ The world is not likely to be violently excited about the
matter ,- nor would the world think it strange that I take
my house into my own hands.” -
“Then we are all to get the sack,” said Leonard with
his aggravating levity, “the great Sir Villiers and Mrs.
Dormer and I.”
“ No—only you at present,” said Archie.
“ What have I done? What the devil do you---”
began Leonard furiously.
“ I’ll tell you what you have done,” said Archie ; “ you
have so behaved yourself in my'house ”
“ Your house !”
“ You have so behaved yourself in my house,” repeated
Archie, “that you have come near to compromising my
dearest friend.”
“Behavior ! Compromising ! ” exclaimed Leonard Vale
with a sneer. “ Where have you lived P What have
I done that any man of the world would not think fair P ”
“I don't care,” said Archie, “ what your man of the
world would think. I act as I think myself. I think it
wrong-for one thing—to make love to another man’s
wife.”
Leonard looked at him with unfeigned astonishment.
He was somewhat relieved also, inferring rapidly that his
benefactor knew only this part of his conduct. “ If I am
to hear a sermon,” he said, “ I should like to sit down;
only you will have the room so plaguy cold.”
Archie saw that the other’s white teeth were almost
chattering in his head. He said nothing, but went to the
window and shut it. Then Leonard sank int'b a low chair
\
COMEDY 0F .4 COUNTRY HOUSE. 17:
doubling his smoking-coat about his chest with his long
white hands and huddling himself together as if for
warmth.
“ And when it comes,” said Archie, “ to trying to
entangle a woman who means no sort of harm----_”
Lenny laughed, and Archie turned upon him with sud~
den anger. “You don’t dare to hint any harm of Dora
Rutherford,” he said.
“ No. Curse it! No,” said Leonard Vale ; “who
wants to hint, or to speak either. Why will you take
things like that?” he went on plaintively ; “it’s making
a fuss about nothing—about nothing but a little harmless
ﬂirtation. She didn’t mind.”
“Take care what you say,” said Archie. “If you ever
say a word against her, or annoy her in any way--I’ll put
it so that your man of the world can understand-payment
stops.”
“ Who wants to say a word against her,” said Leonard
almost whining; “except that she’s a heartless coquette?
, That’s what she is, a heartless coquette. She made me


mad, and then she turned on me with her cursed Puritan
airs. Yes, I know that I got out of hand. My excuse is
that I was drunk.”
“ Oh, that’s your excuse? Is that a good excuse in the
eyes of your man of the world? You ought not to be
drunk when you talk to a lady! ”
"‘ It was bad form,” said Lenny lightly.
“ And it was bad form to run away,” said Archie grimly.
Thereupon Leonard Vale broke into blasphemies. “ Oh,
my Godl" he cried at last, shaking and holding hard to
the arms of his chair. “ Will you take a challenge to the
man? I'll cross to-night by the Calais boat ; I’ll go any-
where and wait any time if he’ll only meet me.”
“ You would have done better to wait at the time,” said
Archie.
“ Don’t I teli you that I was drunk,” said Leonard
ﬁercely.
“And so, because you were drunk,” said Archie, “and
being drunk behaved uncommonly badly, you want my
friend to cross the Channel for a chance of being killed?’
“ I know the fellow’s a coward,” said Lenny between
his teeth ; “ I know he wouldn’t meet me.”
“You can say that,” said Archie, i‘ if it’s any comfort to
u
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172 COMEDY 0F .4 cowvrwv Ho USE.
you5 but you know that you don’t believe it. I think he
would kill you, if it came to killing, but that’s not to the
point.” _
“Well, anyway,” cried the recumbent youth, “I wish
to Heaven you would go. This room is mine anyway, and
I don’t see why I should be baited.” He spoke withone
of his sudden changes of manner, as if he gave everything
up, and nothing were important but permission to lie limp
in his well-stuffed chair.
“ I’ll go,” said Archie 5 “I’ve said what I had to say.”
He stopped with his hand on the door and looked at his
cousin, and, as he looked upon his prostrate feeblenessf
his ready pity returned. After all, this was so little like a
man, so weak, so little dangerous. To be angry with such
a one seemed as vain as to be afraid of him. He sprawled
there a scarcely responsible product of luxury, indulgence,
and corruption. There came back to Archie’s mind a
warning of John Stuart Mill, who had written somewhere
that we had yet to see what a generation would be which
had grown up without romance. Here seemed a specimen
of this generation to whom romance was absurd as duty,
gaping for pleasure, but without energy for its pursuit. It
was a comfort to Archie to transfer his indignation from
this prostrate youth to the Materialism of the Age.
“ By heaven 1” he said, with an unusual violence of
expression, “it would be 'better to break stone 1 Why
can’t you ﬁnd something to do? ”
Leonard only rolled himself in his place 5 but then there
dawned on him a speech which might give pain, and he
said-
“ You don’t do much.”
Archie was rather startled 5 he frankly recognized a cer-
tain element of truth.
“That’s true,” he said 5 "but I shall try to do some-
thing, and if you’ll ever try, come to me, and I’ll help youfégk
Even as he spoke, hopelessness possessed him 5 his l“ x
words sounded like mockery. Perhaps the other youth
received them in this way. He yawned and groaned as if
weary of phrases. It struck Archie that no communica-
tion, but that of a ﬁver, could ﬁx this wandering attention.
To take money lie would probably put out his hand.
Archie regarded him with exasperation and pity. What
could he say ? His words had that uncomfortable trick,
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too common in words, of assuming a character wnich he
did not mean them to assume. He cast about for some
new form of speech.
“Anything must be better,” he said at last with empha-
sis, “ than spending your life in sneaking about after
women.”
But Leonard only answered with a sort of bowl, in
which derision, weariness, remorse, found voice.
“ Good—bye,” said Archie, feeling that he had been a fool
to wait with his hand on the door ; and he went out now
and shut the door ﬁrmly behind him.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
WHEN Archie left Leonard Vale’s lodgings, he had good
reason to be pleased with his success. He had pursued
this doubtful cousin to town, but anxiety had been his
comrade on the way. Before he left Langley he had
received a little hurriedly-pencilled note from Dora; and
from this unhappy little note, and from that which he him-
self had seen, he had inferred Leonard’s conduct of the
previous evening with considerable accuracy. Still he had
pursued him with great anxiety, for he had been unable to
prophesy what this man might or might not say or do 3 he
had felt as if he were advancing on to a quicksand 5 he
had been forced to believe in a weakness which he had
not imagined possible, and which might be harder to deal
with than all the resources of consummate strength and
courage. To no motive was he certain of being able to
appeal but to self-interest alone; and he feared that this
shifting soul was capable of forming the most erroneous
and inconsistent opinions even of his own interests. He
could not rest until he had seen Leonard and said what
he had to say, but he had not hoped that the interview
would be short and on the whole satisfactory.
As Archie summed up the results of the interview, he
confessed himself fortunate. Leonard Vale had accepted
his decree of banishment 3 and that meant the conclusion
of a most disagreeable matter. Also he had made no
serious attempt to defend his conduct except by the plea
of drunkenness. Also-and this was the really important
v.
s ,3; ‘ g 5 -
masses...“ »
Y‘x
r74 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
matter-he had made no serious attempt to blame Dora.~~
He had shown bitterness and spite 3 he had tried to assume
the tiresome, old devil-may-care manner in speaking of
women in general, the eternal knowingness of immature
youth, the sickly ﬂavor of monotonous second—rate French
novels; but all this only emphasized the fact that he did
not pretend that any one but himself alone was to blame
for the unfortunate situation of the evening before. Archie
now felt sure that Lenny had mastered that most obvious
view of what was good for him, which was the mere view
of cash. If no better motive ruled his tongue, or kept
him from annoying Dora Rutherford, the few words about
his allowance, which it had cost Archie so desagreeable
an effort to say, would be sufficiently effective. Archie
himself, as he left behind him the prostrate youth and the
faint close odors, began at once to believe in the possibility
of the better motives. His persistent optimism began to
grow again with its accustomed vigor; he could not help
thinking that even Lenny would be capable of some chi-
valrous feeling for the woman whom his folly and vanity
had led into a position so painful. Already he was con-
sidering what occupation he could hope to ﬁnd for this
difiicult youth, when he had leisure for the search.
At present Archie had not leisure. One task was done,
but others no less diﬁicult remained before him. He went
to the Rutherfords’ house and was told that they would
arrive there in time for luncheon. He left a card, having
written on it the name of the hotel at which he meant to
stay for the next day or two 3 he thought that he would
receive a letter there. He was very unquiet. He walked
the pavements, stopping now and then to stare into shop
windows with indifferent eyes, thinking many thoughts,
and most of them uneasy. He supposed that all the party
were melting away from Langley Castle 3 be imagined
their expressions of surprise and regret at his absence 3
their good opinion seemed more important than usual.
This vision of ﬂys and luggage reminded him of something
which he must do 3 he turned into a telegraph-office and
telegraphed for a portmanteau of clothes. Then he walked
about again 3 it was as if a gadﬂy stung him; the gadﬂy
was a little word which he had spoken the night before.
The little word was a lie. Had he been right or wrong?
The very spring of hisfaith had always been that no good)
came of lies. _
I
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a t “9 >10”
COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. I75
As he grew tired, he grew more doubtful, more depressed.
He remembered that he had been hard on Lenny, and
with justice ; but was he one who had a right to mete out
justice so severe? He almost thought at times that he
ought to retun to Lenny, to tell him the conclusion of the
story, and let him have his turn at blaming. Walking
moodily towards his hotel he met Clara Chauncey driving
westward in her rather shabby Victoria; she faced the
pleasant sunlight, and her eyes were closed; she looked
like a cat, faintly smiling; he could almost fancy that he
heard her purring, as she was borne smoothly past.
All through the long evening, which he spent at the
hotel, Archie was expecting a note from Dora, or perhaps
from Tom ; but no note came. In the morning there was
no note. He became more and more uneasy. The long
morning passed slowly away, and in the early afternoon he
went again to the Rutherfords’ house.
Archie felt guilty as he rang Tom Rutherford’s bell. It
was awfully plain to him that he was going unasked to the
house of a man Whom he had injured. He caught himself
walking softly, as he followed the servant to the stairs, lest
Tom should hear and recognize his footsteps. Such feel-
ings, such conduct in himself, were unbearable to him; a
quick end must be put to them; and yet he must consider
Dora and her interests most dearly of all.
When the servant had gone, and Dora and Archie looked
each at the other, both were ﬁlled with pity. They pressed
each other’s hands, looking pitifully. If Archie looked
weary and out of sorts, Dora appeared in his eyes to be
seriously ill. Hers was a beauty, of which much was bril~
liancy ; and now the bright color was faded, and the bright
eyes were dull. She sank into a seat, when she had held
his hand for a minute, with an air of lassitude which he
had never seen in her before.
“ Where is Tom? ” he asked.
“ He's out,” she answered, and Archie was ashamed of
his feeling of relief. “It is his usual time,” she added,
with a faint smile ; “he always walks or rides in the after-
noon ; everything is just as usual.”
Her tone was inexpressibly dreary.
“ I thought you would have written to me at the hotel,”
said Archie.
“He saw your card when he arrived,” said Dora, “ and
sit» sex a W9¥d~ # I use not write”
I76 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
“ Oh, come I ” said Archie, trying to speak less dismally, s
“ things aren’t so bad as that.”
“ Yes, they are,” said Dora; “ I can’t tell you how bad
they are. “It’s dreadful-—every moment is dreadful. I
can’t bear it. Only one day has gone and I feel as if I had
been in prison for years. It sounds pathetic, doesn’t it? ”
She asked it with a feeble smile, as if she tried to mock her-
self. ‘
Archie said some common words of encouragement, and
she continued--
“ This morning everything began just as if we had never
been away-as if nothing had happened.”
“ After all, it was nothing,” said Archie. b
“ Nothing, except that 1 shall never be happy any
more.” ‘
“ Oh, Dora l ” e
“ N 0,” she said, shaking her head ,' “ you can't understand
it ; no man could understand. When I heard the door of
his study shut this morning precisely at the usual time, it
was as if the prison-door closed on my life. Every day
he will sit there with his papers and blue-books, and every
day I shall sit here, wondering every moment what he
believes about me, what he thinks of me, if he ever thinks
of me at all. Every moment will be like a drop of water
falling on my head, till my brain gives way. He has not
asked a single question since he held the door open for me
to go out of that room-it seems a month ago. He has
not said one word of blame ,' he has been perfectly kind
and courteous, and already I have wished again and again
that he would break out and curse me, swear at me, as
that-that Have you seen him?”
“ Yes, I have seen him,” said Archie ; “ and that ought
to be some comfort to you, anyway, for he is heartily
ashamed of himself, and I can promise you that he will
trouble you no more. He has no excuse except that he
was drunk. He has not a word to say against you.”
“What could he say against me? ” she asked. “0h
yes, he could say things and truly. He could say that I
was a conceited fool, who thought myself so worldly-wise
that I could do things which other women could not do.
Oh, when I think of myself, and my self-sufficiency and
ridiculous airs, I could laugh at myself if I did not hate
myself so ,- and when I think of him and remember how ,
he spoke and looked-w, ‘Hie; smelt pfhrandygl’ligq 9-..,
e.
Lam}.- '. .. 51'


COMEDY 0F .4 COUNTRY’ HOUSE. 177
a"
is ready; % T
The last words were spoken in a whisper, as if they told
of the most awful fact in the world. “ I can’t get away
from it,” she said; “ I can’t smell brandy now. I feel
degraded smirched--as if ,I could never be clean any
more.” .
i‘ No, no," said Archie, “ you must not make mountains
out of molehills. I tell you that the fellow will never
trouble you any more.”
“ And I thought that I was converting him,” said Dora
with a tremulous laugh.
After this they sank into an uncomfortable silence for a
time. The silence was broken by the ringing of the front~
door bell, at which they both started, and then looked
guiltily at each other. They heard the front door opened
and closed again ,' but no footsteps but the servant’s
sounded in the passage. Dora glanced at the clock on
the mantelpiece. “ He won’t be home yet,” she said 5
“ we needn't be so frightened.”
-“ Look here,” said Archie, after another but a shorter
silence, “would it be woi'se for you, Dora, if I told the
truth P ”
“ The truth? What truth? To whom?”
She asked the questions with a slight, a very slight
revival of interest.
“ You know the lie I told to Tom,” he said.
“ Yes,” she said, relapsinginto listlessness 3 “ you meant
it well. I never thanked you.”
“ Well,” he said, “ what I want to know is this. Would
it be worse for you if I told Tom that it was a lie?”
“ Nothing can be worse for me,” she said.
He walked up and down the room for a turn or two.
“ Why don’t you tell him the whole thing from beginning
to end? ” he asked.
She shook her head dolefully. “ That’s so easy to say,”
she said. “ I can’t. How can I suddenly begin to blurt
out a long story, and such a story, all about my idiotcy,
when he never gives a sign of supposing that there is any
story at all, I can see his look of surprise, as I began ;
I can hear him interrupt me, by saying that he needs no
explanation. I could as well think of dashing my poor
hands against a rock. ‘ Qui s’excuse, s’accuse :’ that would
be in his mind, and I should *know it. I should stumble
tgrn red, and tell my tale so badly that he could not
I78 COMEDY’ OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
help thinking that it was not true. N o, Archie, I can do
nothing. That is what I ought always to have known-
that I was a weak fool and only safe in doing nothing.”
“ N o, no,” said Archie, “that’s all stuff. Forgive me,
Dora, but you know, we all know how clever you are.
Among us we have made a mess of this business 3 but I
am sure that it will all come right, and soon.” ’'
If Archie spoke more conﬁdently than he felt, it had
but small effect on Dora’s depression.
“ I am going away now,” he said. “ I won’t take your
decision now, for you would say ‘yes’ to anything. s But
you must cheer up, Dora, when I have gone, and make up
your mind. I will come back tomorrow, and you shall
tell me then if I may tell Tom that it was not I who was
in that room that night. He will be very angry, but I
can’t help believing, as I always have believed, that truth
is best. I can’t think how I lied then 3 I have no habit of
lying. If I tell Tom the truth, I think that the ‘whole
story will come out, and I do hope and believe that good
will come of it.”
Dora listened to him with a most uncertain attention.
She was absorbed for the time in the contemplation of her
own misfortunes, deep in that abyss of desolation wherein
sanguine happy spirits are so amazed to ﬁnd themselves.
A long life of lovelessness lay before her, and down this
monotonous vista she gazed and gazed.
Archie took her lifeless hand and pressed it hard’...
“ Good-bye,” he said, “till to-morrow. Then you shall
tell me if I may speak.” .
“ Good-bye,” she said sadly, listening, even as she spoke,
for her husband’s ring.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THERE was yet a wholesome wilfulness in Dora’s depres—
sion. She would not admit to herself that hope was any
longer possible 3 and yet all her nature cried out against
her decision that she must hope no more. It could not be
that she should never know happiness again, she so vivid
and alert, she who had done no wrong, unless silliness be
a crime. So she was divided, the life within her rebelling
w ‘ A a‘
e 44M“. ‘La; r as ‘WIRE’
COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 179
against‘ her obstinate acceptance of abiding grief. She
could not help hoping, though she declared that she would
not hope, that, when her husband came back from his walk,
she would see some change in him, some change from this
crueLsi'lence and reserve. If he came back red with anger
and stormed at her, she wpuld be thankful.
This little hope of Dora was doomed to disappointment.
She could see no change at all; and she said to herself
that she had known that there would be no change. She
had said that she would be at home to nobody; but Tom
Rutherford returning found a carriage before the door and
pressed the visitor to come in. So Dora was obliged to
sit quiet behind her tea-table and to listen smiling to the
prattle of a little lady who was eager to tell her why she
was in town at that time, at which great house she had
been and to which great house she was presently going.
She was all ﬂuffy and shining like a ruﬁied teal; she
seemed like a ball of fur and feathers endowed with chatter
and a little high laugh to ﬁll the pauses. Dora said
bitterly to herself that her husband classed her with this
sort of little ladies, all artiﬁcial as the trimming of a hat,
and travelling from country house to country house in a
bandbox. When this visitor had run down and the little
works were eloquent no more, Tom conducted her with
great politeness downstairs, and then, as was his wont
after ﬁve o’clock tea, he shut himself up again in his den.
There he would remain, as Dora knew, till it was time to
dress for dinner. _
The little hope, which Dora now recognized when it was
time to snuff it out, had vanished ; but promptly another
glimmered in the deeps. Against her will she began to
think that some comfort might lie in the fact that Tom had
avoided being alone with her at tea-time. But this pale
gleam went out also when he came into the drawing-room
before dinner. Her eager eyes could detect no shade of
difference; even his tie was tied as accurately as ever.
Not a sign was there of anger, of mockery, nor, most
wonderful in her woman’s eyes, of curiosity. To dine
opposite to her husband was a slow punishment; she
fancied that the quiet butler, who conducted the business
;of the well-ordered meal, was watching her with demure
eyes. Ten thousand leisurely dinners lay before her, all
i grim their ghastly mockery of peace, their keeping up of
are the bsﬂerfs we-


I80 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
It was a momentary relief to leave the dining-room, but
she had hardly begun to taste the new discomfort of lone~
'liness and to review her troubles, when her husband came
upstairs. He never lingered over his wine; she could not
even think that he had made more haste than usual to join
her 3 all things were just the same. He sat in his accus-
tomed place and opened the Evening paper. Then an
awfull stillness began. She sat like the victim of a night-
mare, fearing that he would hear the beating of her heart,
listening for the turning of his page. At last he laid aside
the paper, and it seemed that even so slight a movement
broke the spell. She uttered a sound which seemed to
herself like the cry of a wounded animal; he looked at her,
and from the mere fact that he looked at her she took such
measure of encouragement that it seemed possible to speak.
“Archie was here to-day,” she said; the words were all
ready, though she had by no means expected to say them.
Her husband looked as if he expected her to say more, and
with almost breathless haste she hurried on. “ He asked
me," she said, “to let him tell you the truth about that
night, the night of the ball.” The words were out, and
she was trembling. Presently she glanced at her husband
and saw that his jaw was set and fancied that he ground
his teeth.
“He lied then,” he said quietly 3 “ I thought so.” He
rose from his chair and stood by the mantelpiece, looking
down.
“Oh, he meant well,” she cried out; “oh, let me tell
you now 3 it was all my fault 3 ” and so she rushed into the
story which she was sure that she should tell so badly.
She told it, if somewhat incoherently, at least better than
she had feared 5 it sounded less artiﬁcial, less improbable 5
and it was a relief to speak. She did not spare herself, her
folly, her faith in herself as in a petty providence for young
men ,' but a just instinct kept her from dwelling too much
on that. At ﬁrst she dared not notice if she aroused any
sign of sympathy; but, when she looked for such sign,
there was none. He listened coldly, and she faltered.
Still with an effort she persevered 5 she could not leave her
tale half told. She told how she and Leonard Vale had
combined to prevent Archie’s engagement; how on the
night of the ball she had heard of the paragraph announcing
the engagement, and how at the same moment she had
“1 PR
COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 131
heard that Leonard had proofs that Lady Jane Lock had
sent the paragraph. “ He was too ill to come down,” she
said, “and would not or could not send the proofs, but
sent to ask me to come up for one moment. At ﬁrst I said
I would not, and then I saw Archie, and I saw that he
knew about the paragraph, and I thought that he was just
going to ask the girl to marry him, and that nothing could
stop him but the proof that Lady Jane herself had forced
him to it; and then Lady jane stopped me when I was
going to Archie, and I was furious with her, and made up
my mind in a moment that I would go and see if there was
any proof that she had written the thing 3 and so I ran
upstairs and into that room, and he was \there, and when I
saw him like that, and he spoke to me like that ”
She stopped with a strong gesture of disgust. He came
a step nearer to her and asked in a low voice-
“How did he speak?”
Then her quick mind detected danger 3 she feared that
he would seek a quarrel with this worthless man.
“ The words were nothing,” she said eagerly; “it was
his looks; he had been drinking; he did not know what
he said. Archie has seen him ; he is wretched and
ashamed ; he said that he had been drinking.”
“You need not be afraid,” said Tom huskily 3 “ I shall
not hurt him.”
She stood silent for a moment, stunned as if he had
struck her ; he, with a smothered imprecation, walked out
of the room and shut the door behind him.
Then the waters of desolation seemed to close over that
fair young head. For the ﬁrst time she wa: really hope-
less. It seemed clear to her now that he would never
believe her any more, and that she must walk through all
her long life smiling false smiles, playing the part of happy
wife in a ghastly comedy, on which no curtain fell, her
husband and she always together, always eyeing each other
with suspicion. The little cloud which had shadowed her
life seemed to- darken all the heaven of her days. For all
her woman’s cleverness, her knowledge of unkindness was
but that of a spoiled child. She was unaccustomed to
sorrow.
Tom Rutherford had left the room because a great wave
of passion had threatened to shake him from his self-con-

, :trpxlax “The thought of Leonard Vale movedhim to fury,
J!‘ )N
harm
182 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
and to the old barbarian hunger of his enemy’s life 3 his
ﬁngers itched for his throat. To hear his wife speak
words which sounded like a defence of this corrupted and
corrupting youth was more than he could bear, and he
could not restrain his cruel taunting speech. He went
out lest he should say more, and so have more to regret;
for he had hardly said the words before he condemned
them as unfair. He had never doubted his wife. He
\had been indignant with her, for that she, his wife, had
been so little careful to run no risk of misconception, and
so ready to trust a man against Whom her instinct should
have warned her. And now he did not for a moment
doubt the truth of what she said. He was more happy
than he had been for days past3 for he had been ":ery
unhappy in spite of his calm air, doubting Archie’s
statement, believing that he did not know the true story
of the night of the ball, determined to ask no questions.
How his wife of her own accord had told him the truth 3
and he was glad. Only his anger was still ﬁery hot within
him, and, when she spoke of Leonard Vale, he had not
held his tongue.
Tom went down stairs and waited till he felt sure of
himself. Then he went up again, determined to be quiet
and to say quietly to his wife that he was sorry for the
words which he had spoken; that he had never thought
ill of her, except for the heedlessness which had hurt his
pride so deeply. He went upstairs rehearsing the cool
clear sentences which he meant to say. He opened the
door quietly enough, but, when he was again in the room,
there was an end of his coolness and clearness 3 the sight
of his young wife moved him too deeply. She had turned
in her chair and leaned her arms upon its back 3 her fair
young head, all ruffled and disordered, lay helpless on her
arms; the attitude was girlish, almost childlike; she was
abandoned to grief. She was praying inaudibly and cry-
ing like a child. Tears in women and children were
always intolerable to Tom Rutherford 3 he knew his weak-
ness well 3 even the easy pathos of books and plays had
often ﬁlled his eyes with tears, and made him mock him-
self for his absurdity. But it was too late to escape this _
sight. Here was his own wife, woman and child too, or
so she seemed, lost in grief, shaken by painful sobs. ,He,
came near her quickly. . He said what he had meant to
‘J
K 3 8'6
__ COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 183
say but vehemently 5 he blamed himself for leaving her
alone, for his cruel words 5 he had never doubted her for a
moment 5 that young blackguard had turned his blood,
but such an one must not be allowed to come between
them. His Words were not of much importance, for she
hardly knew what he said 5 it was the tone of his voice
for which she cared, and the touch of his large hand upon
her hair.'
“My child,” he said 5 “ don’t, don’t, dear!”
These were the words which she heard most clearly,
and these were enough. In his vehemence he knelt down
beside the chair and drew her head to his shoulder 5 then
she clasped her arms about his neck.

CHAPTER XXX.
ARCHIE awoke and wondered if it were day or night. He
had a slight headache, which surprised him 5 he lay trying
lazily to remember when he had felt a headache before;
he felt a disinclination to rise and face the perplexities of
the day. The unfortunate mis—statement which he had
made grew big in that early dismal hour and seemed to
ﬁll the room, and to oppress him. Certainly the room
was full of oppression. With an effort he got out of
bed, went to the window, and pulled up the dingy
yellow blind. The pulling up of the blind made small
difference, if any 5 the world outside was dingy yellow as
the blind, and the outer air thicker than the air within.
It happened that this was the ﬁrst London fog which young
Lord Lorrilaire had met. He looked at his watch and
found that it was half-past eight. It was day then, but a
hideous muﬂied day 5 to lie abed was to be stiﬂed by heavy
reminiscences 5 to wash and dress was a tiresome prelude
to a task which seemed to have grown portentous in the
choked hours of the night. As he stood cheerless and in
" doubt, he heard a rap at his door. He crept back into
bed and called to the knocker to come in.
“ What’s the matter out of doors ? ” he asked, when the
Boots of the hotel came in with a candle.
“It’s a thick fog, sir,” said the ‘Boots 5 “the man, as
brought your letter, came near to losing his way.”
3 \ 1*‘
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winning?» an Help"). a. M. ~ ‘ a v
184 con/zany OF .4 co UNTRY HO use.‘
‘A
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Archie took the letter and looked at it with languid
interest, which distinctly increased as he saw that the
direction was in Dora’s handwriting. With a faint sigh he
tore open the envelope, while the Boots discreetly held
the candle near, but not too near. It was a short note :--
“DEAR ARCHIE,--Don’t come to see us till we come
back. We are away this morning out of this horrid f0
and all our worries. We are perfectly happy. I told him
everything. He sends love. Yours ever,
“ DORA.”
“All right,” said Archie to the man 5 “I’ll have my
bath.” Then the man went away, leaving him in thick
darkness again, lying, as it were, in the woollen and
breathing hardly. His ﬁrst clear thought was that it was
strange that he was not more elated by Dora’s note. What
more could he have wished? Had he hoped for any news
half so good? Perhaps elation was impossible on such a
morning. He was sure that he was extremely glad that
Tom and Dora were friends again. Of course they did
not want him any more 5 but that only meant that he need
perplex himself no more with their affairs, nor strive to
disentangle that most intricate skein. In fact his occu-
pation was gone, the weight was removed 5 he ought to be
amazingly happy. But happiness, shy as a woodland
nymph, has small connection with duty 5 she will not come
because she ought 5 pursued, she eludes us withathousand
wiles, then shines upon us unlooked for, abundant and
caressing, at a sound or a gleam, as we plod on unmindful
of her. Archie could assure himself that he was glad.
He lay blinking, with eyes smarting a little 5 it did not
matter now when he got up or if he lay there all day.
The Rutherfords were creeping out of this oppressive
city; but why should he? He could get up when he
liked, do what he liked, go where he pleased. The weight
was removed, and only levity remained. His beloved
f reedom was his once more 5 nobody cared where he went 5
that ought to be delightful. Howbeit he felt lonely.
He dressed himself by candle-light, and breakfasted
with small appetite in the blinking coffee-room. Then he
advanced so far as to determine that he must go some-
where. He would not go to his mother: He felt himself
too restless for her quiet life 5 he thought that he should
-
COMEDY 0F 14 cor/‘mar 110 use‘. 185
t": disturb the placid atmosphere in which she imagined her
‘gentle pictures or planned her daily benefactions. He
felt a perverse desire to see Dora, but could ﬁnd no reason
for the wish but her command that he should not come.
He told himself again how glad he was that all was well
with Dora, and straightway slid into dull melancholy
thoughts. “Never again,” he thought, “shall I be the
same to those friends of mine ;. I shall be associated with
an awkward crisis, with uneasy thoughts, with the memory
of a lie.” He felt an uncommon loneliness.
One thing was certain 3 he could not stay resting in
that hotel. Perhaps the London winter was like this.
Somewither he must go, if only to see that the sky still
arched over all and air was somewhere sweet and pure.
He inspected Bradshaw by the untimely gaslight ; he asked
the friendly Boots to pack his clothes. Finally a four‘
wheeler crawled through the muffled streets from lamp-
post to lamp-post, and bore the young man and his
fortunes to the station, which loomed dark, blurred, and
gigantic in the fog.
Even as the train moved slowly out from the station,
the young man began to breathe more happily. He had
taken a ticket for Langstone, for he had made up his mind
to go, for want of a better object, back to his castle. It
was at least possible that somebody might want him there.
Slowly he was drawn out of the clinging dusky fog, and
then on a sudden he was beyond its utmost verge and in
a bright frosty world. His heart leaped to meet the glad-
ness of the day 3 he could scarcely sit still in his place;
at a station some miles short of Langstone he left the
train, and leaving some directions about his scanty lug-
gage, he took the road with joy. On he walked upon the
good high-road, glad of the keen bright air, and wondering
at times if it were possible that that great mass of creeping
yellow fog were so near. The sound of his feet on the
good road was pleasant in his ears, and his blood moved
responsive. So he came in due course to the admirable
palings of his park, and looked at them as a bird who had
A been let 'out to ﬂy about the room might look at the well-
set bars of his cage. He a vagabond, light of heart,
would be a great maq and a land-owner, so soon as he
hadhtopped those palings. He topped the palings nimbly
and alighted, the most fantastic of all Lord Lorrilaires,
v 4
in“; 3 {wt
“we mud” as‘ a’ _
186 COMEDY OFA COUrVTRY HOUSE.
J
upon the springy turf within. Then he walked forward,
still deﬁant of his own grandeur, across his wide domain.
The sun was bright and warm, no wind was stirring, and
£01‘! all the exhilaration of the frost, Archie was glowing.
He came to a little wood, all of silver-stemmed birches
standing knee-deep in dry brown fern. Here were de
liglitful autumnal colors under the clear blue sky 3 'the
ruddy brown and the silvery slender tree-trunks held him
still for a moment 3 and then, yielding to the charm and
tired pleasantly by his long walk, he dropped himself into
the crisp clean fern and lay thinking, dreaming. _
Lonely he still felt himself to be, but, if he wére melan-
choly in his musing, it was amelancholy which was almost
a luxury. From his nest in the fern he could see beyond
the wide hollow and the opposite slope the tower of his
majestic castle. What a preposterous abode it seemed
for one light youth, who asked no more than a crust of
bread and liberty, freedom to come and go, fresh air, and
elbow room upon the road of life ! There stood his
dwelling, planted there, solid, oppressive, and there it
would stand while owner after owner followed on the
same way and a million vagabonds passed by. He could
not but feel lonely. When he should rise from his lair
and go on to his castle, he would ﬁnd no welcome more
stimulating than that of the calm Mrs. Dormer or of the
practical Sir Villiers.
Archie lay thinking lazily, dreaming, stretched at his
ease, tenderly pitying himself a little--thinking, dreaming,
at last dozing.‘ From this comfort and light haze of sleep
he was somewhat roughly awakened. He was lying ﬂat
on his stomach, his head had dropped on his arms, and he
was dozing comfortably, when suddenly he felt a weight
as if a tiger had leapt on to his back and gripped his two
shoulders. In that small wood and dry warm fern there
were no beasts more dangerous than rabbits 3 no rabbit
could have pinned him thus; and, startled wide awake
from his dozing, Archie was sure in a moment that a
human animal held him. He heard the deep breathing as
of an anxious man 3 he felt the big ﬁngers on his shoulders,
and then a big knee setting itself in his back; and then
with a vigorous effort, struggling and writhing like an eel,
he wrenched himself to one side, brought his feet to his
hands and stood upright. His assailant, amazed by such
J
a ..
Q “It Ix ». ia‘ta'éim iv
COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 187
unexpected agility, had staggered slightly, but he now
recovered his feet and advanced upon Archie, red-faced
and angry, muttering dire threats, and with two ponderous
ﬁsts slowly coming into action. Archie was sore perplexed.
To ﬁght a yokel in his own park was plainly unseemly 5 to
announce his name and rank seemed ridiculous, if not
cowardly 5 a natural desire not to be pounded by a rustic
contended with a natural desire to give this lout, whose
hands he still felt upon his shoulders, a well—deserved
lesson. He measured the advancing foe, and saw no way
of honor but to leap in upon his superior strength and
trust to his activity and ‘the quickness of a few well-planted
blows. In a moment he would have been within the
yokel’s guard, when with fresh surprise he saw a remark-
able change in the advancing foe. The great ﬁsts
dropped and the lower jaw dropped with them 5 the man
stood still 5 he tried to speak but he could only stare 5 at
last he began, “Well, I’m ” but could advance no
further. Archie now warily advanced and shook him.
“ Oh, your worship,” said the man, trembling at his
touch. “ Oh, your lordship ! ”
“What’s the matter?” said Archie; “ there’s no harm
done—what did you come at me for? ”
“Oh, oh!” said the man, “my word! have I laid
hands on the anointed?”
“ Don’t be a fool,” said Archie. “ What’s the matter?
can’t you speak?”
“ Oh, your lordship I you won’t visit it on me,” said the

' man. “ I’m a poor man 5 I thought no more-Heaven
lgelp me, I took your lordship for _one of them poaching
oys.”
Archie laughed, and having begun to laugh found it
hard to stop; but the man stared with only an added
solemnity, as if he feared that this causeless laughter was
some effect of his rash act, the beginning perhaps of a
form of aristocratic insanity.
“ Who are you, anyway?” said Archie,‘ “ and what is it
to you if boys come poaching?”
“ What is it to me ? ” echoed the other slowly 5 “ doesn’t
your lordship know me? I am your lordship’s under-
keeper 5 I am James Pye, your lordship.”
This fact delighted Archie. There was something ex-
tremely entertaining to him in the fact that one of his under-
r88 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
lings had pinned him in his own fern like a hare on her
form. It delighted him, and yet Mr. Pye’s abject attitude
annoyed him. Was it with such eyes that his dependants
must regard him? He was vexed with dependant’s eyes.
“ Don’t be a fool,” he said roughly 5 “ do you think I’d be
such a cad as to hurt you for making a mistake in your
duty. Only the next time you ﬁnd a boy on the place,
take care not to break his back, or I will be down on you
with no mistake; and, if a boy is lying in the fern and
doing no harm, let him lie in the fern. Do you hear me? ”
“ Yes, my lord,” said the man humbly, “ but----”
“ No. You must remember that,” said Archie. “ Is it
you who live in the cottage in the middle of the wood
beyond the brook?” ~
“ Yes, your worship—I mean, my lord, and I do hop
your lordship----”
“ Don’t I tell you I won’t hurt you P ” said Archie impa—
tiently 5 “ show me the way to your cottage without going
by the house.”
The great man bowed and almost curtsied in his zeal;
and Archie had a moment’s fear that his guide intended to
walk backwards before him to their destination. But
James Pye contented himself with occasional half turns and
samples of a crab-like progression, which were eloquent of
apology. So journeying they came by a roundabout path
to the little clearing in the wood, wherein the cottage
stood. A sudden fancy had seized Archie, a whimsical
desire to enter the cottage, through the window of which
he had peeped a few days before. H
In the keeper’s cottage down among the trees the light
was far more dim. The good housewife peered twice at
the ﬁgure, which was following her lord and master through
the low door, before she began to think that it might be
the ﬁgure of Lord Lorrilaire. Then she promptly dusted
a chair, which needed no dusting, and offered it to Archie
with apologies, glancing meanwhile with questioning looks
at her husband ‘and wondering at his hang-dog air. She
for her part had an air of sufﬁcient self-respect, as she
awaited his lordship’s pleasure. It was not for nothing
that she had been an indoor servant at the castle 5 she
was well aware that she knew how to talk to the quality.
As for Archie, he was suddenly aware, as he felt that
polite inquiring gaze upon him, that .he had no reasonito
a crnbz
_ half forgetting, as he looked, where he was.
. , fer Tom


- a. "-t .~
~._, \-~
‘ @OMEDY OF A Go UNTR? HOUSE. 139
give for his visit. ' He nad not even given a reason to
himself. He felt that he was standing there, smiling
amiably but absurdly, While James Pye regarded him
pitifully and with awe, as if he expected him to pull a
black cap out of his shooting-coat pocket and condemn
him to be hung on the instant to his own rafter. Suddenly
Archie was possessed of an idea, sufficiently obvious, and
asked with relief, “ How’s Tommy? ”
It seemed impossible even to Mrs. Pye that the young
lord had travelled from London to inquire after Tommy.
But it was her duty to answer any question which the
quality, whose motives and manners were generally mys-
terious, chose to ask 3 and so she answered civilly that
Tommy was still ailing, and entered moreover into certain
details which surprised the young man, who was not
accustomed to the plain speaking and frank enjoyment of
medical topics, which is common to such women.
“Tommy !” she cried through the door of the back
room, and Tommy emerged and stood staring, till he was
told to make his bow.
“ He is to go away to-morrow,” said Mrs. Pye, with a
manner which was almost aggrieved.
“Ah, that’ll do him good,” said Archie 3 “ there’s noth-
ing like a change.” ‘'
“Indeed, it’s a sore trouble to send him, and a sore
trouble to be without him,” said his mother plaintively.
“ Here are the directions where he is to be taken to,” she
added, and she took a sheet of writing-paper from the
mantelpiece and handed it respectfully to Lord Lorrilaire.
Archie took the paper from her hand and looked at it,
. The direc—
trons were put brieﬂy, and were written in a strong man-
nish hand, a good example of .that hold hand-writing
which the younger ladies of our day affect.
“ Be at Langstone with Tommy before 10. Take- 3rd
return to Darley for yourself, and 3rd single to Strandling
for Tommy.
“Tram leaves Langstone 10.5 A.M., arrives at Darley
Junction 11.15 A.M.
1_ “At Darleyiask for right platform for train to Strand
mg.
- “ I snall be in that train, and shall look on that platform
my" —
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:90 COMEDY 0F .4 COUNTRY HOUSE.
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That was all which was on the paper 3 and Archie teat
it twice, smiling at the strong writing, the minute direc
tions, and the business-like form.
“How kind of her,” he said 3 and having said it, h
wondered if it were she.
“ Yes, my lord, I am sure itris very kind of the youn;
lady,” said Mrs. Pye, with the air of a martyr. “ T ommj
is to go to a Convalescent Home which is kept by one o
the young lady’s friends, and I do hope he’ll be happy.
“ Oh, he'll be happy, right enough,” said Archie 3 “ it’l
do him a world of good. It is kind of her.”
On this Mrs. Pye deemed no comment necessary, cherish
ing her private opinion that Miss Lock was indulging
herself in a treat. Tommy was a treat in his mother’s eyes
Moreover, it was inconvenient for either herself or he
husband to take the boy as far as Darley Junction.
“ I don’a-know how ever we shall get him there,” she
said.
Archie returned the paper to Mrs. Pye 3 and, as she
stuck it behind the candlestick on the mantelpiece, ht
observed that there was a glove there, which no stretch o
the imagination could fancy on the hand of Mrs. Pye. Ye
it was not a small glove. ,
“Is that,” began Archie-“ did the—in fact,‘ did Mis:
Lock leave her glove behind her?” He moved, as ht
spoke, towards the mantelpiece and delicately picked on
the glove. \
_ Mrs. Pye thought it must belong to the young lady, ant
she hoped to take it to the Junction t'o-morrow 3 but Sht
again expressed her wonder how ever she should ge1
there, or James either. James could not trust himself tr
offer an opinion. He stood clutching his right arm, as i
to make sure that it would not assault his liege lord ant
master.
“Well, good night,” said Archie, waking suddenly from
a reverie. He had been standing and looking at the
glove. It was a long glove, and not even small in th
hand, though it looked small where it lay in the young
man’s palm 3 it was an old glove too, and had taken lil'lt
shape of the hand 3 the shape was ﬁne and free. It wa:
from such thoughts that Archie started. “ Well, goot
night,” he said, and returned the glove to Mrs. Pye 3 hi
was a little hurt by her manner of rolling it up, and stick
COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE. 19!
ing it behind the candlestick. “ Good night I” he said
again--“ Good night, James, and don’t forget about the
boys—be easy with them.”
“ Oh, lor ! ” said James Pye, with a sort of groan.

CHAPTER XXXI.
WHEN Elizabeth Lock looked out of the window ‘of a
ﬁrst-class carriage at Darley Junction, she saw little
Tommy Pye, and she also saw another young man whom
she had not expected to see. The train had scarcely
stopped, when the door of the carriage was opened by
Lord Lorrilaire. She gave him her hand as she stepped
out, looking at him with wide-open eyes. “What brings
you here P ” she asked.
“ I brought Tommy,” he answered; “his parents were
busy, and I had nothing to do. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Oh, no,” she said ,- “it was very kind of you.”
“ No, I can’t allow that,” he said.
On this she made no comment, but turned away to greet ~
Master Pye, who was lost in contemplation of the engine.
She was conducting her young charge to the carriage,
from which she had descended, when Archie said, “We
are third-class passengers, you know; we followed your
instructions to the letter.”
_She_ laughed and blushed as he handed her her paper of
directlons. “All right!” she said; “here is an empty
third, and I will go with him.” She opened the door
before Archie could reach it.
“ And_your maid?” asked Archie, for the lady’s maid
was peering anxiously from her compartment.
“She can stay where she is," said Elizabeth, “ with the
bags and rugs.”
Tommy scrambled into the third-class carriage, and
Miss Lock followed him. And now the doors were slam-
rmng and the tram almost in motion, when Archie, as if
there were never a doubt of his intention, followed Miss
Lock Into the carriage. The train had begun to move out
of the station,‘ when the young lady said rather taamely,
“Are you coming too P ”
“ Oh, I forgot," said Archie 5 “ I was to take a return
$51591” Psriimasn'v l 333
if’ he‘: a t ;
ammsmas magma. a
192 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
“ You were not to come at all,” she said. “i
Yet Archie thought that she did not look displeased.
Indeed, he was vaguely disappointed by the friendliness,
the perfect candor of her manner. She began to talk to
Tommy as if there where no other specimen of the male
sex within miles. He felt a strong desire to interest her 5
he cast about for an interesting speech. “ Here and now,”
he said with a laugh, “ begins the Social Revolution.”
This startling statement produced an effect. She looked
at him with frank interest.
“ Ypu in a third-class carriage and your maid in a ﬁrst.
You can’t go further than that.”
“ What is the Social Revolution? ” she asked.
“ Oh, I don’t know. ‘
“ Like the French Revolution? ” she asked again.
“ No, no,” he answered laughing 5 “ all that’s out of
date. The people can’t revolt against the people. The
people govern now, more or less, and will govern more.”
He had gained his point5 he had attracted her attention.
She sat looking at him with an added ﬂush on her cheek,
waiting for more. This was more than enough to set
‘Archie’s tongue wagging. He began to pour out views,
and glibly to describe the political and social phenomena
of the time, as he ‘saw them. From this he slipped
naturally to the more personal question, and indirectly
claimed her sympathy, as he confessed how hard he had
found it to know what part he could best play in the
present state of affairs. “You have to accept the main
tendencies of the time,” he said 5 “ and the difﬁculty is to
know what one can do one’s self, being the sort of chap
one is, to further what’s best or check what’s worst.”
“ Yes, I see that,” she said, nodding her head. Her air
3f interest led him on, and he continued to conﬁde to her
the embarrassing question of his Oxford days, the reasons
why the ordinary professions of mankind had not tempted
him. It was all a little boyish, a little vainiglorious.
Finally he was conscious that he might seem to be talking
as if there were no course worthy’of so ﬁne a fellow as
himself. He was suddenly conscious to of the absolutely
blank gaze of the freckled mite who sat opposite by the
lady’s side with thin legs dangling. He looked back again
at the handsome girl with a smile, which was meant fora:
apology, but her faee was neither blank not'ucritical, -Shsc
comm? 0F .4 COUNTRY HOUSE. ‘:93
s.
{P 2-3”
FIX-k‘ 1"!‘
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was leaning slightly forward, her lips apart, her hands
slightly clasped. He was amazed by her seriousness, half
inclined to laugh ; but be checked himself and. he rebuked
himself. How ﬁne it was this power of seriousness, this
warm, frank nature 1 He lost himself for a moment,
musing. Then, rousing himself, he said, with the apology
which his smile had intended to convey, “ I’ve no right to
bore you--talking of myself.”
“ But it doesn't bore me, ” she said emphatically ; “you
can’t tell how much it interests me. I am not clever, you
know, and I don't know clever people, and I never hear
about things which matter.”
“I don’t know that I matter much,” he said.
“ Oh, it’s not you,” she said quickly---“ at least I mean,"
she added, for she saw that he had begun to laugh at the
prompt disclaimer, “ that it’s not only you. It's the whole
thing ; it’s the fact that there is such a thing as being of
some real use in the world, and that people are really
trying to ﬁnd the right thing to do, and that doing one’s
duty is not only a thing one says in one’s cathechism in
the schoolroom. But you? I can’t see why you should
have any trouble. It seems to me as if there were so much
for you to do.”
“ Oh, don’t begin to talk to me about my position and
all that,” he said. “ You should have seen the Castle last
night, when I arrived. Uncle Villiers and Aunt Susan
had both vanished, and all the household, save the mark,
where on board-wages, and the Groom of the Chambers (1
never knew till late last week that there was such a thing
as a Groom of the Chambers) was so much annoyed with
me for coming, that I couldn’t have stopped another hour
in the house for a fortune. A fortune! Heaven knows
I’ve enough of that.”
“ But surely that makes it all plain,” said the girl. “ You
had nothing to do, and now you’ve got all sorts of things
and people to look after.”
Archie made a slight grimace. “ And you could try
experiments and things," she continued: “ my brother-rin-
law, the parson you know, wants all sorts of things tried,
allotments and small farms and fruit growing and all sorts
of things 3 but he’s not rich and he can’t afford experiment's.
Now you—r” She stopped, and looked at him with
eyes wide open and interest*;lmost eager. As he looked
394 _COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
back on her _it struck him suddenly as an amazing fact
that she should be speaking so calmly to him of his
wealth, which she might have shared had she chosen.
His face become full of an interest more personal than her
own. He wondered that she did not think of this. It
was amazing, and as beautiful as it was amazing. She
might think herself stupid if she -pleased-3 he was lost in
admiration of a simple and beautiful soul. He turned his
eyes from hers, and encountered the never-averted gaze of
the grave Thomas Pye.
“ Now, there is Tommy,” said the girl3 “if you had
interested yourself in the people on your place, you would
have found out that Tommy needed a change. You are
going to see the sea, Tommy. Won’t that be splendid? ”
Tom was of a cautious character. He was not
incline to commit himself to any deﬁnite opinion about
this unknown illimitable sea. Perhaps he had inherited
from his mother a tendency to mistrust, to suspect that
even glorious ladies, apparently philanthropic, might get
something out of him. Certain it is that Silence held his
lips 3 he reserved his opinion about Ocean, which was
compelled to await his verdict.
As Tommy did not speak, Archie made the next remark,
and made it with conviction.
“ How good you are l ” he said. \
The girl started, and then grew red and awkward. She
moved uneasily, and then said in a low voice, “ I wish you
would not talk like that 3 you make me feel a fool and a
humbug.”
Her embarrassment, her very awkwardness, delighted
Archie. He would say nothing to divert her thoughts3
and presently she said again, speaking more quickly, “I
am not at all good 3 I am often cross 3 I am often disagree-
able to people—to my mother, for instance.” The last
words seemed to come with an effort, and they were
followed by a period of silence
’ “ Theodosia is good,” the girl said suddenly, as if she
must break this silence full of thoughts.
“ Who is Theodosia? ” asked Archie.
“ Oh, don’t you know about her P I thought you
would know because of Tommy. She has built the
Convalescent Home, and takes care of it. Lt is only a
small one, but it took most of her money 3 and she lives in
w
COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 19}
a cottage near, and I go and stay with her sometimes, and
try to be like her.”
Words were on Archie’s lips which he did not speak.
Instead of speaking he turned his head and looked out of
the window at the ﬂying ﬁelds, the long procession of the
hedges. His mind moved quicker than the train, pictur-
ing the whole life of Theodosia Grant, seeing it from the
somewhat fatuous masculine point of view as the life of a.
woman with whom love had not prospered—ﬂitting in an
instant from Miss Grant to Lady Jane Lock, considering
her also, wondering at her and at the contfast between her
and her daughter. ,
Elizabeth Lock, as if she felt the direction of the young
man’s thoughts, spoke again. “My mother is so good,"
she said, “about letting me go to Strandling. She does
not like my going so much, but she is very kind about it.
She has old-fashioned ideas 3 she thinks that she ought al-
ways to have her girls with her and be doing things for them 3
and now, when there’s only me, she would like to keep
me always with her, until—unless ”
The girl had spoken so far, anxious only to explain, to
approve her mother, and suddenly she had found herself
on the brink of words, which died upon her tongue and
made her startlingly conscious that she was travelling al—
most alone with a young man, who but a few days ago
had asked her to be his wife. “
Archie looked at her for a moment, and for a moment
only. He turned his eyes quickly from her flushed, em-
barrassed face. “Tommy,” he cried, giving that self-con-
tained personage a lively shake of the shoulder, “ we shall
be there in no time. Don’t you begin to smell the sea?"
“ N 0,” said Thomas Pye.


. CHAPTER XXXII.
WHEN he had reached his goal, Archie found himself in a
somewhat comical position. No sooner had the train
stopped at Strandling, than a bright-eyed lively lady
pounced at Miss Lock and embraced her with ardor.
Miss Grant was wholly unlike Archie’s fancy picture.’
With bright dark eyes, wavy hair worn in the simplest
:96 COMEDY 011~ .4 cowvmy HOUSE.
mode, and an erect, active ﬁgure, she showed an undeni-
able attraction that would have convinced the most care-
less of male eyes that, if she were a spinster and could be
classed as middle-aged, she was a spinster by choice 5 she
looked like a brillant being playing the part of an old
'maid.
Archie regarded this lady with eyes which were by no
means careless, but, before he could think more of her,
he had been introduced, received a hearty shake of the hand,
and had seen Elizabeth carried off from his gaze in a little
rattling pony-carriage. Elizabeth had said good-bye as if
she took it for granted that here they were to part. She
had thanked him for his kindness in bringing Tommy, with
the frank gratitude of friend to friend, and with an air of
_ﬁnality as if she were leaving him on the edge of a new
world. As he looked after the low pony-carriage, which
an exceedingly small pony was hurrying away at his own
discretion, he saw the two female heads close together,
and felt that Elizabeth was listening with interest and
sympathy to much talk, with which he had even less to do
than had Tommy, who sat on a tiny shelf opposite to the »
ladies and stared and stared. When the little vehicle
had turned the corner, Archie had nothing to look at but
the maid, who was setting forth at a digniﬁed pace by the
side of the luggage which a porter was wheeling down the
road. He looked beyond the maid and down the road to
the clustering roofs and high church-tower, and wondered
which roof would cover that fair head 5 it was not of the
lady’s maid that he was thinking. Depression possessed
him. He stood irresolute. His portmanteau had been
deposited on the platform, and there lay neglected. The
Strandling season had ended many weeks befin'e, and '
brooding winter quiet held the station and the little town.
The young man shook himself and turned to ask what
train would carry him and the portmanteau, his only
companion, to Langstone, or London, or somewhither.
Confronted, as he turned, by the other aiﬁ more sleepy
porter, he suddenly determined to stay there for that night
at least, and asked which was the best inn. The porter,
with‘ a pardonable prejudice, recommended the Pier Hotel,
at which his brother cleaned the boots and knives 5, he
inferred from the cut of his clothes that this idle young
gentleman would‘ be peculiarlly beneﬁcial tr; his brother.
'COMED Y OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 197
So Archie told this calm and calculating official to wheel
down the portmanteau at his leisure, and so walked away
to the Pier Hotel, which was a modest inn for all its name,
and ate some luncheon in the silent coffee-room, and felt
better for a time. .
Having learned that Miss Grant's cottage stood, with-
drawn a little from the little town, on his right, Archie
after his luncheon walked away towards the left. He felt
strangely shy when he thought of meeting those ladies,
and most fearful of intruding on the ﬁrst hours of their
renewed conversation. So he walked away from the
narrow streets along the edge of the high sandy cliffs,
which crumbled daily to the sandy shore below, melan-
choly, perhaps enjoying a little of this young man's melan-
choly, sad as night. When the sun was low, he turned
and walked back towards Strandling. Between him and
the town the cliff sloped down and rose again to a big
blunt knoll, on which the whole ﬁshing village clustered,
red roofs and narrow twisted streets, and over all the tall
grey tower buttressed against the winter winds. Below
the knoll and but just above the sea—level stood the little
hotel, and close beside it a short old-fashioned wooden
pier straddled out into the sea. The Pier Hotel had been
attractive at luncheon-time, but, as Archie entered it in
the evening, he felt its “silence. It no longer looked for
holiday folk; it had entered on its dormouse sleep ,- the
two waiters, who had come for its season, were on the
Riviera. Only the porter’s brother and a couple of girls
assisted the landlord and his wife.
Archie dined sadly. The loneliness of his inn was as
the loneliness of his castle with all his retainers on board-
wages ,' the intermittent society of the Boots was no more
satisfying than that of his Groom of the Chambers. He
had not even bought a book or a paper on his journey,
For want of other food of thought, he fell to thinking of
himself, and was sad. So he sat staring at his boots by
the light of one hot gas-burner, and conscious of the
fumes of his late dinner and of other dinners of other
days, until glancing up through the unshuttered window
he saw that the stars were shining. It was better to be out
than in. So out he went again, and this time he walked
up through the crowded dreamy town, under the tall grey
tower, and turned into a narrow path between‘ the houses,
198 COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE.
which led him in the direction other than that which he
had chosen in the afternoon. He walked briskly, for the
night was cold, and the stars, which had called him forth,
shone clear. So walking he came soon to a little open
paling on his left, with neatly raked gravel behind it and a
neatly whitened house with two gables. He knew in a
moment that this was the Convalescent Home, and stood
still to look at it. It looked like a toy set carefully down
in its place by a child's hand, and the paint of its little
railings seemed to have had scarcely time to dry. Archie
was in a strange mood, the thought of sick children made
tears come into his eyes.
If this were the little hospital, as he felt sure it was,
then the lady’s cottage must be hear at hand. But Archie
did not wish to look at the cottage, at least not on that
evening. He turned back and foundpanother path and
followed that, musing, thinking of himself. He wondered
what was the matter with him. He wondered why he had
come there. He began to blame himself, for had he not
been drifting again? Had he not yet learned that to let
himself drift and see what came of it was no course for a
man P He was a man now, and to spend manhood in
sighing for one’s lost boyhood—that at least would not do.
The happy irresponsible wandering time was done 3 even
if it could please him still, it could content him no longer.
The drifter must have no conscience, if he would drift
happily for ever and shut his ear to all the little clamorous
duties which every day beset him. He had pushed him-
self off on his new life of Lord Lorrilaire, intent on sliding
down and amusing himself with new chances, and at the
very outset he had run smack upon the facts of life. He
had been shaken rudely from his laziness, forced to bestir
himself, to choose unpleasant action, to forbid a kinsman
his house, to protect afriend even at the expense of his
truth. Ah, that still troubled him 3 it was no use to
mutter to himself of the ywvawv il'wllvc ,3 he could not bear
that recollection. Howbeit, one thing had been made
clear, one thing which it amazed him that he could have
doubted ever—that he could not allot to himself, even for
a single week, a life of delicate amusements. To
determine to amuse one’s self is wilfully to invest in dis-
appointment. And now he had been drifting again. He
had gone for Tommy in the early morning with no better
COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. I99
purpose than to see what would come of it. He had come
on to Strandling with no deﬁnite purpose.
Suddenly it came to him with a new conviction that the
girl was right, and with the conviction came a thrill of joy
that it was the girl who was right. She had said that his
sudden transformation into a man of wealth and inﬂuence
should have ended all his doubts. He had suffered from
doubts of himself and of his best career, till he too had
been sick of asking what he was and what he ought to be ;
but the sudden push into fortune ended all that. He had
- not sought the fortune. He had not wished to be a lord.
It did not please him now. He would rather have no dis-
tinguishing label. He supposed that had he been born to
title, it would have seemed natural; but, as it was, he
could not yet give his name in a shop without a sense of
absurdity, and a ﬂeeting tendency to apologize. Never-
theless, this label, and with it a command of much money,
had been thrust upon him; and with the money and the
title there had come to his hand a hundred duties, which
made his life's work plain enough. This was clear
enough 3 and it amazed him, as he walked the night, that
he had not seen how clear it was till the girl had spoken.
He had been in a maze, in a confusion of new claims 5 he
wished to believe entirely that he owed the recognition of
his plain task to the girl alone. He longed to do his work
well. He was conﬁdent that he would use this property,
thinking always of its duties rather than of its rights,
trying to understand it thoroughly and to use it for the
best, ready to lay it down rather than to use it ill. That
seemed to him in his hour of insight the whole duty of the
rich. He walked fast, thinking, planning, devoting him—
self; and ever among his quick thoughts beat waves of”
recurring emotion, ﬂushing his cheek in the darkness,
quickening his heart. He walked beyond the little town
and out once more upon the cliff; he stood on the close
cropped grass between the faint deep sea and the quiet
shining stars; and he grew more quiet as he stood. A
spirit of peace was with him. “God helping me,” he
thought, “if he care to help me, I will try to do honest
work in the world.” Happy or unhappy, lonely or no, he
would face fortune like a man, endure like a man. He
walked home more slowly through the silent night, and he
fell asleep with a prayer on his lips, a prayer for manhood’s
-sttsnstlh .
t
zoo C'OMED Y OF A COUNTRY H0
And with the morning came no failure of purpose‘. He
had made up his mind to something most deﬁnite; and he
had made up his mind too that, should be win or lose, he
would take his fate like a man. No long-drawn supplica~
tions should there be, nor vain indulged regrets. When it
was now time, he walked to Miss Grant's cottage. It stood
a little beyond the coast-guard station, which was con-
spicuous in whitewash and with lordly ﬂag-staff, and its
air was the more modest for this oﬁicial neigborhood.
The little garden behind it stretched to the edge of the
cliff, and the palings at its sides secured no absolute privacy,
for they were not more than four feet high. All lay open
to the sea-air and the sun, and to the eyes of mortals if any
cared to look. Miss Grant had a comprehensive friend-
liness.
There, in this little garden, this little strip from the
garden of Eve, Archie ‘said what he had to say. He had
been welcomed kindly by the ladies 5 he had stayed to
luncheon at the invitation of Miss Grant, who was full of
talk, of energy, of happiness 5 he had asked after Tommy
and had received a good report, and also a message for
Tommy’s anxious mother. From the window of the little
dining-room Elizabeth had stepped unthinking into the
little garden 5 and when she turned to come in again Archie
ﬁlled the window.
Miss Grant had left the room 5 not even the coast-
guardsman, who was on duty, was looking over the palings.
Archie came out into the garden. He felt himself trembling 5
but, as he looked the girl fairly in the face, the trembling
ceased. The time had come for decision 5 that was a great ,
thing of which to be sure. Elizabeth, on her side, was
unreadyw 5 she was not quick, as many women are, with
arts of evasion, of postponement 5 she looked helplessly
. at the young man who stood between her and the only
way of retreat. As he saw her helplessness, he grew more
eager for speech 5 he knew that she was seeking with pain
for some speech which might stop his; he pitied her even
while he pursued his advantage.
“ I have been thinking of what you said yesterday. I
think I see plainly enough what I ought to do--will you
help me ? ”
She looked at him with appeal, and then with indignation.
N 0 words occurred to her but some which conveyed. he s
1
web
COMEDY OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. 20!
doubt of his meaning 3 these she would not speak ; wretched,
prevaricating, conventional words they seemed to her.
She actually stammered for a moment. Then she turned
from him and looked away across the sea.
He came nearer, and said, “You haven’t forgotten what
I said that other time--on the night of the ball?”
' Then at last she found something to say.
“You know that that was a mistake,” she said; “you
should not speak of that again.” She frowned as she
looked at him a moment, and then she looked seaward
again.
“ It’s not a mistake now,” he said, “unless my life, all
life, everything is a mistake, It’s as deep as my life. I
know what I want now with all my heart and soul.” He
moved, trying to see her face, which she disdained to hide.
But the sight of her face gave him small comfort 5 it was
full of distress. His heart sank, and he stood silent.
- “ It was only the other day,” she said at last, and almost
sullenly.
“ Ah, you doubt me P ” he cried out passionately.
“And would not you doubt me?” she said with an
answering passion. “Don’t you knowr why we came to
Langley?”
“ What do I care?” he said.
“You would care,” she said; “How could you help
remembering? Any way, I can’t forget that I was brought
there to--to catch you.”
Archie burst out laughing, and she looked at him with
amazement. After all, he was not happy ; and his laughter
sounded almost as strange to himself. He began to speak
again, eagerly, with conviction, asserting that such thoughts
were as nothing. “Will you be my wife ? ” he said.
“ Elizabeth don't make me wretched for a fad.”
“Oh, do go away,” she said with a sort of moan.
“ All right,” he said curtly ; he had *turned suddenly
cold. He looked at her, thinking that he should carry for
ever a picture of her grand ﬁgure and the ﬁne tum of her
head as she looked away to the sea. A white bird turned
in the air beyond her at the edge of the cliff. He turned
away from her and went a few steps and laid his hand on
the window. Even then there was some comfort for him
in this test of his strength, of his manhood. At the base
of all things is this one thing sure, to bear one’s fate like
:3, ‘b q
7 ‘Em ‘'7
202 COMEDY OFA COUNTRY HOUSE.
a man. So Archie would have borne his fate, had it been
more unkind. But from the very window, which was about
to shut him from his strip of paradise, he looked back once
more, his last concession to his weakness. There stood
the girl still 3 it was the same picture, but that the sea-
gull was now but a white speck upon the distant sea.
Archie could never have said how he knew that Elizabeth
was sobbing. He hurried back to her 3 and she turned at
the sound of his coming 3 even then her face was full of
conﬂicting emotions, and the hands which she stretched
towards him seemed hands of repelling 3 but he caught the
hands masterfully in his, though his words were pleading.
“Ah, love me,” he murmured passionately; “inNPity
love me! ” and now she could not hide the sobs which
shook her as he held her in his arms.
THE END
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Works by tlllfuislggiayﬂf “Atldie's Gustave Aimard’s Works.
_ 1341 The Trapper-s of Arkansas. .. *
388 Addie’s Husband; or, Through 1396 The Adventurers . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
Clouds to Sunshine . . . . . . . . . .. * 1398 Pirates of the Prairies . . . . . . . . . *
504‘ My Poor Wife . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. * 1400 Queen of the Savannah. . . . . . *
1046 J essie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 gtﬁe ls3uccaneerghief . . . . . . . . . . *
_ e muggler ero . . . . . . . . . .. *
wm'ks by "'fﬁtb‘gﬁ}, "f “A Ram‘ 1404 The Rebel Chief ............ .. *
246 AFatal Dower ............... .. 20 BY Mary Alba"-
372 Phyllis’ Probation . . . . . . . . . . . .. * 933 A Hidden Terror . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
461 His Wedded Wife . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 ,
829 The Actor’s ward ........... .. 20 Gran,‘ All“ 5 Wm‘ks-
1373 The Story of an Error ........ . . 20 FQE'hMEFmfS Essaﬁie - - - - - ~ - - - - - . 38
..‘ “ e euso em". . . . . . ..
Works by the authorgif‘wl Great works by the author of “A
Mistake. Womau’s Love-Story.”
244 A. Great Mistake . - . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 A Womau‘s Love-story _ . _ _ _ _ ‘ =l=
588 Clint»; ------------------ ~ - 677 Griselda ..................... .. 20
1040 01 rissa s Ordeal. lst hall’... 20
Egg glarissiépl Ordeal. 2d half. . .. 38 Mrs. Aloxander’s Works.
rince arming . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 5 The Admiral’s Ward. . . . . . . .. 20
1187 Suzanne . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . 20 (137 $119 wooing on; _____________ u 20
. 66 2 e Executor ............... .. 20
BY ‘1"’ Aumlﬁrfii A (“men reg Valel'ie’s Fate...._. .......... .. *
483 Betwixi My Love and Ma - ~ * is lifiliiahi'g‘ﬁin‘ii §Zi‘?‘?.‘l?::::::3 25
By the Author of “By crooked 339 Mrs. Vereker‘s Courier Maid. *
Paths.” g Sgcond Life . . . . . . . . . . . .. .. 2
0 ‘ﬁt r ' ‘ . - . - . . i .. * t - e . s - - . - - s - a . . - < o e . e s a - - *
43 A Bl 6 Re mug 794 Beaton’s Bargain . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
By the Author of “Qnadroona.” 797 Look Before You Leap . . . . . .. 20
1356 Plot and Oounterplot ....... .. 20 805 The Freres- lst half -------- -- 20
805 The Freres. 2d half . . . . . . . . .. 20
BY MI'B- Lei“! Adamﬂ- 806 Her Dearest Foe. 1st half . 20
1345 Aunt Hepsy’s Foundling .... .. 20 3(1): 11%?!‘ 115685381; Fqei‘ 2ddlﬁ-lf. 20
_ e eri geo an e....20
Br Hlmilwvg Alde- 815 Ral h Wilton’s Weirii ....... .. *
888 Introduced to Society . . . . . . . .. ‘I’ 900 By oman‘s Wit. . . . . . . . . . . . .. it.
a w
“ a


2 THE SEASTDE LIBRARY—Focal“ Ebrgsroii.
997 Forging the Fetters, and The By W. Bergsol.
1054 Meustrzégan Aunt ----------- -~ 33 144.5 Pillone ...................... .. 20
n ’ oice ............... ..
1057 AoLi%eSInterest .............. .. 21) Walter Besant’s Works-
1189 A (“rocked Path. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 97 All in a Garden Fair- . . . . . . 20
ﬁFalsgvﬁcent ............... .. i: Eneclle Jackfvii; ....... :
eart ms ................. .. orlous or une ......... ..
1459 A. Woman‘s Heart . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 146 Love Finds the Way,a,nd Other
1571 Blind Fate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 0 DStories}?Bytgesant and Rice 2’;
Alison’sWm-ks' 3'34 1n°£°$1¥ h°ﬁst::::::::::::tt: *
194 “So Near, and Yet So Farl’ﬁ. * 541 Uncle Jack .................. .. *
278 For Life and Love ...... . .. * 651 “ Self or Bearer” . . . . . . . . . *
481 The House That Jack Built. .. * 3(8): glliildﬁ‘elll (1131;! Gibson ......... . . 22
‘. . , e o y ose .............. ..
By Hans ChdlSlllﬂD Andelsen. 906 The World Went Vgry Well
1314 Andersen’s Fmry Tales ------ -- 20 Then ....................... ..
980 To Call Her Mine.............. 20
.By W‘ P’ Anfh‘ews' 1055 Katharine Regina ............ . . 20
1172 India and Her Neighbors .... .. 20 1065 Her, Paulus: Hi§ Rise’ His
F. Anstey’s Wm'ks- 1143 Tiigeiiiiigi'shzgiggls Fan "" " 20
59 V109 ‘761's? ' ' ' ' ‘ ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ‘ " 20 1151 For Faith and Freedom. .... .. 20
225 The Grant 8 Robe . . . . . . . . . . z. . . 2Q 1240 The Bell of St. Paul’s. . o 20
503 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical * 1247 The Lament of Dives_ : I _ ': I I I 20
omance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
1378 They Were Married. By Wal-
819 A Fallen Idol . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 I 13 gel. Basin]? i‘ind James Ricem 2;
By Annie Armin, 4 ' rmore o yonesse ........ ..
759 In Shallow Waters ........... . . 20 1462 Let Not'hmg You Dismay ' ' ' ' ' *
By G" W. Appleton. M. Betham-Edwards’s Works.
1346 A Terrible Legacy ........... .. 20 273 15%‘; 311111 glifsagg howl-‘he Wait- *
By '1‘. 5- Arthur. 579 The Flower osnooihla'rid one
1337 Woman‘s Trials ............ .. . 20 594 ---------------- -. 2’;
R. 171. Ballantyne’s Works. * ggxtiaof 33
89 The Red Eric ................ .. e or ngo e ays ..... ..
32 'li‘zhle Fire1 Bgglaide ............ . . i 1543 For One and the World ...... .. 20
r in t e o . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
772 cTasc§yne the Sandal-Wood w 3x122101**’ BWI‘BSW’B Wﬂ‘kl;
ra er ...................... .. ' ......................... ..
H D B l ’ w k 1388 The Happy Boy ............ ‘F
onore e a sac s or s. , _ . _
776 Pére Goriot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Wlu'am Black’s walks‘
1128 'Clolus‘irn Pons ................ .. g) 1% gﬂzsgg-ﬁél-lé ------- --~- ---- -- 33
131 I‘ 6 endetta . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 21 Sunmse : A lot S. Barina-Gould’s Works. 23 A games .... Hf .i..,......... 20
787 Court Royal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 P31109559 u 9- ~~ ------ - -
ﬁgs; Iﬁittle 'l‘u‘penny ............. .. 216 1;: ﬁlagléléﬂglrgéié ------------- -- 38
ve . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. , ------------ --~
1901 Mehalah; A story of the Salt 49 That Beautiful Wretch ...... .. 20
Marshes ..................... .. 20 50 Tlhﬁaiigalnse Adventures of a
Frank Barrett’s Works- 70 White Wing-s’; X‘Y'achting R0- ‘
986 The Great Hesper . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 malice-H; ................... --
1138 A Recoiling Vengeance ...... .. 20 7'8 Madcap Vwlet----~---. ------ -. 20 "-
1245 Fetter-ed for Life . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 81 A Daughter Of Both. -- 90
1611 Between Life and Death ..... .. 20 g; glﬁgeﬁg‘sgltgﬁlgf mating-Lain‘; %
Basil’s Works. 126 Kilmeny ..................... .. so
344 “ The Wearing of the Green ”. 20 $32 '(Iirgeﬁllgalstlttlres and Plllccegilly 20
547 A00 uette’s Con uest . . . . . . .. 20 u i a e care: or ove
585 A Drgwn Game. ........... .. 20 472 Tiﬂ'ags a1§%08iher%c}venturss 22
e ise omen o nverness
Anne Bﬂﬂlv’l Workl- 627 White Heather ..... .., ...... .. 20
388 Idonea. ...... . . . ............. .. 20 898 Romeo and Juliet: A Taigot; .1
199 The Fisher Villazo..: ....... . . *
TwoYomFaolal‘litlil‘l‘.“a ”
‘I ' ing‘ gig?
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY—POCKET Entries. 8
I

962 Sabina Zembra. 1st half. . . . .~. 20
962 Sabina Zembra. 2d half. . . . . 20
1096 The Strange Adventures of a
House~Boat ................. .. 20
1182 In Far Loc'haber ............. . . 20
1227 The Penance of John Logan. 20
1259 Nanciebel: A Tale of Stratford-
on-Avon.. .- . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
1268 Prince Fortunatus . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1389 Oliver Goldsmith . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
‘894 The Four Macnicols, and Other
Tales . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
426 An Adventure in Thule . . . . . . .. *
R. D. Blackmore’s Works.
67 Lorna. Doone. 1st half ...... .. 20
67 Lorna. Doone. 2d half . . _ . . . .. 20
427 The Remarkable History of Sir
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P. 20
615 Mary Anerley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
625 Erema: or, My Father‘s Sin.. 20
629 Cripps, the Carrier . . . . . . . . . . . 20
680 Oradock Nowell. 1st half. . . . . 20
630 Oradock Nowell. 2d half. . . . . 20
631 Ohristowell. A Dartmoor Tale 20
632 (‘lava Vaughan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
633 The Maid of Sker. 1st half“ . 20
633 The Maid of Sker. 2d half. . .. 20
636 Alice Lorraine. 1st half .... .. g
20
20
20
636 Alice Lorraine. 2d half... . . . .
926 Springhaven. 1st half ...... . .
926 Springhaven. 2d half. . . . .. . . .
126’? Kit and Kitty. 1st half ...... . .
1267 Kit and Kitty. 2d halt . . . . . . .. 20
By Isa. Blagden.
705 The Woman I Loved, and the *
Woman Who Loved Me .... . .
By C. Blatherwick.
151 The’Ducie Diamonds . . . . . . . . .. *
By Frederick Boyle.
856 The Good Hater ............. . . 20
Miss M. E. Brnddon’s Works.
35 Lady Audley‘s Secret ...... ..= 20
56 Phantom Fortune . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
74 Aurora Floyd ............... .. 20
110 Under the Red Flag ......... . . *
153 The Golden Calf ........... .. . 20
204 Vixen ........................ . . 20
211 The Octoroon ............... .. *
234 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery. 20
263 An Ishmaelite . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
315 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ-
mas, 1884. Edited by Miss M.
E. Braddon ................. .. 20
434 Wyllard’s Weird . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh-
ter. Part ................. ..
478 Diavola; or. Nob‘ody‘s Daugh-
ter. Part II ................ . .
‘80 Married in Haste. Edited by
.Miss M. E. Bra don ........ ..
487 Plkit to the Test. Edited by Miss
. E. Braddon .............. . .
488 Joshua Haggard‘s Daughter" . 20
‘BOBuportGod 20
"‘ l.
a w M _
" 5;‘. in: se- 1“ t

495 Mount Royal ................ . . 20
496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss
M. E. Braddon .............. . . 20
497 The Lady’s Mile . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
498 Onlya Clod ................. .. 20
499 The Cloven Foot ............ .. 20
511 A Strange World . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 2)
515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant . . . . . . . . .. 20
524 Strangers and Pilgrims ..... . . 20
529 The Doctor‘s Wife .......... .. 20
542 Fenton’s Quest . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
544 Out by the County; or, Grace
Darnel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
548 A Fatal Marriage, and The
Shadow in the Corner ...... . . "=
549 DudleyCarleon : or. The Broth-
er’s Secret, and George Caul- *
ﬁeld's Journey ........... . .
552 Hostages to Fortune. . . . . . . .. 29
553 Birds of Prey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. so
554 Oharlotte‘s Inheritance. (Se-
quel to “ Birds of Prey ”) . . . . 28
557 To the Bitter End . . . . . . . . . . . . .
559 Taken at the Flood ......... .. 20
560 Asphodel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . 20
561 Just as I am; or, A Living Lie
567 Dead Men‘s Shoes . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
570 John Marchmont‘s Legacy. . . . 20
618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ-
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M.
E. Braddou . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
840 One Thing Needful; or, The
Penalty of Fate . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
881 Mohat. ks. 1st half . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
881 Mohawks. 2d half . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
890 The Mistletoe Bou h. Christ.
mas, 1886. Edite by Miss M.
E. Braddon . . . . . . , . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
943 Weavers and Weft: or, “ Love
that Hath Us in His Net ”. . . 20
947 Publicans and Sinners; or,
Lucius Davoren 1st half. . .. 20
947 Publicans and Sinners;
Lucius Davoren. 2d half.... 20
1036 Like and Unlike . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1098 The Fatal Three ............. . . 20
1211 The Day Will Come. . . . . . . . .. 20
1411 Whose Was the Hand? ...... .. 20
By Annie Bradshaw.
‘706 A Crimson Stain ............. .. *
Works by Charlotte M. Braemo,
Author of “ Dora Thorns.”
19 Her Mother’s Sin ............ . . 28
51 Dora Thorne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
54 A Broken Wedding-Ring. . .. . 20
68 A ueen Amongst Women... *
69 M olin‘s Lover ............ .. 20
73 Redeemed by Love; or, Love‘:
Victo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
76 Wife in Name Only; or, A
Broken Heart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
79 Wedded and Parted........... 1"
92 Lord Lynne’s Choice ........ .. 80
148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 20
190 Romance of a Black Veil .... . . 'F
2:50 Which Loved HunBestL. U
‘ﬁx?-
4
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY—Pecan Enrrron.

237 Repented at Leisure. (Large
type edition). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
967 Repented at Leisure ........ .. *
249 “ Prince Charlie‘s Daughter;”
or, The Cost of Her Love. .. . 20
250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Dl-
ana’s Diseipline . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
254 The Wife 5 Secret, and Fair
but False . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
283 The Sinsof a Lifetime; or, Viv-
ien’s Atonement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
287 At War With Herself ........ .. *
923 At War With Herself. (Large
type edition) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or,
From Out the Gloom . . . . . . . ..
955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or,
From Out the Gloom. (Large 20
type edition) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
291 Love’s Warfare . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
292 A Golden Heart . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
293 The Shadow of a Sin ........ .. *
948 The Shadow of a Sin. (Large
type editio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
294 The False Vow; or, Hilda; or,
Lady Hutton’s Ward . . . . . . ..
928 The False Vow; or, Hilda; or.
Lady Hutton‘s Ward. (Large
ty e edition) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
294 La yHutton’sWard;or,Hilda;
or The False Vow .......... ..
928 Lady Hutton’s Ward;or, Hilda;
or, The False Vow. (Large
type edition) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
294 Hilda; or, The False Vow; or,
Lady Hutton’s Ward . . . . . . . ..
928 Hilda; or, The False Vow; or,
Lady Hutton’s Ward. (Large
ty eedition) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
295 A oman’s War . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
952 A Woman‘s War. (Large type
edition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
296 A Rosein Thorns . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
297 Hilary's Folly; or, Her Mar-
riageVow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
958 Hilary's Folly; or, Her Mar-
)-
l
460 Under a Shadow ............ .. 20
465 The Earl’s Atonement . . . . . . . .. 20
466 Between Two Loves ......... .. 20
467 A Struggle for a Ring ....... .. 20
469 Lady Damer’s Secret ........ .. 20
470 Evelyn’s Folly ............... .. 20
471 Thrown on the World ....... .. 20
476 Between Two Sins; or, Married
in Haste .................... .. *
516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle-
maine’s Divorce ........... .. 20
576 Her Martyrdom . . . . . . . . . . . . an
626 A Fair Mystery; or, The Perils
ofBeauty ............. 20
741 The Heiress of Hllldrop; or
The Romance of a Young Girl 20
745 For Another’s Sin: or, A Strug'
gle for Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
792 Set in Diamonds . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
821 The World Between Therm. . . . 20
822 APassion Flower 20
853 A True Magdalen . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
854 A Woman‘s Error . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
922 Marjorie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
924 ’Twixt Smile and Teen. . . . . .. . 20
927 Sweet Cymbeline . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
929 The Belle of Lynn; or, The
Miller’s Daughter . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
931 Lady Diaua‘s Pride . . . . . . . . . .. 20
949 Clarihel‘s Love Story; or,Love‘s
Hidden De
Ipths . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
ife ; or, Her Terri-
958 A Haunted
ble Sin . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..,. .... .. .
969 The Mystery of Oolde Fell; or,
Not Proven . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
973 The S uire’s Darling . . . . .. 20
975 A Dar Marriage Morn ...... . . 20
978 Her Second Love ............ .. 20
982 The Duke’s Secret: . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
985 On Her Wedding Morn, and
The Mystery of the Holly~Tree 20
988 Tlie Shattered Idol, and Letty
erg 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a
990 The Earl's Error, and Arnold’s
Promise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
995 An Unnatural Bondage, and
rings Vow. (Large type edi- That Beautiful Lady . . . . . . .. 20
121011;?‘ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 1006 His Wife's Judgment ........ .. 20
299 The atal Lilies, and A Bride 1008 A Thorn in Her Heart . . . . . . .. 20
from the Sea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. * 1010 Golden Gates. ............ .. 20
300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 1012 A Nameless Sin .............. .. 20
Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. * 1014 A Mad Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
803 Ingledew Hone, and More Blt- 1031 Irene’s Vow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
ter than Death .............. .. 'l‘ 1052 Si na.‘s Sweetheart .......... .. 20
804’ In Cupid’s Net . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. "' 1091 A odern Cinderella . . . . . . . . .. *
305 ADead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wite ........ .. 20
doline’s Dream . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. * 1155 Lured Away; or, The Stor of
306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a Wedding - Ring, and he
a. ay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. * Heiress of Arne . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
807 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 1179 Beauty"s Marriage ........... .. ’I'
Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. * 1185 A Fiery Ordeal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
308 Beyond Pardon . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 1195 Dumaresq’s Temptation ..... .. 20
822 A Woman’s Love-Story ..... .. 20 1285 Jenn ........................ . . 20
822A Willtul Maid . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 1291 The tar of Love . . . . . . . . . 20
411 A Bitter Atonement . . . . . . . . . .. 20 1328 Lord Lisle’s Dan hter . . . . . . . .. ‘K
433 My Sister Kate . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. * 1415 Weaker than a omen .... 20
459 A Woman’s Temptation.
(Large type edition)... . . . .. . BY Fl‘edl‘ikll 3'0"“!-
951 AWoman’s Temptation. . . . 'l‘ e
Th6 Sim. tin-‘nun n
4s .
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY—:POCKET EDITION. 5
‘1

Charlotte Bronte’s Works.
15 Jane Eyre . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
5'2’ Shirley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
944 The Professor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Rhoda Broua'hton’s ‘Vorks.
86 Belinda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
101 Second Thoughts . . . . . . . . . .. 20
22?’ Nancy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. . . . . *
758 “ Good-bye, Sweetheartl". . . .. 20
765 Not Wisely, But Too Well. . . .. 20
‘2'67 Joan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
7'68 Red as a Rose is She . . . . . . . . .. 20
769 Cometh U6 as a Flower . . . . . . 20
862 Betty‘s Visions . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
894 Doctor Cupid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1599 Alas! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Robert Buchanan’s Works.
145 “ Storm-Beaten :" God and The
Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
154 Annan Water . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
181 The New Abelard . . . . . . . . . .. *
398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan... *
646 The Master of the Mine . . . . . .. 20
892 '1' hat Winter Night; or, Love’s
Victory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .- . . . . ..
1074 Stormy Waters.l . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1104 The Heir of Linne . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1350 Love Me Forever. . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
1455 The Moment After . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Captain Fred Burnaby’s \Vorks.
375 A Ride to Khiva . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
384 On Horseback Through Asia
Minor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
By John Bloundelle-Burton.
913 The Silent Shore; or. The Mys-
tery of St. James‘ Park . . . . .. 20
By Beatrice M. Butt.
1854 Delicia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
E. Lasscter Bynner’s Works.
1456 Nimport. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 30
1460 Tritons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
By Lord Byron.
719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,_, *
E. Fairfax Byrrne’s \Vorks.
621 Entangled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
588 A Fair Country Maid. . . . . . . .. 20
By Mrs. Caddy.
127 Adrian Bright ............... .. 20
Hall Caine’s W’orks. ‘
446 The Shadow of a Crime . . . . . .. 20
520 She’s All the World to Me... .. *
1234 The Deemster . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
,1255 The Bondman...._ . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
By Ada Cambridge.
1588AMarkedMan........ ...... ..20
<
I
.a lit‘), ‘ I‘ L

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron’e Workl.
595 A North Country Maid . . . . . . .. 20
796 In a Grass Country . . . . . . . . . .. 20
891 Vera Nevill; or, Poor Wisdom’s
Chance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
912 Pure Gold . . . _ . . . . . . . . .. 20
963 Worth Winning . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1025 Daisy‘s Dilemma . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
1028 A Devout Lover; or, AWasted
Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1070 A Life‘s Mistake ............. .. 20
1204 The Lodge by the Sea . . . . . . . .. 20
1205 A Lost Wife . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1286 Her Father’s Daughter . . . . . . .. 20
1261 Wild George's Daughter .... .. 20
1290 The Cost of a Lie . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1292 Bosky Dell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
By Lady Colin Campbell.
1325 Darell Blake . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Rosa Nouchette Carey's Works.
215 Not Like Other Girls . . . . . . . .. 20
396 Robert Ord‘s Atonement. . . . . 20
551 Bharbara Healhcote’sTrial. 1st
01-.‘ a e o n I s - n e ~ e ~ ~ q Q e . ¢ a .-
al . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
608 For Lilias. 1st half . . . . . . . . . .. 20
608 For Lih'as. 2d half . . . . . . . . . .. 20
930 Uncle Max. 1st half ......... . . 20
930 Uncle Max. 2d half ......... .. 20
932 ueenie’s Whun. lst hall’.... . 20
932 ueenie‘s Whim. 2d half..... 20
934 \ 'ooed and Married. 1st half. 20
934 Wooed and Married. 2d half. 20
936 Nellie‘s Memories. 1st hall’... 20
936 Nelhe‘s Memories. 2d half. .. 20
961 Wee Wiﬂe. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1033 Esther: A Story for Girls. . . .. 20
1064 Only the Governess ......... . . 20
1135 Aunt Diana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
1194 The Search forBasil Lyndhurst 30
1208 Merle’s Crusade . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1545 Lover or Friend? . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 30
By Alice Comyns Carr.
571 Paul Crew’s Story . . . . . . . . . . .. *
Lewis Carroll’e Works.
462 Alice‘s Adventures in Wonder-
ls nd. Illustrated by John
Tenniel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
789 Through the Lookin Class,
and What Alice Foun There.
Illustrated by John Tenniel.. 20
By John Coleman.
504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. .. 1'
By C. R. Coleridge.
408 An English Squire. . . . . . . . . . . . . 2!
By Erckmann-Chatrian.
329 The Polish Jew. (Translated
from the French by Caroline
A. Merighi
‘il'l..'.'ll.‘.“.
6 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY-POCKET ED111101}.
l__‘
J. - e e e e e e e e e e - o v a o 0 c 0 I
485 Tinted vapours . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . * 318 The P101388“; or’ The Sources
17379 Master of His Fate . . . . . . . .. 20 349 Tcifeqllfvggui ‘:§§:?:a"m 38
, q ~ . e e e e e 0 e e . .
1011 A Rex erend Gentleman . . . . . .. A10 359 The watepwitch ________ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ _ 20
By Beatrice Collengie, "2171.6 Red (Payer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
. - ________ _ _ 1 mg an mg . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
‘352 A Ié‘ouble Marriage 20 378 Homeward Bound; or, The
Wllkie Collins’s Works. Chase ....................... .. 20
52 The New Magdalen . . . . . . . . . . . . * 379 Iff’me as Fmmd- (sequel to
102 The Moonstone . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 Homeward Bound"
16? Heart and Science . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
8 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens
and Collins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
380 Wyandotte; or, The 'nliue'd
Kn 20
385 The Headsman; 3;‘, The Ab-
s ....... .. 20
175 Love’s Random Shot, and bare des Vlgner
Other Stories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 394 The Bm‘Io - ' - - - - - ' ' ~ ~ - - - » - - --
283 “ I Say No;" or, TheLove-Let- 397 Lionel Lmcoln; or, The Leag-
ter Answered I ' _ . , _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ . __ 20 uer of Boston . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
508 The em at the Gate ......... .. =6 400 The Went of Wish-Ton-Wislh- 20
591 The Queen of Hearts _ , _ _ . , _ . H 20 413 Afloat and Ashore .......... .. 20
513 The Ghosps Touch, and Percy 414 Mlles Walhngford. (Sequel to
and the Pro het . . . . . . . . . . . .. "‘ Aﬂoat and Ashore ") - - - - e - e 90
623 My Lady's oney _ , _ _ _ _ . _ _ _ . __ * 415 The Ways of the Hour . . . . . . ..
701 The Woman in White. lsthalf 20
701 The Women 111 White. 2d half 20
624 Primus in Indis . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
1469 Every Inch 8. Soldier. . . . . 20 Marie Corelli’e Worka-
Hm ‘mew The‘??? .1
‘44° Called Back ---------------- -- * 1131 Thelma. 1513 half ........... ..
251 The Daughtel‘ofthe Swsland 1131 Thelma. 2d half ............ ..
other Tales ----------------- -- * 1329 My Wonderful wire1.......... 1:
38% Ilgkzirlclgzxysfi;..aué . . . . . . . . .. i
' e atom or eqnes .... ..
34L A Dead Man’s Face. . . . .. . . .. . * By Madame Conn“
50%’ Oaﬂ'iston‘s Gift -----------
* 1366 Elizabeth ........... *
5253 Pei?) Valrgzzs and Other Stones 23
5 A ami y air . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
601 Slings and Arrows, and oaner * Georziana M‘ Craik’s Works-
SBOI‘iGS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 450 Godfrey Helstone _ . _ _ . "nu" m 1.
711 A Cardinal Sin . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 _
804 Living or Degdﬁ ............ H 606 Mrs. Hollyer ........... 20
132% K‘ff‘f‘n 6122?‘..3‘3533 :::::.':::: 6., B- M- crew's work-
J . Fenimore Cooperfe Works.
20
416 J eck Tier; or. The Florida Beef 20
419 The Ohainhearer; or, The Lit,-
202 Man and Wife. 18011011’. 20 tle-paze Manuspnpts ------- -- 20
702 Man and Wife. 2d half ..... .. 20 420 Satwswq; 01'. 'lhe Lwtlepage
764 The Evil Genms ............. .. 20 Manuscﬂlgps --------- -= ----- --
896 The Guilty River. .......... .. 20 421 The.Reds 1,118: or. Indlan and
946 The Dead Secret ............ .. 20 Injm. Beme the conclusmn
977 The Haunted Hotel . . . . . . . . . .. 20 0f the Littlewge Mannsonpts 20
1029 Armadale. lsr half. ....... .. 20 42? Precaubwn-_ ------------------ .. 20
1029 Alzq'midale. 2%1681" .......... .. go 426 Tqlggfg Lwns; 01*. The Lost
1095 '1' Q a,‘ , _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ . () k ' . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1119 NepNeigg? ylst hell}.1 ......... .. 20 424 Mercedes of Casfile; 01'. The
1119 No Name. 261 half .......... .. 20 Voyage to Cathay --------- .- 20
1269 Blind Love ................... .. 20 425 'I‘Iixw gﬂk-Onenmgs; 01'. The 20
~ - ee- unter . . . . . ......... ..
1347 A Rogue '5 L'fe """"""" " 20 431 The Monikins ................ .. 20
Mabel Collins’e Works. 1062 The Deerslayer; or. The First
749 Lord Venecourt‘s Daughter. .. 20 War-Path- lst 11 If . . . - . . 20
828 The PrettiestWomanlnWarsaw 20 1062 The Deersleyer' or. The Fxrst
War-Path. 211M111... ..... .. 20
M. J. Colquhoun’s Works. 1170 The Pilot .................... .. 20
20?‘ Pretty Miss Neville... .. .. 20
260 ProperPride........... ‘F
412 Some Que Else................ 20~
1124 ‘Diana. Berrington............».. 90» g
1607 TW0M88ﬁ6r8u'u-uH1-“Hun a‘: as;
s 1 5"“, ,
'1 'u ,, * ii‘ 1» 2'» ﬁx
t I‘ 4-9 u ;“ v ‘w sewn‘; “g'kiézwfi
‘a
c
60 The Last of the Mohlcens.... . 20
68 The Spy ........... . .. 20
309ThePathﬂnder.......... .... .. 20

TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY—Possum‘ Enrrron. ‘l

M -
May Crommelin’s Works.
452 In the West Countne . . . . . . . . .. 20
619 Jay; or. The Light oi! Cold-
ome Ford ....... . . . . . . . .. 20
647 Goblin Gold ................. .. 'l‘
1327 Midge ........................ .. 20
1399 Violet Vyvian, M.F.H. ........ . .20
By Stuart C. Cumberland.
641 The Rabbi’s Spell ............ . .
By R. H. Dana. Jr.
811 Two Years Before the Mast. .. 20
152 The Uncommereial Traveler.. 20
168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens
and Collins ............ *
169 The Haunted Man ........... .. *
437 Life and Adventures of Martin
Chuzzlewit. 1st half . . . . . . . . .
437 Li to and Adventures of Martm
half 20
8
Chuzzlewit. ........ . .
439 Great Expectations.., ...... .. 20
440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings .... .. *
447 American Notes ............. .. 20
448 Pictures From Italy, and The
Mudl’og Papers. 850 ......... .. 20
454 The Mystery of Edwin Drood. 20
BY Frank Danby- 456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative
1879 The Copper Crash . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 of Every-day Life and Every-
Bv Joyce Dwell- 676 fiéhi’i‘i‘iiiiti-ygangsta: so
168 Winifred Power ..... 20 4
Alphonse Daudet’s Works.
I o o I O I o on.‘ I I o I oooseloooeoon 20
574 The Nahob : A Story of Parisian
Life and Manners. . . . . . .... . . 20
1368 Lise Tavernier. . . ., .......... .. *
By Daniel Defoe.
1312 Robinson Crusoe ............. .. 30
By R. D’Ennery.
242 The Two Orphans . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
By Hugh De Normand.
1554 The Gypsy Queen ............ .. 20
Thomas De Quincey’s Works.
1059 Confessions of an English'Opi~
urn-Eater . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
1380 The Spanish Nun . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
By Elsa D’Esterre-Keelinz.
‘382 Three Sisters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “if. *
Carl Detlef’s Works.
086 Nora .... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1418 Irene . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Charles Dickens’s Works.
10 The Old Curiosity Shop . . . . . ..
22 David Copperﬁeld. Vol. I. . ..
22 David Copperﬁeld. Vol. II...
24 Pickwick apers. Vol. I .... ..
24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. II.....
87 Nicholas Nickleby. 1st half“
87 Nicholas Nicklehy. 2d half...
41 Oliver Twist ................. .. 20
77 A'l‘ale of Two Cities.......... 20
84 Hard Times . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
91 Barnaby Rudge. list hall‘. 20
91 Barnaby Rudge. 2d hali.'..... 20
94 Little Dorrit. 1st half ...... .. 20
94 Little Dorrit. 2d half..... 20
106 Bleak House. 1st half ...... .. 20
20
20
88882888
106 Bleak House. 2d halt. ..... .. 20
107 Dombey and Son. ist half . ..
107 Bombay and Son. 2d half. . . .
108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and
Doctor Marigold ............ .. *
181 Our Mutual Friend. Ist half. 20
181 Our Mutual Friend. 9d half" 20
llljlester Humphrey’: Clock.... 1'
\.
By the Rt. Hon. Benjamin Disra-
eli, Earl of Beaconsﬁeld.
793 Vivian Grey. In two parts, each 20
By the Alithor of ‘: Dr. Edith
omney.’
612 My Wife’s Niece . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
By Earl of Desert.
1301 The Little Chatelaine ........ .. 20
Sarah Doudney’s Works.
338 The Family Difficulty ....... .. *
679 Where Two Ways Meet ..... .. *
By A. Conan Doyle.
1305 The Firm of Girdlestone .... .. 20
F. Du Boiszobey’s Works.
82 Sealed Li s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
104 The Core Pin. 1st half ..... .. 20
104 The Coral Pin. 2d half. 20
‘264 Piédouche, a French Detective *'
328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner.
First half . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
3'28 Babiole. the Pretty Miliiner.
Second half ................. .. 20
453 The Lottery Ticket .......... . . 20
475 The Prima Donna’s Husband. 20
522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or, The
Steel Gauntlets ............. . .
523 The Conse uences ot a Duel. A
Parisian omance . . . . . . . . . ..
648 The Angel of the Bells . . . . . . ..
697 The Pretty Jailer. 1st half. . .
697 The Pretty Jailer. 2d half.. . .
699 TIhelfSculptor‘s Daughter. let
a
s u n u e a o o e e o o e n | u e e n e n e I.
699 Tillie1 rSculptor’s Daughter. 2d
a . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
782 The Closed Door. 1st half. . . .
782 The Closed Door. 2d halt. . . .
851 The Cry of Blood. lst half. . .
851 The Cry of Blood. 2d halt“ . .
918 The Red Band. 1st halt... ..
918 The Red and. 2d half
942 Cash on elivery ....... . .4 . . . .
1076 The Mystery of an Omnibus..
1080 Bertha's Secret. 1st half. . 5.‘.
1080 Bertha’s Secret. 2d helf.....
1082 The Severed Hand. Ist half. .
1082 The Severed Hand 2d hell!" N
8888888 2883
a o I v p.
88888
akns‘qﬂ I ’vr“
\
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY—POCKET Enrrion‘.

8
1085 The Matapan Affair. 1st half 20
1085 The Matapan Affair. 2d half 20
1088 The Old Age of Monsieur Le-
coq. lsthal .......... -. 20
1088 The Old Age of Monsieur Le-
“” coq. 2d hall.’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
" The Duehess‘s” Wome-
2 Molly Bawn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
6 Portia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
11 Airy Fairy Lilian . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
16 Phyllis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
25 Mrs. Geoﬁrey. (Large type
edition) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 2
950 Mrs. Geoffrey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
29 Beauty’s Daughters . . . . . . . . . . . *
30 Faith and Unfaith . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
118 Love, Lord Berresford, and
Eric Dering . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. . *
123 Sweet is True Love . . . . . . . . . . . *
129 Rossmoyne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . *
134 The Witching Hour, and Other
Stories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and
Other Stories . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . *
166 Moonshine and Marguerites... *
171 Fortune‘s Wheel, and Other
Stories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
284Doris.... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..20
312 A Week’s Amusement; or, A
Week in Klllarney...... 342 The Baby, and One New Year’s
Eve. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. ’l
390 Mildred Trevanion . . . . . . . . . . .. *
404 In Durance Vile, and Other
Stories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
486 Dick’s Sweetheart . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar-
bara . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
517 A Passive Crime, and Other
Stories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *1‘
541 “ As It Fell Upon a Day”. . . . *
733 Lady Branksmere . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
771 A Mental Struggle . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
785 The Haunted Chamber . . . . . .. *
862 Uglv Barrington. . . . . . . . . .. . *
875 Lady Valworth‘s Diamonds... 20
1009 In an Evil Hour, and Other
Stories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1016 A Modern Ciroe . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1035 The Duchess ........ . . . . . . .. 20
1047 Marvel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1103 The Honorable Mrs. Vereker.. 20
1:123 Under-Currents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
1197 “Jerry.” -- “That Night in
J une.”-A Wrong Turning.—
Irish Love and Marriage . . . . .. *
1209 A Troublesome Girl . . . . . . . . .. 20
1249 A Life’s Remorse. . . . . . . .. . . 20
1333 A Born Coquette . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1363 “Aprll’s Lady "' . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
1453 Her Last Throw . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Aleiauder Dumas’s Works.
55 The Three Guardsmen.. . 20
75 Twenty Years After . . . . . . . . .. 20
262 The Count of Monte~Cristo.
Partlln' uoooo|u\a|uuIuo"o|I-~|

262 The Count of Monte~0risto.
Part II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 30
717 Beau Tancrede; or, The Mar-
riage Verdict . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1058 Masaniello; or, The Fisherman
of .Naples . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1340 'Iilhelfson of Monte-Cristo. lsL
a . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. ‘
I u o o a n c n n a o o e e q 1 - I s a n o o o 1a
George Ebers’s Works. _
474 Serapis. An Historical Novel 20
983 Uarda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1056 The BlfldeDf the Nile. 1st half 20
1056 The Bride of the Nile. 2d half 20
1094 Home Sum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1097 The Burgomaster’s Wife . . . . .. 20
1101 An Egyptian Princess. Vol. I. 20
1101 An Egyptian Princess. Vol. II. 20
1106 The Emperor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
1112 Only a Word . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1114 The Sisters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1198 Gred of Nuremberg. A B0-
mance of the Fifteenth Cent-
ury . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
1266 Joshua: A Biblical Picture. . . . 20
Maria Edgeworth’s Works.
708 Ormond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
788 The Absentee. An Irish Story. 20
Amelia. B. Edwards’s Works.
99 Barbara‘s Histo'y . . . . . - . . . . . .. 20
1364 My Brother's Wife . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Mrs. Annie Edwards’s Works.
644 A Girton Girl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
834 A Ballroom Repentance. . . . . .. 20
835 :17 ivian the Beauty . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
836 A Point of Honor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
837 A Vagabond Heroine ........ .. *
838 Ought We to Visit Her? . . . . . . . 20
839 Leah: A Woman of Fashion.. 20
841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? =''
842 A Blue-Stocking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . *
843 Archie Lovell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
844 Susan Fielding . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
845 Philip Earnscliﬁ’e; or, The
Morals of May Fair . . . . . . . . . . . 20
846 Steven Lawrence. 1st half. .. 20
846 Steven Lawrence. 2d 119.115.... 20
850 A Playwrights Daughter. *
By H. Sutherland Edwards.
917 The Case of Reuben Malachi. *
By Mrs. C. J. Eiloart.
114 Some of Our Girls .......... .. 20
George Eliot’s Works.
3 The Mill on the Floss ........ . . 20
31 Middlemarch. 1st half ...... .. 20
31 Middlemareh. 2d half ...... .. 20
34 Daniel Derouda. 1st half..... 20
34 Daniel Deronda. 2d half...... 20
36 Adam Bede. 1st half. . ... 20
36 Adam Bede. 2dhalj ........ .. 20
42 Romokai...-|-.-¢-¢'-v:-.|-vqon: a
1'3 114
A
44
‘6-
Lu
M
.3? 1»?
wail‘?
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY-PO0KET EDITION. 9

693 Felix Holt. the Radical ...... .. 20 726 My Hero ..................... .. 20
707 Silas Marner: The Weaver of 727 Fair Women. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Raveloe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. * 729 Mignon ..................... .. .. 20
'728 Janet’s Repentance .......... .. * 732 From Olympus to Hades .... .. 20
762 Impressions of Theophrastus 734 Viva . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
no ........................ .. * 736 Roy and Viola ............... .. 20
1441 Amos Barton ................ .. * 740 11;.hona ............. ....... .. 20
By m»- “4 121881.21: it: heirs:
381 The Red Cardinal . . . . - - . - - - .- * 883 Once Again ................. .. 20
By Eva Evergreen. Jessie Father - ,
3111 s Works.
1358 Agatha‘ """"""""" 20 314 Peril .............. .... .. 20
By Juliana Horatia Ewina'. geaéeyl. . .a . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
752 Jwkana and Other stories a: .5 or er an .................. .. 20
peg: 1099 The Lasses of Leverhouse. . .. 20
B. L. Fﬂl‘JBOll’B Works. 1275 'A March in the Ranks ....... . . 20
1%? {119156 Mgkegegeve ______ _ . ‘ 2; 1377 lhe First Violin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2)
5 ove’s arves .... . ...... . . By Francesca
607 . u e I s u a a o e o u e u o c 0 e a * .
21? I538 sacredfnug etuuunh _ 22 53 The Story Of Ida . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. III
5 ristmas ge ............ . .
907 The Bright Star of Life ..... .. 20 R‘ E‘ Francﬂmn’g w‘n'ks'

909 The Nine of Hearts .: . . . . . . . . . 20 135 A Great Heiress: A Fortune
1383 The Mystery of M. Felix ..... .. 20 in Seven Checks . . . . .._ ...... .. *
By the m-
3” s31221r3151rr1r1s .
haugh‘ 360 Ropes of Sand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1343 Dream Faces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 656 The Golden F100d_ By R. E.
By Heinrich Felbermanu' Francillon and Wm. Senior.. *
355 The Princess Dagomar of P0- * 911 Golden Bells . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1 00 n 0 o . . o v s . n . a . e u I - a u - . 0 q Mira. 6'" Manvin‘’ Fenn’s WM‘lm' 1351 She Came Between .......... .. 20
193 The Rosery Folk ............ .. *
558 Poverty Corner ............. .. 20 BY Charla“ F1_'°n°h'
587 The Parson o’ Dumford" ..... . . 22 387 The Secret of the Cliffs . . . . . . .. 20
609 The Dark House. ........ ..
1169 Commodore Junk . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 By J‘ {5" Frm‘de'
27 heM 111] ‘m Ste ....... .. 20 1180 The TWO Chefs of Dunboymr.
1 6 T y s y ry . .
1293 In Jeopardy ................. .. .20 An Irlsh Romance of the Last
1302 The Master of the Ceremonies 20 Century - - i - - - ~ - l ' ~ - - --- ---- - - i!"
1313 Eve at the Wheel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 _
1344 One Maid’s Mischief ......... .. 20 By Lady Georsmna Fullerton-
1387 Eli's Children ................ .. 20 1286 Ellen Middleton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Octave Feuillet’s Works. Emile Gaboriau’s Works.
66 Tnlrie Romance OfaPOOP Young * 7 File No.113 ................. .. 20
an ------ - -; - - - ' "4 ------- ' 12 Other People‘s Money ....... .. 20
386 Iéafintggggaxi °l°i La Petite * % githin an Inch of His Life... 20
1427 A Marriage in High Life .... .. 20 26 Mgggggg; £2233; llgilﬁjjj; a’
Gertrude Forde’s Works. 33 The Cli_ no of Gold . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1072 Only a Coral Girl ........... .. 20 22 $11‘; n‘ggstz‘gylggr‘glgggl ----- -- g
1349 In the Old Palazzo . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 144 Promises of Marriageuxxx: ,1.
BY R- E- Fol'l'esh 979 The Count’s Secret. Part I. . . 20
879 The Touchstone of Peril ..... . . 20 979 The Count’s Secret. Part IL. 20
, _ 1002 Marrlage at a Venture . . . . . . .. 20
Mrs’ Forrester 5 wolks' R 1015 A Thousand Francs Reward.. 20
80 June ......................... .. 20 1045 The 13th Hussars . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 1078 The Slaves of Paris.--Black-
ciety . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. * mail. 1st half . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
484 Although He Was a Lord, and 1078 The Slaves of Paris. - The
Other Tales ................. .. * Champdoce Secret. 2d half“ 20
715 I Have Lived and Loved .... .. 20 1083 The Little Old Man of the Bat-
?21 Dolore 20 ' 'l'
s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. Ignolles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
in My Lord ant HyLady........ so 1167 Captain Contanceau.... as
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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY-Poc‘2m Enmon.

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By Edward Garrett. H. Rider Hagzard’s Works.
852 At Any Cost . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. ' % I'léhe Vlgitch’s Heailiu. .......... .. 20
' ’ ‘ . . . . . .. 20
BY MI‘B- Gasken' 910 Slllgg 1101122163? sot 2133mm 20
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Charles Gibbw’s Works- 33312622606211.1121: ''''' . 11:33:: 23
64 A Maiden Fair . . . . . .. . ....... . . * 1049 A Tale of Three Lions, and on
317 By MPad and Stream - - - - - - - -- Going Back . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
12'2"? Was Ever Woman in this H11- 1100 Mr. Meeson‘s Will ........... .. 20
mor Wooed? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 1105 Maiwa‘s Revenge . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1434 The Golden Shaft . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20 glokgilgll Quariich’m Q _______ n 20
By D. Cecil Gibbs. y e ow La _orer .......... .. 20
1190 Cleo atra: Being an Account
’807 . . . 1 e e e . e . . . . - e e m Theo. Gift’s Works. gi‘gmacgliilggetggy ‘1111355’? "
1300 Lil Lorimer .................. .. 20 Han’diffuufumzf’
1435 Dishonor“ --------------- -- ' 2° 124s Allan’s Wife ................. .. so
By Gilbert and Sullivan.
692 The Mikado, and Other Comic 20
Operas . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
By Ida Linn Girard.
1860 A Dangerous Game . . . . . . . . . . . 20
By Goethe.
10413 Faust . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Oliver Goldsmith’s Works.
801 She Stoops to Conquer, and
The Good-Natured Man . . . . ..
1316 The Vicar of Wakeﬁeld . . . . . .. *
By Edward Goodman.
1081 Too Curious....., ........... .. . 20
By Mrs. Gore.
1449 The Dean’s Daughten. . . . . . . . . 20
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532 Arden Court . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
James Grant’s Works.
566 The Royal Highlanders; or,
The Black Watch in Egypt.. . 20
781 ,The Secret Dispatch . . . . . . . . . . . *
Miss Grant’s Works.
222 The Sun-Maid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
555 Cara Roma . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
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3374 Terribly Tempted. . . . . . . . . .. *
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1366 Periwinkle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . 20
Maxwell Gray’s Works.
1084 The Silence of Dean Maitland.
1182 The Reproach of A1mesley.. ..
Arthur Griﬂiths’s Works.
614 No. 99 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
680 Fast and Loose . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
By Cecil Grlﬂith.
583 Victory Deane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
By the Author of “Guilty With-
out Crime.”
Q46 Vida’sS’toryu...“........... *
20
20
8*
1335 Beatrice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . *
By Imdovic Halevy. _
1408 L’Abbé ,Constantin . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Thomas Hardy’s Works.
139 The Romantic Adventures of
a Milkmaid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
530 A Pair of Blue Eyes ........ .. w
690 Far From the Maddine Crowd 20
791 The Mayor of (‘asterbridge. .. 20
20
945 The Trumpet-Major. . .. . . . . . . .
957 The Woodlanders . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1309 Desperate Remedies . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1430 Two on 2. Tower ............ . . . 20
John B. Hal-Wood's Works. 6
143 One False, Both Fair.......... 20
358 Within the Clasp . 1 . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1307 The Lady Egeria . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Joseph Hatton’s Works.
1390 Clytie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1429 By Order of the Czar . . . . . . . . .. 20
Mary Cecil Hay’s L‘Vorks.
65 Back to the Old Home. . . .. *
72 Old Myddelton’s Money . . . . .. 20
196 Hidden Perils ............... .. 20
197 For Her Dear Sake .......... . . 20
224 The Arundel Motto. . . . . . . . . 20
281 The Squire’s Legacy . . . . . . . . .. 20
290 Nora‘s Love Test ............ . . 20
408 Lester's Secret .............. .. 20
678 Dorothy’s Venture . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 e
716 Victor and vanquished . . . . . . . . 20
8-19 A Wicked Girl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20
987 Brenda Yorke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 26‘
1026 A Dark Inheritance . . . . . . . . . . . 20
W. Heimbnrg’s Works.
994 A Penniless Orphan . . . . . . . . . . . 20
1175 A Tale of an Old Castle. . . . . . . . 20
1188 My Heart’s Darling .......... . . 20
1216 The Story of.‘ a Clergyman’s
Daughter...... . . . . . . . 1242 Lenore Von Tollen. ........ . . . 20
1270 Gertrude‘s Marriage. . ..... .. .. 20
1289 ‘:Sl\nooousa‘a
\
‘1
..
1).-
1‘-
NW.
5"."
r’
v
as" 1'
THE SEASIDE LIBRARY—POCKET EDITION.
11
By Fr. H enkel.
1080 The Mistress of Ibichstein. . . . . 20
By G. A. Henry.
1224 The Curse of Carne’s Hold. . .. 20
By H. Herman.
1419 Scarlet Fortune. . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
1567 The Bishops’ Bible. By D. C.
Murray and H. Herman . . . . . .
By John Hill.
112 The Waters of Marah ........ .. 20
Mrs. Cashel-Hoey’s Works.
313 The Lover’s Creed . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
802 A Stern Chase . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
By Thomas Holcomb.
1369 The Counterfeiters of the Cuy- *
ahoga ....................... ..
By Mrs. M. A. Holmes.
1338 AWoman’s Vengeance . . . . . . . . 20
By Thomas Hood.
407 Tylney Hall .................. .. 20
Tlghe Hopkins’s Works.

By Washington Irving.
643 The Sketch~Book of Geoﬁrey
Crayon, Gent ............... .. 29
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218 Agnes Sorel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
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334 AMarriage of Convenience... *
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458 A Week of Passion; or, The
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810 The Secret of Her Life . . . . . . .. 20
Jerome K. J erome’s Works.
1331 The Idle Thoughts of an Idle
Fellow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1359 Stageland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1517 Three Men in a Boat . . . . . . . . . ..
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176 An April Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
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1183 Jack of Hearts. A Story of
Bohemia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
By Evelyn Kimball J ohnson.
1361 Tangles Unravelled. . . ..
e
20
20
509 Nell Haffenden. . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
714 ’Twixt Love and Duty ...... .. 20
By Mary ‘Hopnus.
170 A Great Treason. 1st half... 20
170 A Great Treason, 2d half. . .. 20
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i348 Life‘s Fitful Fever . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
By Robert Houdin.
1406 The Tricks of the Greeks . . . . .. 20
Thomas Huahes’s Works.
120 Tom Brown’s School Days at
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1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. Vol. I. 20
1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. VoLII. 20
By Victor Hugo.
855 Les Miserables. Part I ...... .. 20
885 Les Miserables. Part II . . . . . . 20
885 Les Miserables. Part III .... .. 20
Fergus W. Hume’s Works.
1075 The Mystery of a Hansom Cab. 20
1127 Madam Midas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1232 The Piccadilly Puzzle . . . . . . . .. 20
1425 The Man with a Secret . . . . . . .. 20
By Mrs. Alfred Hunt.
915 That Other Person. 1st half" 20
915 Thai; Other Person. 2d half... 20
By Stanley Huntley.
1466 The Spoopendyke Papers .... .. 20
By Jean Inaelow.
1563 Quite Another Sto ......... . . 20
By Ralph IronJOilve Schrelner].
1130 The Story 01! an African Farm. 20
a...
‘are: ‘' *
By Samuel J ohnson, LL.D.
1384 The History of Rasselas, Prince
=1:
of Abyssinia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
By H. H. Johnston.
1212 The History of a Slave . . . . . . .. 20
Works by the Author of “Judith
Wynne."
332 Judith Wynne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
506 Lady Lovelace . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Mrs. Edward Kennard’s Works.
1092 A Glorious Gallop . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
1282 Matron or Maid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
By Grace Kennedy.
1464 Dunallan ..................... .. 80
By John P. Kennedy.
1440 Horse~Shoe Robinson ........ . . 30
By Richard Ashe King.
1262 Passion‘s Slave . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Charles Kiugsley’s Works.
266 The Water-Babies . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
1320 Hypatia ...................... .. 30
William H. G. Kinaston’s Works.
117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean 29
133 Peter the Whaler ............ . . *
761 Will Weatherhelm . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
763 The Midshipman, Marmaduke
Merry ...................,.,.
.1
‘r
12 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY—Poorer Enrriou’. '
Rudyard Kipling’s Works. 1109 Through the Long Nights. 2d
144.23 glaciln Tallels from téieoHlilllsns. . . 20 1417 élglég-l-
Laid}, - - . - - l - - - - -
‘ ‘ - ‘ 1; . ‘ . . . . . . . . . . ..
1 3.63“??? _ 11?? f? . _ . _ _ 20 1507 Sowing the Wind . . . . . . .. 20
1479 The Phantom ‘Rickshaw . . . . .. 20 By Mrs. Lodge.
‘499 The Story of the Gadsbys" "- * 174 Under a Ban . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
I. l. Kraszewski’g Works, By the Authlolrlolfg‘ Lover and
1174 The Polish Princess ......... .. 20 °' '
The Princess and the Jew. ‘ _ _ ’ 20 Love‘ - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . n . - o 20
By May Lamm. A Samuel Lover's Works.
' ' _ _ _ . . _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ a: 663 Handy Andy ................ .. 20
681 Asmgers Story ' 664 Rory O’More . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
By the Author of“ Lady Gwendo- 138“ The Happy Man and the Hall
len’s Tryst.’ -“ Porter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
809 Witness My Hand . . . . . . . . . . .. * By Henry W. Lucy.
By . a i . ~ e . . e e - - . . . . . 20
773 The Mark of Cain . . . . . . . . . . . . .. * Edna Lyall’s Works.
By Mrs, Andrew Lang, 738 1!! 13116 Golden Days . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
- - u. ' 1147 Knight-Errant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
536 DISSOIVIHO Views . . . . . . . . . . . . .. * 1149 Donovan: A Modern English
By the Hon. Emily Lawless. 1160 Vlvnanr . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 38
. . e wo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. ‘
748 Humsh‘ A Study """""" " 20 1173 Won b3’ Waiting ............. .. 20
By M. E. Le Clerc. 1196 A Har y Norseman . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1220 Mistress Beatrice Co e; or,
Passages in the Life 0 a J ac-
obite‘s Daughter . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Vernon Lee's Works.
399 Miss Brown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth Century
Idyl. By Vernon Lee. The
Pri rce of~the 100 Soups. Edit-
ed by Vernon Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
By H. F. Lester.
1531 Hartas Maturin .............. .. 20
Charles Lever’s Works.
191 Harry Lorrequer . . . . . . .... .. 20
212 Charles O'Malley. the Irish
Dragoon. lst hall.‘ . . . . . . . . . ..
212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish
Dragoon. 2d half . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” 1st half 20
243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” 2d half 20
By Fanny Lewald.
436 Stella . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
By Georse Henry Lewes.
442 Ranthorpe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Mary Linskill’s Works.
473 A Lost Son . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
620 Between the Heather and the
Northern Sea. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
Mrs. E. Lynn Linton’s Works.
122 lone Stewart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
8 7 Stabbed in the Dark . . . . . . . . . .. *
6 Paston Carew, Millionaire and
Miser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1109 Tkhrough the Long Nights. 1st 20
soio'jtolqeoeeaoenaeuslv "
1197 '131e Autobiography of a Slan- *
er. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1206 Derrick Vaughan—Novelist. .. *
Sir E. Bulwer Lytton’s Works. '
40 The Last Days of.‘ Pompeii. 20
83 A Strange Story ............. .. 20
90 Ernest Maltravers . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
130 The Last of the Barons. lst half 20
130 The Last of the Barons. 2d half 20
161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded
on the Play . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
162 Eugene Aram . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
164 Leila; or.'1‘heSiege-of Grenada *
650 Alice; or, The Mysteries. (A Se-
quel to “ Ernest Maltravers ”) 20
720 Paul Clifford . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1144 Rienzi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
1326 What Will He Do With It? 1st
20
1326 'What Will He Do With 113? 2d
half . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1339 The Caxtons....: . . . . . . 30
1393 The Coming Race . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
1420 The Haunted House. .~. . . . . . . .. ='‘
1446 Zanoni . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1448 Night and Morning . . . . . . . . . . .. 30
By Maarten Muartens.
1323 The Sin of J oost Avelingh. .. .. 20
By Hugh MucColl. $
1319 Mr. Strangers‘ Sealed Packet. 20
George Macdonald’s Works.
282 Donal Grant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
325 The Portent . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. ‘F
326 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance
for Men and Women . . . . . . . .. 1*
722 What’s Mime’s Mine ......... . :20
1041 Home Again ......... ... .... .. 20

1118 The Elect Lady.. . .. .
1
‘also... a,
a
‘I
K
~
41 1 a;
kl} rm '1
THE SEASlDE LllillAllYr-Pocket Edition.
Always Unchanged and Unabridged.
WITH" HANDSOME LITHOGRAPHED PAPER COVER.
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1511 A Reverend Gentleman. By
J. Maclaren Cobban . . . . . . . . .. 20
1513 Fleetwood’s End. By Adeline
Sergeant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1515 The Blind Musician. By Will-
iam Westall and Sergius Step-
niak . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1517 Three Men in a Boat. By Jer-
ome K. Jerome . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1519 A Professional Lady-Killer. By
Ethel Marryat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
1523 The Failure of Elizabeth. By
E. Frances Poynter . . . . . . . . . ..
1527 A Scarlet Sin. By Florence
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*
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ISSUES:
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1615 The Havoc of a Smile. By L.
B. Walford . . . . . . . . . . .. . 1619 A Marriage at Sea. By W.
Clark Russell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
1623 City and Suburban. By Flor-
ence Warden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1627 A Romance of the Wire. By
M. Betham-Ed\\ards.... . 20
1631 Heart of Gold. By L. T. Meade 20
1635 The World’s Desire. By H.
Rider Haggard and Andrew
Lang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
1639 Work While Ye Have the Light.
By Count Lyof Tolstoi . . . . . . . . 20
1643 Brave Heart and True. By
Florence Marry-at . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1647 Curb and Snaﬂie. By Sir Ran-
dal H. Roberts, Bart . . . . . . . . . . 20
1651 The Black Box Murder. By
the Man who Discovered the
Murderer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
By Walter
Besant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. ‘
1659 A Black Business. By Hawley
Smart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
1663 Wormwood. By Marie C'orelli. 20
1667 He Went for a Soldier. By
John Strange lVinter . . . . . .. . 20
1671 Long Odds. By Hawley Smart 20
1675 Marcia. By W. E. Norris .... .. 20
1679 The Sloane Square Scandal.
By Annie Thomas . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1683 A Weird Gift. By Georges
Olinet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1685 The Wonderful Adventures of
Phra the Phoenician. Retold
by Ed win Lester Arnold . . . . .. 20
1687 In Exchange for a Soul. By
Mary Liuskill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1691 Elizabeth Morley. By Kathar-
ine SiMacquold . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1695 The Case of Gen’l Ople and
Lady Camper. By George
Meredith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. *
1699 The Wing of Azrael. By Mona
Caird . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . t
1703 Passion the Plavthing. By R.
Murray Gilchrist . . . . . . . . . . ..
1707 Famous or Infamous? By Ber-
tha Thomas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 2
1711 The Pennycomequicks. By S.
Baring-Gould . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
1713 Jezenel‘s Friends.
Russell
1717 Comedy of a Country House.
By Julian Sturgis . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
n I n n . . u a u I u n u n s - a - n c s
Ad-
Marryat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1531 Hartas Maturin. By E. F.
ester . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1535 Tales of Today. By George R.
‘ims . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1539 A Very Strange Family. By F.
W. Robinson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1543 For One and the World. By
M. Betham-Edwards . . . . . . . . .. 20
1545 Lover or Friend? By Rosa
Nouchette Carey . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1547 The Keeper of t e Keys. By
F. W. Robinson . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1551 The Vicomte’s Bride. By Esme
Stuart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1555 The Word and the Will. By
James Payn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1559 Children of To-morrow. By
William Sharp . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1563 quite Another Story. By Jean
ngelow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..
1567 The Bisho s" Bible. By David
Christie urray and Henry
Herman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
1571 Blind Fate. By Mrs. Alexander 20
.75 Rufﬁno. By “ Ouida ” . . . . . . . ..
1579 Princess Sunshine. By Mrs. J.
H. Riddell .................. .. 20
1583 A Marked Man. By Ada Cam—
bridge .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 2
1587 Dumps. By Louisa Parr . . . . .. 2
1591 The Great Mill Street Mystery.
By Adeline Sergeant . . . . . . . . .. 20
1595 The Night of the Third. By H.
F. Wood . . . . . . . . . ..... . . . . . . .. 20
1599 Alas! By Rhoda Broughiom. 20
1603 My Shipmate Louise. By W.
Clark Russell . . . . . . . . .. . 20
1607 Two Masters. ByB. M. Croker. 20
1611 Between Life and Death. By
Frank Barrett . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 20
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