f 
 
 I J^ 
 
I 
 
BLACK 
 
 SHANDON BELLS 
 
/ 
 
 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "OVER EUNNING WATER." 
 
 So STILL this niglit was. The white moonlight lay o 
 the sleeping world ; tllji^^a^t^ was calm ; the little 1 
 Dor town of Liisheen, with alF' its picturesque squaloi oi 
 quays and creeks and stranded boats, had gone to rest ; ind 
 here, higli up in this inland glen (from which the sea vva.4 
 visible only as a sharp line of silver at the horizon), am p r 
 the felled trees and the brushwood, there was no soui c 
 save the continuous "hush — sh — sh " of the streamlet f.i;' 
 below in the darkness. Nor was tli^re any sign of lif . m 
 this open glade — not even a rabbit out browsing on ^i '^ 
 dew-wet grass, or a curlew crossing the clear depths o" 
 blue-gray sky in its flight from the moor to the shore, v '.i'; 
 the moonlight shining calm and still on the wildernes-^ ?•)' 
 bramble and bracken and furze, and here and there on 1 1'^ 
 white stump of a felled beech or ash ; and always the ; . i- 
 rnur, down below, of the unseen rivulet on its way to the 
 Blackwater and the sea. 
 
 But by and by, along the road over there, that v ^ 
 barred across by the shadows of some tall elms, two pc j 
 came slowly walking, and the cheerful sound of their S] liv- 
 ing was clear in the stillness. 
 
 " The more I think of it," said one of them, who v > a 
 very pretty, slightly formed young lady with eyes as ^ u < 
 
2 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 as the sloe, a mouth that could assume a most piquant ex 
 pression, and a voice that was soft and musical and laugh- 
 ing — '* the more I think of it, this seems the most extraor- 
 dinary escapade I ever entered upon. Altogetlier a most 
 decorous proceeding! I suppose by this time every soul 
 in Inisheen is fast asleep ; and no doubt Miss Romayne is 
 supposed to be asleep too and dreaming of the Conserva- 
 toire and her d^but at Covent Garden ; while as for Master 
 Willie, if he were to be missed, of course they'd imagine he 
 was away after the wild-duck again, so it would be all right 
 for him. Sure I think," she added, altering her voice 
 slightly, and speaking very shyly — " sure I think 'tis I am 
 the wild-duck that Masther Willie is afther." 
 
 *' Do you know Kitty," said her companion, who was 
 taller and fairer than she : a young fellow of two-and- 
 twenty, perhaps, with light brown wavy hair, the shrewdest 
 of clear blue eyes, and a well-set, slim figure — " do you 
 know, Kitty, when you speak in our Irish way like that, 
 my heart is just full of love for you." 
 
 " Oh, indeed •! " she said, in a tone of surprise. " Oh, 
 indeed ! And at other times what is it full of, then ? " 
 
 " Well, at other times," he said, " at other times, you 
 see — Avell, at other times, Kitty, do you know, it is just 
 full of love for you. Never mind, When I go to Eng- 
 land I'll soon get rid of the Cork accent ; and when I come 
 back to you, Kitty " 
 
 " Indeed you may save yourself the trouble," she inter- 
 posed, promptly. " I am not going to have any stranger 
 come back to me. I am going to have nobody but my wild 
 Irish boy, with whatever accent he has, and with all the — 
 the cheek he is not likely to get rid of anywhere. There's 
 no other word for it, I declare. Such cheek as never was 
 heard of ! Do you know, sir, that I sang at the '^"""*"i 
 Palace with Titiens and Santley ? " 
 
 "You've reminded me of it pretty often, Kitt 
 the meek reply. 
 
 "Yes; and Miss Catherine Romayne, who has a!' 
 
 Dublin wild with her singing of Irish songs, wh ' ' * 
 make engagements all over Ireland for the resi 
 natural life, comes to Cork — to find herself patroii -^ -v '^- j 
 the Cork Chronicle! The Corh CAromc^e, indeed ! And 
 It isn't the editor, mind you, but only the sub-edito ^1'^"" 
 he sweep out the office too? — that has undertaker 
 the praises of Miss Romayne, and make the whole v*r,uni:<y 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 7 
 
 might as well get some independent testimony about the 
 character of my husband that is to be. Oli, I assure you I 
 was most discreet. Andy the Hopper, if tliat is his name, 
 had very little notion why I wanted to know this or that 
 about the Fitzgeralds, and especially about Mr. William 
 Fitzgerald. Would you like to know how he described you, 
 Willie?" 
 
 " If Andy the Hopper has been saying anything against 
 me — I mean to you, Kitty — I'll beat the blackguard with 
 his own pole till there's not an incli of whole skin on him," 
 was her companion's decisive reply. 
 
 ** ' Is it Masther Willie ye mane ? ' he said. I said it 
 was. ' Sure, miss, ' tis the duck's back that Masther Willie 
 has got, and trouble runs off it like water. At the very 
 ind of the day if he was to lose the biggest salmon ever 
 hooked in the Black water, d'ye think he'd be afther sittin* 
 down and cryin ' ? Divil a bit — begging your pardon, miss. 
 He'd be whistlin' the ould tunes as he put up the rod ; and 
 thin away home wid his spaches and his singing and his 
 poethry, and a laugh and a joke for all the gyurls that he'd 
 meet. Glory be to God, miss, but 'tis Masther Willie has 
 the light heart.' But wait a moment, Master Willie. I 
 thought that phrase about the gyurls a little singular — or 
 rather it isn't singular, for it's plural. How many gyurls 
 is an Irish young gentleman supposed to be in love with at 
 the same time ? Don't I know the song, — 
 
 * Here's a health to the girls that we loved lojig ago, 
 Where the Shannon, the Liffey, and Blackwater flow ' ? 
 
 —Why 'girls'?" 
 
 "Why not, Kitty? The song is about the Irish 
 Brigade. You wouldn't have the whole brigade in love 
 with one ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; it sounds suspicious ; and I suppose we 
 are not more than a stone's-throw from the Blackwater 
 now. But you may re-assure yourself. Master Willie. I 
 was very discreet. I put no questions about the guryl? 
 to the gentleman in the red jacket ; and so he went on 
 to say you were a great sportsman, and to give me many 
 stories of midnight adventures you and he had had 
 ■^ after the wild-fowl." 
 
 ■'s all over now, Kitty," said he, looking away 
 
 ae shallows and the mud-j9ats of the wide bay of 
 
 -, where many a time he had brought a mallard 
 
8 SIIANDON BELLS, 
 
 thumping down, or listened to the clang of a string of wild, 
 geese far overhead in the dark. " London is a terriblo 
 place to be alone in» I remember the first time I Avent 
 there, and saw the miles and miles of streets and houses, 
 and the strange faces, and the crowds hurrying and hurry- 
 ing and hurrying. I said to myself I should lose heart 
 altogether if I were to find myself alone in such a tremen- 
 dous ocean, fighting to keep my head above water. Better 
 the Cork Chronicle^ and an ambition limited to the pub- 
 lishing of one small volume of poems some day, and, for 
 the rest of it, over the bog after snipe or up the mountain 
 after liares with Andy the Hopper. And then you must 
 needs come along, Kitty, and spoil all my content. Even 
 now I fear I am going to London against my better judg- 
 ment. Having you, Kitty, what do I want with fame or 
 money? " 
 
 " Stuff ! I know you are fearfully ambitious, Master 
 Willie, though you won't own it. Would you like to go 
 on forever as the sub-editor of the Cork Chronicle? Would 
 you have me keep singing away at concerts until my little 
 share of good looks was gone, and then the public would 
 discover there was nothing in ray singing at all ? I am 
 certain your philosophy is all pretence. I don't believe 
 Andy the Hopper a bit when he says you'd only whistle an 
 ould tune or spake poethry after losing a big fish ; I believe 
 you would be much nearer crying with vexation. You 
 don't impose an me. Master Willie; and we will see some 
 day whether London is too big for you to fight." 
 
 " If it was tho old times, Kitty, and I could start with a 
 shield and a spear and your ribbon round my arm : that 
 would be something like the thing. But at any rate I can 
 carry your name in ray heart." 
 
 She stopped and took his head in her two hands, and 
 pulled it down and kissed hira lightly on the forehead. 
 
 " That is where the victor's crown is to be," she said. 
 
 " I am not thinking of any victor's crown," said he. 
 " I am thinking of the trip that you and I will make, every 
 seven years, to this old place of Inisheen, and our going 
 over the old walks again, and thinkir^^^f old times. And 
 the day may corae, Kitty, when gei 
 bank may- be too much for frail old 1 
 Fierna will excuse us, if we makt 
 show hini that we liave not separatee 
 to go down to the well." 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 9 
 
 <' Seven years," she said, musingly. " It is a long time, 
 Willie " 
 
 But he did not hear her. He had stepped down to 
 unmoor a small boat that lay half hidden in the shadow of 
 a creek. When he was ready he called to her ; and then 
 he assisted her, with the most affectionate care, into the 
 stern of the boat, and pulled her shawl close at the neck, 
 and generally had her made comfortable. Then he took 
 the oars, and in a few moments they had shot out into the 
 broad and shallow and moonlit waters of the inner bay of 
 Inisheen. As yet they could talk together openly without 
 fear of being overheard from the shore; for Inisheen 
 itself — a tumbled mass of houses and quays and vessels — ' 
 lay away along there between them and the Atlantic. 
 
 " Besides," continued Miss Romayne, as if she had been 
 resuming some argument, " you say yourself this is such a 
 chance as you might never get again." 
 
 " Well, it is a chance," he answered, slowly pulling away 
 at the short (and muffled) oars. " Fancy Hilton Clarke 
 being in Inisheen, and no one knowing it." 
 
 " Perhaps they were all as wise as I was, Willie, and 
 had never heard his name before." 
 
 " You must have heard his name, Kitty," he said, im- 
 patiently. *' Why, he is one of the most distinguished men 
 of letters in England." 
 
 '<But what has he done, Willie ? " 
 
 *•* Oh, everything," he said, rather confusedly. ** Every 
 one knows who he is. There is scarcely a better known 
 name in contemporary literature." 
 
 " But what has he done, Willie ? I might get it and 
 read it, you know." 
 
 " Why, he is one of the greatest critics of the day — 
 writes for all sorts of things : there is no one better known. 
 He is said to have the finest jiidgment in literary matters 
 of almost anybody living ; and the reviews that he writes 
 are always so scholarly, and — and full of happy ingenu- 
 ities of expression — any one can recognize tliem ^'' 
 
 " Yes," said the pertinacious young lady with the 
 pretty mouth and the soft dark eyes, " but hasn't he done 
 anything himself ? Hasn't he done any work of his own ? 
 Couldn't I buy a book of his to let me know something 
 more of your wonderful hero ? " 
 
 " Well, I believe he translated Les Fleurs du Mai — the 
 original edition; but the book was privately printed." 
 
10 SI/A NB ON BELLS. 
 
 " I am sure I never heard of it, in English or anything 
 else," said she. 
 
 "Perhaps you never heard of Beaudelaire either, 
 Kitty," said he, gently. " You see it would be easy for 
 you to puzzle me about the distinguished people in music, 
 I know so little about what's going on in music." 
 
 " Oh, very well," said she, good-naturedly, " let him be 
 as distinguished as you like ; that can't make him an agree, 
 able-looking man." 
 
 " I consider him very handsome," he said, in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 *' What ! that lanky, supercilious, white-faced creature, 
 with his stony stare ? " 
 
 ITe burst out laughing. 
 
 " I do believe you're jealous, Kitty. Why, you only 
 saw him for a second at the door of the Imperial, and you 
 have never spoken to him. I consider him an extremely 
 fine fellow, and the trouble he took about me — a perfect 
 stranger to him — was quite extraordinary. It was indeed 
 a chance, my running against him at all. You know, 
 Kitty," said he — though there was a slight blush on his 
 face — " I am not ashamed of my father keeping an inn, or a 
 public house, or whatever you may call it — " 
 
 " An inn ! " she exclaimed. " A public house I The 
 Impayrial Hotel — the only hotel in Inisheen — to be talked 
 of like that." 
 
 " — but all the same when I come here I don't go into 
 the smoking-room. It is always filled with those Coursing 
 Club people ; and the Duke of Wellington ' wrenched, 
 killed, and won like a hero'; and Sweetbrier was ' slow 
 from the slips ' ; and Timothy ' scored first turn ' ; and Miss 
 Maguirc 'finished with the most lovely mill'; and all the 
 rest of the jargon. Indeed I'd rather go to another inn, if 
 there was one, when I come to Inisheen ; but that might 
 vex my father. Well, this stranger I didn't meet at the 
 inn at all, but along the road, with his basket and rod and 
 gaff all complete ; and as we got talking about fishing, I 
 looked over his fly-book for him — all sorts of fantastic 
 "^nonsense got up in London to look pretty in a drawing- 
 room. Then I offered to show him some flies. Then it 
 turned out he was staying at the Imperial. And then we 
 had a long evening together — all contrariwise ; for I found 
 out who he was, and I wanted to talk about all the literary 
 men in London — and he seemed to know every one of 
 
SUA ND ON BELLS. 1 1 
 
 them ; but lie wanted to talk about notliing but river trout 
 and sea trout and grilse and sahnoYi, and the different 
 rivers in the neigliboi-liood. But it was a fine evening, all 
 the same ; and he showed himself most friemdly— and has 
 been so ever since, Miss Kitty, in his letters. ^ And just 
 fancy his asking me, a young newspaper fellow in Cork, to 
 come and see him as soon as I got to London ! If you 
 
 only knew the position he holds But I think we'd 
 
 better bo quiet now, Kitty, until we get past the town." 
 
 Picturesque indeed was the old town of Inisheen on this 
 beautiful night — the moonlight shining on the windows of 
 the few houses on the side of the hill and on the gray gables 
 along the harbor, and causing the golden cock on the top 
 of the old Town-hall to gleam as if it were a repetition of 
 the beacon-light far away there on the cliff overlooking the 
 sea, while heavy masses of shadow lay over the various 
 creeks and quays, where broad-bottomed vessels had found 
 a berth in the ooze. But there was another Inisheen — an 
 Inisheen of new and trim villas — that formed a fashionable 
 watering-place fronting tlie open sea ; and there ic was that 
 Miss Romayne lodged, and thither it was that Master 
 Willie was stealthily rowing. Indeed, they soon drew 
 away from the picturesque old town, and found before 
 them the gently murmuring Atlantic, that broke in a fringe 
 of silver foam all along the level sands. 
 
 And Miss Romayne was singing, too — not with the fine 
 contralto voice that she could send ringing through a vast 
 hall, but humming to herself, as it were, in a low and gen- 
 tle fashion, " Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the 
 hour," and putting a good deal more pathos into the words 
 than appears there if one reads them in cold blood. For 
 she had a pathetic voice ; and these two were alone under 
 the shining heavens and on the beautiful calm sea ; and 
 they were young, and life and love were before them, and 
 also the tragic misery of parting. 
 
 " I will bid you the real good-by to-night, Willie," she 
 said, " and then I don't care for fifty Miss Patiences to- 
 morrow. You must put me ashore at the jetty, and I will 
 walk up alone. She is sure to be asleep. If not, then I 
 was restless, and had to go out for a walk. And you will 
 stop at the jetty, Willie, until you see me right up at the 
 house, in case Don Fierna and his little people should 
 snatch me up and carry me off to that dreadful glen." 
 
 " Why dreadful, Kitty ? Are you sorry ? " 
 
12 S HAND ON BELLS. 
 
 " Oh no — not sorry. But there is something unholy 
 about all that happened there. If that well were like the 
 other wells about, that the saints have blessed, there would 
 have been little bits of ribbon and suchlilve offerings on 
 the bushes. . There was nothing of that kind there. I know 
 I wouldn't go back alone to that valley for a million 
 pounds." 
 
 He rested one hand on the oars, and with the other 
 reached over and took hers. 
 
 " But I hope neitlier you nor I, Kitty, will ever find 
 ourselves there alone." 
 
 He rowed in to the little jetty, and then stepped ashore, 
 and assisted her to follow on to the gray stones. The 
 leave-taking was a long one ; there were many assurances 
 and asseverations, and a little hysterical crying on her part. 
 But at last the final good-by had to come, and he put a 
 hand on each of her cheeks, and held her head, as though 
 he would read to the bottom of those soft, beautiful, tear- 
 bedimmed eyes. 
 
 " You will never forget — you can not forget — what you 
 promised me to-night, when our hands were clasped over 
 the stream ? "* 
 
 " Is it likely ? " she said, sobbing violently. " Is it likely 
 I shall forget, any single day as long as I live ? " 
 
 Then she went away alone, and he waited, and watched 
 the solitary slight little figure go along the moonlit road, 
 and up to the house. There was a flutter of a white hand- 
 kerchief ; he returned that signal. He waited again ; there 
 M^as no sign. So he got into the boat again, and rowed 
 silently away to Inisheen harbor, like one in a dream. 
 
 Only a moonlight night, and the parting of two lovers. 
 And yet sometimes such things remain visible across the 
 years. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER II. 
 
 A HIGH CONCLAVE 
 
 That was an eventful evening in the life of young 
 Fitzgerald when he made his way, not without some an- 
 ward tremor, to the Albany, in order to dine with Mr. Hil- 
 
S HAND ON BELLS, 13 
 
 ton Clarke. For not only was that high honor in store for 
 Iiim, but moreover this new friend, who had been exceed- 
 ingly kind to him in many ways, had promised he should 
 also meet Mr. Gifford, the editor of the Liberal Beview. 
 Imagine a boy-lieutenant just joined asked to dine with the 
 Commander-in-Chief and his staff! Away in that provin- 
 cial newspaper office. Master Willie had been accustomed 
 to regard the London Liberal Heview as perhaps the 
 wisest and most original and honest of modern jour- 
 nals: he had many a time clipped out its opinions and 
 quoted them prominently in the Cork Chroiiide ; he 
 had even from week to week studied the way of writ- 
 ing that characterized its columns. And here he was 
 to meet the editor in actual flesh and blood ! To listen to 
 the great critic and the great journalist at once! More- 
 over, he could not help suspecting that Hilton Clarke had 
 arranged this meeting lest peradventure it might be of some 
 service, near or remote, to the young aspirant. He did 
 not know what he had done to deserve such kindness, such 
 good fortune. How had it all come about? So far as he 
 could see, merely through his happening to know what were 
 the best salmon flies for the Blackwater. 
 
 Of course he arrived too soon, and so had plenty of 
 time to saunter up and down tlie echoing little thorough- 
 fare, and master the lettering and numbering of the build- 
 ings. But when at last he made his way up the stone 
 staircase to the door on the first landing, and was met by 
 a tall middle-aged woman with a foreign-looking cap on 
 her head, who, in broken English, showed him where to 
 leave his hat and coat, and then ushered him into an apart- 
 ment the like of which he had never seen in his life before, 
 he began to ask himself if he had not made a mistake. 
 Perhaps he would again have demanded of the black-eyed, 
 soft-voiced, grave person if Mr. Hilton Clarke lived there, 
 but she had gone. However, it was clear that some one 
 was going to dine in this room, for in the middle of it was 
 a small square table very daintily laid out, and lit by a 
 lamp with a pink and white porcelain shade that threw a 
 soft rosy glow around. So at haphazard he sat down, 
 and proceeded to gaze with a sort of awe at the wonderful 
 chamber, the treasures in which, if he had known anything 
 about them, he would have perceived to have come from 
 all parts of the world, but mostly from^Yenicc. From 
 Venice had come the row of lustrous co2)])er water vessels 
 
14 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 that had been transformed into big flower-pots, and ranged 
 along there on the little balcony outside the French win- 
 dows ; also the quaint and delicate white and gold chairs 
 and couches that were now dim with age ; and perhaps, 
 too, the framed chalice-cloth over the chimney-piece, the 
 beautiful rich embroidery of which appeared to be falling 
 away by its own weight from the frail silken ground. But 
 there was a large inlaid Spanish cabinet in scarlet and 
 lacquered brass that was itself a blaze of color ; and there 
 were Kirwan rugs scattered about the floor; and on the 
 walls were gorgeous masses of Turkish embroidery; like- 
 wise a series of candles in sconces, over each of which was 
 hung a piece of Hispano-Moresque pottery, the red glow 
 from these large dishes completing the barbaric splendor 
 of the place. For the rest, there was a good deal of Moor- 
 ish metal and ivory work about ; but there was not a pic- 
 ture nor an engraving on the walls, nor a book nor a news- 
 paper anywhere. 
 
 i Presently a door opened, and Hilton Clarke appeared. 
 
 " How are you, Fitzgerald ? Glad to see you." 
 
 There was a moment's pause. 
 
 " Oh, will you excuse me for a second ? " 
 
 As he disappeared into the bedroom again, a mighty 
 qualm shot to the heart of young Fitzgerald. His host 
 was in evening dress. He glanced at the table, which was 
 laid out for four: no doubt the other two guests would be 
 in evening dress also ! The mere thought of it was agony. 
 It was not that they might consider him a country bump- 
 kin ; it was that they might think him failing in due re- 
 spect to themselves. He had had no idea that London men 
 of letters lived like this. Even if he had brought his rusty 
 old suit of evening dress from Ireland, he would probably 
 never have thought of putting it on to go to dinner at a 
 bachelor's rooms. He wished himself a hundred miles 
 away from the place. He ought never to have accepted 
 an invitation to meet great people until he had himself done 
 something. It served him right for his presumption. And 
 would they think it was out of disrespect ? Would it be 
 better for him to explain and apologize ? Or to make 
 some excuse now, and get rapidly away ? 
 
 In a very few minutes his host appeared again — in 
 morning costume. 
 
 " I think you're right, Fitzgerald," he said, carelessly, 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 15 
 
 as he flung himself into an easy chair. " A shooting coat 
 will be more comfortable ; it's got qii:te chilly to-night." 
 
 Fitzgerald's heart leaped up with ••ratitude. Was not 
 this, he asked himself, the action of a true gentleman — an 
 action prompted by an instinctive courtesy quick to take 
 into consideration the feelings of others ? He was half in- 
 clined to be angry with Kitty — poor Kitty who Avas so far 
 away ! But he would write to her : he would challenge 
 her to say whether this little bit of courtesy, trifling as it 
 might appear, was not a safe indication of character. 
 
 And it must be confessed that Kitty was quite wilfully 
 Avrong when she refused to perceive that her lover's new 
 acquaintance was handsome, and even distinguished look- 
 ing. He was a man of about thirty, tall, sparely built ; his 
 head well set on square shoulders, his features refined and 
 pensive somewhat, with eyes of a clear light blue, and calm 
 and contemplative ; blonde hair and beard (which he wore 
 somewhat long), and hands of extreme whiteness and ele- 
 gance. His beautifully shaped nails, indeed, occupied a 
 good deal of his attention ; and as he now lay back in the 
 easy chair, he was contemplating them rather than the 
 young man he was addressing. 
 
 "There are some pretty things in the room, aren't 
 there ? " lie said, in a tone of indifference, though he still 
 regarded his nails with care. " They are a bit too violent in 
 color for me. I like repose in a room. But the capitalist 
 will be impressed." 
 
 • " I beg your pardon ? " said Fitzgerald (how glad he 
 was about that business of the shooting coat !) 
 
 "Oh!" he continued, in the same indifferent kind of 
 way, "I forgot I hadn't told you. There's a man coming 
 here to-night who has too much money. It isn't right for a 
 man to have so much money. I think I can induce him to 
 risk a little of it in a journalistic venture — I think so ; I 
 don't know : the thing looks to me promising enough. Only 
 I thought my capitalist would be impressed with a little 
 grandeur ; and so I rented these rooms for a time. I don't 
 want you to think that all that scarlet and red pottery kind 
 of thing is what I should prefer. I like repose in a room, 
 as I say ; something to quiet the eyes when you are tired. 
 Then the other man you will meet — oh, I told you — Gifford. 
 "What a comical old cock he is ! " 
 
 Fitzgerald could scarce credit his cars. The editor of 
 
] G SUA ND ON BELLS, 
 
 tlic TAberal Heview to be spoken of in this familiar and pat- 
 ronizing way ! 
 
 "The odd thing is," continued Hilton Clarke, as ho 
 slowly opened and shut a pencil-case with his beautiful long 
 nails, " that he has been able to get round about him a lot 
 of writers who are exactly like himself, or who }>retend to 
 be. They are all fearfully in earnest ; and dogmatic about 
 trifles ; making the most profound discoveries in new poets, 
 new actresses, new politicians ; always professing to be ex- 
 ceedingly accurate, and never able to quote three figures 
 without a blunder. The whole thing is comical ; but the 
 public believe them to be so sincere. To me they seem to 
 be continually wandering in a fog; and one stumbles against 
 a lamp-post, and shrieks out: 'My gracious goodness, if 
 this isn't the greatest genius of a poet since the time of 
 Byron ! ' and another tumbles on to the pavement where a 
 beggar has been drawing chalk pictures, and there's a wild 
 cry from him too : ' Heaven preserve my poor senses if this 
 isn't Carpaccio come back again ! How can 1 express my 
 emotion but in tears! ' I am told Gifford's last theory is 
 that political disturbances have the same origin as terrestrial 
 disturbances; the earth suffering from a surfeit of electric- 
 it}^, don't you know, or some such thing, and firing off one- 
 half of it as an earthquake at Valparaiso, and the other half 
 of it at the same moment as an insurrection among the 
 Poles. Different forms of gas, I suppose. I wonder, when 
 a number of the Ziiberal Mevieio is ])ublished liere, what 
 portentous explosion takes place at the other side of the 
 world. But there's one good point about old Gifford : he 
 is always very frank in apologizing for his blunders. You 
 generally find him saying, * Last week we inadvertently 
 mentioned Lord Kussell as having been principally con- 
 cerned in the abolition of the Corn Lawsi; of course every 
 one must have seen that we meant the Duke of Wellington.' 
 And then the following week, ' We last week, by a slip of 
 the pen, attributed the establishment of Free Trade to the 
 Duke of Wellington ; every one must have seen that we 
 meant Sir Robert Peel.' I only hope he'll take it into his 
 head to discover a mare's nest in this new weekly I am 
 thinking of, and give us a flaming article about it; it's all 
 a toss-up whether he does or not." 
 
 Fitzgerald heard all this with dismay, and even with a 
 trifle of pain. He was a born hero-worshipper ; and for 
 this unknown editor, whose opinions he had reverenced for 
 
SHAND ON BE LLS. \ 7 
 
 many a year, he had a very high regard indeed. It was al- 
 most shocking to hear him spoken of as a comical person. 
 But the truth was that Fitzgerakl did not understand tliat 
 there was a spice of revenge in this tirade uttered so negli- 
 gently. Only that morning it had happened that a good- 
 natured friend had repeated to Mr. Hilton Clarke something 
 that had been said of him by Mr. Gifford. The good-na- 
 tured friend did not in the least mean to make mischief; it 
 was only a little joke ; and indeed there was nothing very 
 terrible in what Mr. Gifford had said. " Clarke ? Hilton 
 Clarke, do you mean ? Oh, he is the sort of man who writes 
 triolets, parts his hair down the middle, and belongs to the 
 Savile Club." Now there is no one of these things abso- 
 lutely criminal ; in fact, a man might commit them all and 
 still be recognized as an honest British citizen. Only Mr. 
 Hilton Clarke did not like to be ticketed and passed on in 
 that way; and so he took his earliest opportunity of re- 
 venge. 
 
 He looked at his watch. 
 
 " Five minutes past eight," he said. " Twenty minutes 
 late already. I never wait more than a quarter of an hour 
 for anybody ; so we will have dinner. Fiammetta ! Hola ! 
 — Fiammetta ! " 
 
 There was no answer, so he touched a little silver-han- 
 dled bell near him ; and the tall dark-eyed woman — s'he 
 seemed to have been very beautiful at one time, Fitzgerald 
 thought, as he now liad a better look at her — made her a2> 
 pearance. 
 
 " L'on n'arrive pas ; faites servir." 
 
 " Bien, m'sieur." 
 
 But at the same moment there was a noise outside in the 
 passage, and very shortly afterward Fiammetta ushered in 
 two gentlemen. The first, who was rubbing his hands, and 
 looking very cheerful, was a jjortly, rubicund, blonde per- 
 son, whose short yellow mustache and whiskers looked al- 
 most white as contrasted with his round, red, shining face ; 
 he wore one blazing diamond as a stud ; and his boots shone 
 almost as brilliantly as the diamond did. Him Fitzgerald 
 instantly dismissed as of no account, and concentrated his 
 eager interest on the next comer, who was certainly of more 
 striking appearance. He was a man of middle height, of 
 powerful build ; his face sallow; his hair jet-black and un- 
 kempt ; his features strong, and yet keen and intellectual ; 
 his eyes so very clear, in the midst of a dark face, that they 
 
18 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 resembled the eyes of a lion, The general impression you 
 would have gathered from his look was that he was an in- 
 tellectually powerful man, but unduly aggressive ; though 
 this impression was modified by his voice, which was pleas 
 ant, and by his laugh, which was delightful. 
 
 After the usual apologies and introductions, and when 
 Hilton Clarke had expressed his regret that these two 
 guests should have taken the trouble to come in evening 
 dress (if Kitty had only seen how nic6ly that was done ! 
 they sat down to the little square table ; and Fiammetta, 
 having handed round a dish containing caviare, olives 
 Btuffed with sardines, and similar condiments, offered to 
 each of the guests his choice of liqueurs. As Fitzgerald had 
 never heard any of the names before — and as he was far 
 more interested in his companions than in the ministra- 
 tions of the soft-eyed and velvet-footed Fiametta — he 
 absently answered, " Yes, if you please," and did not even 
 look at the reddish-colored fluid that was poured into his 
 glass. A minute afterward he was brought to his senses. 
 Having observed the results of certain Coursing Club din- 
 ners at Inisheen, he had long «igo vowed to himself never 
 to touch spirits of any kind ; and he had faithfully kept his 
 vow. But he never imagined that this reddish fluid could 
 be anything else than wine, and not particularly liking the 
 oily taste of the caviare, he thought he would remove it by 
 drinking this glass. The next moment he was convinced 
 that the roof of his head was off, and his throat on fire. Pie 
 hastily gulped down some water ; fortunately he did not 
 choke; no one noticed ; and by and by, somewhat panting, 
 and very red in the face, he was enabled to resume his atti- 
 tude of respectful and eager attention. 
 
 The conversation was entirely confined to Hilton Clarke 
 and Mr. Gifford ; Mr. Scobel, the capitalist, being a most 
 valiant trencher-man, minded his own business. And in- 
 deed for some time the remarks on affairs of the day and 
 on the doings of public men were somewhat obvious and 
 commonplace, if one may dare to say so ; although here 
 and tliere occurred a suggestion that these two men had 
 very different ways of looking at things. However, all the 
 assertion was on the side of Mr. Gifford, whenever any dis- 
 putable subject was approached. His host did not care to 
 contradict. He would rather make some little facetious 
 remark, or shrug his shoulders. Gifford's attitude was one 
 of conviction and insistence; Clarke's might have been 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 19 
 
 summed up in the word " connu." When the leonine gen- 
 tleman was vehemently declaring that the laureate's last 
 volume, whicli had been published that very week, was a 
 masterpiece ; that never before had he written anything so 
 consistently dramatic in its conception, so musical in its 
 lyrics, so pathetic in its tragedy : and that in consequence 
 life seemed to have had something added to it within these 
 last few days, his host remarked — while carefully looking 
 for bones in the red mullet — " Oh yes, it is a pleasant sort 
 of poem." 
 
 But by dire mishap, they blundered into the American 
 civil war, which was then a tojnc of more recent interest 
 than it is now. At first the remarks were only casual, and 
 perhaps also not profoundly novel. 
 
 " At all events," said Hilton Clarke at last, " there is one 
 point on which everybody is agreed — that the Southerners 
 have the advantage of being gentlemen." 
 
 " The gentlemen of the Salisbury stockade — the gentle- 
 men of Andersonville ! " retorted his opponent, with a flash 
 m the deep-set gray eyes. 
 
 " And they fought gallantly too, until they were beaten 
 back by the undisciplined crowds that poured down on 
 them — flung at them, indeed, by reckless generals who 
 knew no more of the art of war than they did of common 
 humanity. Of course, if you have every advantage of men 
 and money and war material — " 
 
 But this was like the letting in of waters. Even Mr. 
 Scobell looked up. For the Liberal Mevieio had been a 
 warm partisan of the North during the war ; and Mr. Gif- 
 ford had written nearly all of the war articles himself, so 
 that his information, whether precisely accurate or not, was 
 of mighty volume ; and down it came on tlie head of his 
 opponent like a cataract. All the campaigns had to be 
 fought over again : now they were investing Vicksburg ; 
 now they were marching through Georgia; now they were 
 at Five Forks. Hilton Clarke appeared to have gone away 
 somewhere. He was scarcely heard amid all this thunder. 
 At times, it is true, he would utter some scornful taunt, not 
 levelled at the North only, but at North and South com- 
 bined ; for indeed he might well be confused by all the gun- 
 powder smoke and noise. But even here he was not safe ; 
 for having incidentally remarked that it was not worth dis- 
 puting about, " for, after all," he said, " there are only two 
 kinds of Americans, plain and colored, and for my part T 
 
20 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 prefer the colored variety," he was immediately pursued oy 
 his relentless enemy, who upbraided him for making use of 
 tliose idle little quips and taunts that made such mischief 
 between countries. The flippant article was very easy to 
 write ; and the writer pocketed liis three guineas ; and then 
 it went out and was quoted all over America as an expres- 
 sion of English jealousy. He undertook to say that Clarke 
 had never been in America ; he undertook to say that he 
 had never known twenty Americans in the whole course of 
 his life 
 
 Now there is no saying how far this discussion might 
 have gone, or how fierce it might have become ; but Mr. 
 Scobell made a remark. And when a capitalist speaks, 
 literary persons are silent. 
 
 "I was once in America," he said. 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said Mr. Gifford, regarding him with in- 
 terest. 
 
 " Yes ? " said his host, with a pleasant and inquiring 
 smile. 
 
 But it appeared that that was all. He had contributed 
 his share to the conversation ; and accordingly he returned 
 to liis plate. Moreover, what he had contributed was val- 
 uable ; it was actual fact, which there was no gainsaying. 
 
 But whatever interest this dispute may have had for 
 young Fitzgerald as indicative of tlie characters of the dis- 
 putants (that is to say, supposing him to have had the au- 
 dacity to attempt to take the measure of two such distin- 
 guished men),, what followed turned out to have a far more 
 immediate and personal importance for him. The cham- 
 pagne, whicli had been rather long in coming, had now 
 been passed round twice by the scft-footed Fiammetta ; a 
 mellower atmosphei-e pervaded the room ; Mr. Gifford was 
 laughing pleasantly at a little joke of his host's ; and the 
 round, clear, staring eyes of the capitalist — whose face, by 
 the way, had grown even a little redder, so that the short 
 yellow-white whiskers and mustache and eyebrows looked 
 as if they wei*e afire — beamed in the most benign manner 
 on all and sundry. This was the time chosen by Mr. Hil- 
 ton Clarke to unfold the journalistic scheme which had been 
 the/brts ei ango of this little dinner party. 
 
 " You see, I want your advice, Gifford," he said, " and 
 Mr. Scobell won't mind my repeating some details that he 
 and I have gone over together. What I propose is a 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 21 
 
 sliilling weekly — addressed to the wealthier classes, of 
 course, but rather with a view to country houses. How- 
 ever, I should publish at three o'clock on Saturday, so tliat 
 London people could have the magazine by post, while the 
 country people would get it in their Sunday morning bag. 
 There might be a summary of Renter's telegrams up to the 
 latest hour on Saturday ; otherwise, no news ; and above 
 all, no politics. The prominence given to politics in Eng- 
 lish newspapers is founded on a delusion — Wait a minute, 
 Gifford ; let me have my scheme out. I say that the space 
 given to politics in the newspapers is out of all proportion 
 to the interest taken in politics by any ordinary English 
 household. Outside political circles — I mean apart from 
 those who are actually concerned in politics or in writing 
 about them — take any household you like, and for one who 
 is deeply interested in politics, you will find four who don't 
 care a brass farthing about them. Well, I propose to ad- 
 dress the four. But even the fifth, mind you, though ho 
 may imagine himself responsible for the empire, miglit 
 have anxious thoughts as to whetlier he should take such 
 and such a deer forest in Scotland for the autumn, or 
 whether he should hire a steam-yacht and take his family 
 for a cruise about the Channel Islands, or whether, suppos- 
 ing he took such and such a country house from October 
 till Christmas, there would be as many pheasants this year 
 as figured in last year's bag, and so on ; and he might be 
 very glad, on the Sunday morning, to sit down Avith his 
 after-breakfast cigar in the veranda, you know, and study 
 this honest shilling counsellor " 
 
 '' Oh,'* said Gifford, " that kind of thing. But there is 
 the Field. There is Land and Water — " 
 
 " Pardon me, this will be quite different," said Hilton 
 Clarke, composedly. " I propose to have a series of 
 agents — yachting men, sportsmen, anglers, and all the 
 rest of it — who will at their leisure send in faithful and 
 unadorned descriptions of anything they find that is worth 
 having ; so that Paterfamilias, instead of reading advertise- 
 ments that he can't believe, will have a lot of things offered 
 to him — a brace of perfectly disciplined setters, a thorough- 
 bred hunter, half a mile of salmon fishing in Ireland, a 
 shooting-box in the Highlands, anything, in short, connected 
 with those delightful dreams of holidays that fill up the 
 idle time on Sundays with so many folk; and he will know 
 that he can safely depend on these being as they are de- 
 
22 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 Bcribed. In fact, I don't know that we might not have a 
 number of supernumeraiy agents, so that a man, writing to 
 the office, could have one of these sent on commission, and 
 so make sure, for example, that the fine bag he had Jieard 
 of as having been made last year on a particular shooting 
 did not mean that the outgoing tenant had cleared every 
 head of game off the place. The difficulty will be to get 
 perfectly trustworthy agents. We shall be above suspic- 
 ion, for we shall take no fees, no commissions. The iwktw 
 must be well paid — " 
 
 " Right," said Scobell, and there was instant attention. 
 But that was all. He looked from one to the other in si- 
 lence ; he had said all he had thought necessary to say. 
 
 *' My dear Gifford, not an ortolan ? " Hilton Clarke 
 observed, with calm surprise. *' Fitzgerald, pass the Bur- 
 gundy — gently, man ! " he added, in a tone of displeasure, 
 for Fitzgerald had gripped the basket with his muscular 
 fingers as if it were the stock of a breech loader. " And for 
 this section," he continued, " of course what is wanted is a 
 good sub-editor, who' will put the reports into decent Eng- 
 lish, and who won't let the printers make a fool of us. Be- 
 sides, he must know something of out-of-door sports — he 
 must know a good deal more than Zdo — or we shall be 
 made ridiculous. I think it was rather lucky, then, that I 
 ran against my friend Fitzgerald here, for if you can per- 
 suade him, Mr. Scobell, to take the place, he is the very 
 man for it. He has burned powder in those desolate Irish 
 bogs, and I know he can busk a fly. And then, you see, 
 Fitzgerald, it needn't take up anything like the whole of 
 your time. You might be going on with more purely liter- 
 ary work quite independently of it. What do you say ? — 
 or would you rather consider?" 
 
 " Oh, I should be very glad," stammered Fitzgerald, 
 with his face about as red as Mr. Scobell's. " It is very 
 kind of you. I — I don't know whether I could do tlie 
 work, but I should try my best, anyway — " 
 
 " Oh, that's all right," said Hilton* Clarke, coolly. " I 
 dare say you know more about it than I do. As to teims, 
 perhaps this isn't the place to discuss these details — " 
 
 But liere Mr. Scobell broke in. Here he had a right to 
 speak, and here he was on solid ground. 
 
 " I leave that in your hands, Clarke. I leave that to 
 you entirely. I want the paper well done. I want it to be 
 a gentlemanly paper. I don't want to go into my club and 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 23 
 
 have a man come up to me and say, ' Scobell, what d d 
 
 Radical trash that is in your paper ! I wonder you'd own 
 
 a d d Radical paper ! ' I want it to be a gentlemanly 
 
 paper, and I am willing: to pay for it. I want it to be well 
 printed, on good paper ; I want it to be a gentlemanly look- 
 ing paper ; I don't want, when I go into sassiety, to have 
 
 people speaking of me as the owner of a d d Radical 
 
 print." 
 
 "Oh, of course not— of course not," said Hilton Clarke, 
 somewhat hastily. " There will be no polities. But we 
 must have a name. I have bothered my head for the last 
 fortnight about it. You see, I must have it known that the 
 paper is for Sunday morning or for Sunday ; but every- 
 thing I have tried suggests the Sunday at Iloine or the 
 Day of Mest^ or something like that. I thought of the 
 Sunday Morning Cigar ; but tlien everybody doesn't 
 smoke. lUXiO, After-Breakfast Cigar; a Sunday Paper ; 
 that has the same objection. The Country Gentleman' 8 
 Guide; that is too long; besides, I want to appeal to the 
 whole household, and to town households also. Well, we 
 must consider that by and by." 
 
 " If I were you, I would call it JesJmrun" said Mr. 
 Gifford. " It seems to me you are addressing those who 
 have waxed fat, and taking account only of the most ma- 
 terial and vulgar luxuries. There is not a word oi any 
 mtellectual requirements " 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon," his host said. " I have only 
 described one section to you. I mean to take the literary 
 section under my own care. Of course we shall have essays ; 
 touching here and there on sport, perhaps, but also meant 
 to have an interest for the ladies in the house. A short 
 story now and again, if possible ; but it is difficult to get 
 them good ; it might be better to have some French novel 
 —such as Monsieur De Gam.ors — translated, and use that 
 as a serial. An occasional bit of verse, too, or a ballade^ 
 touching affairs of the day. Professor Jewel has offered 
 me a series of translations from Horace partly adapted to 
 modern affairs ; but I am afraid that has been done too 
 often." 
 
 "Don*t touch them," said Gifford, with decision. 
 " Horace is as fatal to translators as Heine. Both are quite 
 unmanageable. Look how Milton made a fool of himself 
 with the fifth Ode ! " 
 
24 SHANDON DELIAS, 
 
 " What ? " said Mr. Scobell, in a loud voice ; and even 
 Fitzgerald stared. 
 
 *' Come, you must not speak slightingly of the equator," 
 Hilton Clarke said, with a laugh. 
 
 " Oh, but I do say it is the very worst translation ever 
 made from Horace, or from anybody else," Mr. Gifford in- 
 sisted. " It is not a question of degree. I say it is the 
 very worst translation ever made from anything; for it 
 starts with the primary defect of being absolutely unintelli- 
 gible. Do you mean to tell me that anybody unacquainted 
 with the original could make the slightest sense out of it — 
 
 * Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold ; 
 Wlio always vacant, always amiable, 
 Hopes tliee, of fluttering gales 
 Unmindful ! " 
 
 Gracious heavens ! And then the measure — 
 
 " Who now enjoys thee credulous, all goT 1 
 
 I should like to see a schoolboy try to make that scan, to 
 say nothing of ' credulous, all gold,' certainly leaving in the 
 mind the impression that if anybody is all gold, it is not 
 Pyrrha at all, but tlie credulous youth. Kow the gentleman 
 who translated Gretchen's song thus, — 
 
 * My peace is gone, 
 My heart is sore, 
 I find him never 
 And nevermore,' 
 
 erred in the other direction, for he wanted to make it quite 
 clear what poor Gretchen was sorrowing about and only 
 took a liberty with a little sie'' 
 
 " But Avhat do you think of tliis project now, Gifford ? " 
 Baid Hilton Clarke, as he handed round cigars, coffee being 
 on the table, 
 
 Mr. Gifford took a cigar, lay back in his chair, and passed 
 his hand through the thick masses of his raven-black liair. 
 
 "Not much," said he-, firmly. "You are combining op- 
 posed tastes. Sportsmen are not as a rule fond of intel- 
 lectual pursuits. Where you find the library in a country- 
 house turned into a gun-room, there will be more newly 
 made cartridges than newly published books about. A 
 combination of Colonel Hawker and Joseph Addison " 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 25 
 
 " But, my dear fellow, you don't seem to sec that I am 
 addressing different persons. I am addressing tlie whole 
 household — the father, who wants to invite Lord Somebody 
 or other to shoot with him over a thoroughly well preserved 
 moor in Scotland ; the eldest son, who hunts ; the younger 
 son, who wants to cut a dash at Cowes ; the mamma, who 
 has her eye on several parties she could make up if only 
 she had a pleasant country house for the winter ; the young 
 ladies, who would be curious about a translated French 
 novsl, as they are forbidden to read such things in the origi- 
 nal. You see I am appealing to the whole houseliold " 
 
 " Call it the Household Magazine^ then," said Gifford, 
 with a laugh. 
 
 " I will. Thanks," said Hilton Clarke, calmly, as he 
 took out a beautifully bound little note-book. " At least 
 that is better than anything I have thought of as yet." 
 
 And so Master Willie was installed as the sub-editor of 
 a shilling weekly magazine. But that was not the only 
 event of the evening, so far as concerned himself. After 
 talking about many things, until the gorgeous colors of the 
 chamber were pretty well subdued by a haze of pale blue 
 tobacco smoke, they chanced lo touch on a novel which had 
 just then been published by a gentleman holding a subordi- 
 nate place in her Majesty's government. Rather, it had 
 been published some weeks before, anonymously, and no 
 notice had been taken of it; now, liowever, a second edi- 
 tion was announced, with the name of the Right Honorable 
 Spencer Tollemache, M.P., on the title-page. Then editors 
 had to begin and overhaul the piles of books put aside as 
 adjudged not worth a review, and so Daphne's Shadow 
 came to the front again. 
 
 '-'• Curious idea for Spencer Tollemache to write a novel," 
 said Hilton Clarke. " His History of the '32 Beform Bill 
 was very well spoken of." 
 
 "Ah; light literature — relaxation — relaxation," said 
 Mr. Scobell, smiling blandly — " relaxation from the cares 
 of state." 
 
 Gifford darted an almost angry glance at him. 
 
 " Light literature ? " he said, somewhat too scornfully. 
 *' I suppose you mean light literature as distinguished from 
 the heavy literature that sinks? My dear Mr. Scobell, 
 wliere are the politicians of the time of Homer? Where 
 arc the learned treatises they wrote ? It seems to me that 
 light literature — imaginative literature — pure story- telling 
 
26 * S HA NDON BELLS. 
 
 • — absc4ute fiction — is the only really permanent thing of 
 man's invention in the world. The /Siege of Troy^ the 
 Wctmlermys of l/lysses, the Arabian Nights^ Shakspeare's 
 ])lays, Don Quixote^ Robinson Owsoe, the Vicar of Wa/ce^ 
 -field — more than that, the children's fairy tales that have 
 an antiquity beyond anything that can be guessed at — all 
 pure fiction — these are the things that remain ; these are 
 the things that the whole world treasures ; while your heavy 
 literature sinks into the bog.'* 
 
 He was quite as vehement about this chance topic as ho 
 had been about the American war.. 
 
 " You may call them will-o'-the-wisps, if you like ; they 
 are not to be cauglit and cooked ; but they remain to de- 
 light the curiosity and imagination of men, flickering and 
 beautiful ; while far more useful works — solid and substan- 
 tial works — have gone down into the morass, and the cen- 
 turies have closed over them. People see too much of the 
 meaner side of what is around them ; they wish to hear of 
 nobler things ; they like a touch of rose-color, of the won- 
 derful, the supernatural, added to the common things of 
 life. If a child had never been told about fairies, it would 
 invent fairies. And you talk of Spencer ToUemache as 
 turning to this kind of work for relaxation ? Perhaps he 
 may. I never read his History of the Reform Bill ; but 
 if he thinks it easier to create imaginary human beings, and 
 give them definite and natural form, and make them the 
 brothers and sisters and intimate friends of the people who 
 are actually alive in the world — if he thinks it is easier to 
 do that than to go to Parliamentary reports and Blue-books 
 and get together a useful compilation' of easily ascertained 
 facts, then perhaps he may find himself mistaken. Per- 
 haps he has already found himself mistaken. By Jove ! it's 
 eleven o'clock.'* 
 
 Good luck seemed to pursue Fitzgerald this evening. 
 "When Mr. Scobell drove away in his carriage, the remain- 
 ing two guests left together on foot ; and as they walked 
 along Piccadilly, Mr. Gifford must needs continue talking 
 about the Under-Secretary's novel and the capitalist's 
 chance remark. You may imagine that young Fitzgerald 
 was in no hurry to interrupt him. To be walking with Mr. 
 Gifford was a sufficient honor ; to listen to this vehement, 
 combative, and occasionally brilliant and incisive talk was 
 something that the provincial sub-editor had never dared 
 to hope for in this world. They walked all the way to 
 
SHANDON BELLS. t 27 
 
 Sloane Street (Master Willie would have kept on to Jeru^ 
 salem, had not his companion stopped), when Mr. Gifford 
 said to him : — 
 
 "You live in the Fulham Road, you said? My rooms 
 are close by here. I have have been thinking now that if 
 you didn't mind trying your hand at a review of that novel 
 I was speaking of, you might let me have it by Thursday 
 night. Hilton Clarke showed me some things of yours. 
 You are on the right road ; don't fall in with that affected 
 indifferentism ; you'll find too much of it in London. JRe- 
 member Bishop Blougram : — 
 
 * What can I gain on the denying side ? 
 Ice makes no conflagration.' 
 
 Your writing isn't quite clean enough yet. You go round- 
 about. You don't hit the nail sharp and have done. No 
 matter; if you like to try your hand, you may have the 
 book." 
 
 "But," said Fitzgerald, almost deprived of breath, 
 " but you don't mean for the Liberal Meoiew? " 
 
 "Of course I do." 
 
 Now if at this moment the pavement at the corner of 
 Sloane Street had opened, and if Master Willie had beheld 
 there a subterranean procession of Don Ficrna and all his 
 array of elves — passing along in blue fire through grottoes 
 of feldspar gemmed with rubies and diamonds — he could 
 not have been more astounded. That he should be asked 
 to write for the JOiberal Itemew ; and to write about a 
 book, too, that Avas at the moment occupying so much of 
 the attention of the public ! He could scarcely find words 
 to express his sense of his companion's great kindness, and 
 of his own fears about his being unable to undertake such 
 a task. 
 
 " But I don't say I will use the article, mind," said Mr. 
 Gifford, good-naturedly. " I will give you tlie chance, if 
 you will take the risk. It may be some training for you, 
 in any case. If you call or send to the ofiice to-morrow, 
 you will find the book waiting for you. Good-night. Glad 
 to have met you. 
 
 Was Kitty awake yet ? Could she hear the news ? 
 Could she tell how high his heart was beating? — poor Kitiy, 
 who was so far away at Inisheen ! 
 
28 SIIANDON BELLS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A FIRST CAST. 
 
 FiTZGEKALD did iiot get to sleep soon that night. As 
 he walked rapidly away down the Fulham Road, it seemed 
 to him as if five-and-thirty different ways of beginning this 
 fateful review were pressing in on his mind, and that he 
 had lost all power to decide which was preferable. If 
 he could have seen but the first page of the novel, it might 
 liave given him some clue, perhaps. But here he was 
 eagerly and anxiously sketching out plans for reviewing a 
 book of the contents of which he was wholly ignorant; and 
 it appeared to him as if his brain had got the better of him 
 altogether, and was running ahead in this aimless, dis- 
 tracted, and fruitless fashion quite independently of his 
 control. 
 
 At length he reached a dimly lit little courtyard in the 
 Fulham Road, on one side of which stood a plain two- 
 storied building. The ground-fioor consisted of a large 
 studio ; the upper floor served as a bedroom, and that 
 Fitzgerald had secured as his lodging. He went carefully 
 up the outside stair, unlocked the door, lit a match and 
 then a lamp, and here he was in the middle of a fairly large 
 low roofed apartment, somewhat scantily furnished, but 
 quite sufficiently so for all his wants. The floor was for 
 tiie most part bare ; and here and there was a bit of faded 
 Turkey carpet or a withered old rug which had most likely 
 been flung out from the studio below as being even too 
 worn and decayed for painting purposes. 
 
 It was a fine place to think in, for there were few temp- 
 tations in the way of luxury about ; and he had plenty to 
 think of: the projected magazine; Kitty's surprise on 
 hearing the good news ; the wonderful evening he had just 
 spent, and the strange contrast between the two great 
 men ; nay, the precise conversation of which he could remem- 
 ber every word : all these things were enough to occupy 
 him ; but nearer than any of them came this pressing mat- 
 ter of the review. What a chance it was ! And they said 
 
S HAND ON BELLS. 29 
 
 that London was an inifriendly city! Now it could not l>e 
 any interest in salmon iiies that had led Mr. Gifford to 
 place this opportunity before one who was quite un- 
 known to him. True, Mr. Gifford had seen certain ex- 
 cerpts from the Cork Chronicle which Mr. Hilton Clarke 
 had asked to be intrusted with. (N.B — What would Kitty 
 eay to this? Was not that the act of a friend?) But 
 Fitzgerald had a great distrust of himself; he had not re- 
 garded these things as of much value ; and certainly he 
 had never thought they would entitle him to have the 
 chance given him of contributing to the Liberal Jlevieio. 
 
 At this moment all hf& thinking went clean out of his 
 head; for there was a tremendous noise below — the noise 
 of a powerful, raucous bass voice that bellowed, or rather 
 that rattled with the rattle of small drums, — 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forrrrr-got — " 
 
 " There's that brute begun again," said Fitzgerald to 
 himself with a groan. 
 
 But the brute, whevcr lie was, seemed to have no in- 
 tention of continuing the song. There was a dead silence, 
 in the course of which Fitzgerald speedily recovered his 
 thoughts again. 
 
 And first of all he was determined that, if the book 
 gave him any fair excuse, the review should be a friendly 
 and good-natured one. For he had carefully noted cer- 
 tain remarks (what had he not carefully noted during the 
 momentous evening ?) that Mr. Gifford had addressed to 
 Hilton Clarke with regard to the projected magazine. 
 
 *' For one thing, my friend," Mr. Gifford had said bend- 
 ing his keen eyes on the tall blonde-bearded gentleman 
 opposite him, " I would advise you in going over to this 
 new thing, to leave behind you the affected pessimism of 
 the Weeklj/ Gazetted (This was a weekly journal to 
 which Mr. Hilton Clarke was understood to contribute.) 
 ^' That continual belittling of things, that continual discon- 
 tent with everything that turns up in politics, or literature, 
 or art, does not pay. It is not wise. When the public 
 find you always discontented, always looking at the hope- 
 less side of things, always declaring that everything is 
 going to the bad, they begin to suspect that you have 
 reason for this discontent — in other words, that your cir- 
 culation is decreasing. Now that is a fatal impression. 
 
30 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 Besides, people will not read a paper that fills them witli 
 gloom. Nor can you bully the public with impunity. It 
 is no use attacking them, and scolding them, or treating 
 them with scorn and contempt. You see, the public have 
 simply to leave you unread, and that is a terrible business ; 
 for then, you perceive you can not hurt them, but they do 
 hurt you." 
 
 " I should have thought," said Hilton Clarke, with a 
 gentle smile, " that the circulation of the Weekly Gazette 
 was some wliat bigger, a little bit bigger, than that of the 
 Liberal Review ^^ 
 
 " Yes ; no doubt no doubt," sflid the other, cheerfully, 
 " though I am in hopes of seeing their relative positions re- 
 versed some day. But that is my advice to you. That tone 
 of disappointment with everything makes people begin to 
 think that you are not getting on as well as you miglit be ; 
 and that is very bad. Then the advertisers. Mind you, 
 the advertisers are also vertebrate animals, and they make 
 up a considerable proportion of the public. And if you 
 go on from week to week declaring that British tradesmen 
 are universally swindlers, that railway directors should be 
 indicted for wilful murder, and so forth, mind you, your 
 advertising agent may have a bad time of it. Say he goes 
 into a big cutlery place in Oxford Street. The foreman 
 goes up to the master: *Here is the advertisement man 
 from the WeeJdy Gazette^ sir. He wants us to take the out- 
 side page next week.' Then very likely the cutler may 
 turn round and say ; ' The 'Weekly Gazette be hanged ! 
 Tell him that swindling isn't paying well just now, and we 
 can't advertise. Swindlers, indeed ! Swindlers them- 
 gelves ! The Weekly Gazette be hanged ! ' " 
 
 Now this advice, though it seemed to young Fitzgerald 
 at the time to be not quite in accordance with the mat 
 ccelum principles professed by the Liberal Review (which 
 was a very courageous and vehement and plain-spoken 
 organ), nevertheless appeared to him to be sound and sen- 
 sible. Accordingly, he now resolved that, if the merits 
 of the book permitted it at all, he would treat it in the 
 most friendly fashion. Instead of scourging him with rods 
 from out the groves of Academe, thQ Liberal Review would 
 take this new disciple by the hand, and encourage liim, 
 and bid him be of good cheer. Or what if the book were 
 very good indeed, and altogether beyond need of patron- 
 age ? Then let literature be congratulated on this new ad- 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 31 
 
 hesion. Fitzgerald remembered that iha TAhcral Hcmew 
 was' rather fond of making discoveries. No reviews of the 
 book, at least of any importance, had appeared, though peo- 
 ple were talking enough about it. Miglit not lie be the 
 first to announce the advent of a new power in literature ? 
 If he only had the book — here — at once — 
 
 " And never hroufjht to mind ?" 
 
 Again came the giant roar from below. And what n ten- 
 acious memory the musician must have! was Fitzgerald's 
 first thought, ten minutes certainly having elapsed since lie 
 gung the first line. And surely there must be some shaft or 
 opening in the floor ; otherwise the sound could not come 
 through in such volume. And what if perchance that shaft 
 should be over the musician's head, on wliich a bucket of 
 water might be made to descend suddenly at the next 
 bellow ? 
 
 But there was to be no more bellowing, except, indeed, 
 a verse of the national anthem, which Fitzgerald had already 
 learned to recognize as the token that the artist was about 
 to retire for tlie night, pleased or not, as the case might 
 be, with his work. " Go-o-o-d sa-ve the Qu-e-en ! " roared 
 the deep bass voice in dying cadence ; then there was a curi- 
 ous clamping and shuffling, as if some one were doing a 
 lieel-and-toe step on a wooden floor ; then silence. Either 
 the artist was having a final pipe, or he had gone to bed. 
 
 Next morning eleven o'clock was the earliest hour at 
 which Fitzgerald deemed it fitting he should go to the office 
 of the Liberal Remew for the book ; and even then he did 
 not think it probable that Mr. Gifford could have sent a 
 message so soon. To his surprise, however, there the pre- 
 cious parcel was awaiting him ; and so eager was he to see 
 what sort of material this was on which he was to operate 
 that the moment he got on the top of the first passing Ful- 
 ham omnibus he hastily undid the parcel, put two volumes 
 m his pocket, and proceeded to cut the leaves of the other. 
 He glanced over the first page or two — very good : a sort 
 of playful introduction, light, facetious, well written ; in 
 short, a clever little essay about a country house and its 
 guests in the hunting season. But the reviewer was more 
 anxious to get to the people ; and these turned out to be in 
 the first instance, the three daughters of a duchess^ who 
 were at the same moment in their respective dressing-rooms, 
 
82 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 and each imparting confidences to her maid. It was in- 
 geniously arranged that these confidences sliould be reported 
 in turn ; and there was a very comical similarity among 
 them, seeing that they all referred to a youthful marquis of 
 Vitst possessions who was to arrive at the house that evening, 
 and to the probable effect on him of certain costumes and 
 styles of dressing the hair. 
 
 Now Fitzgerald knew a great deal more about the 
 habits of a " stand " of golden plovjr than about the ways 
 and speech of duchesses ' daughters ; but he soon began to 
 form the impression, and much to his disappointment, that 
 all this artificial talk, clever as it might be, was entirely im- 
 possible in the circumstances. JSTay, he began to feel just a 
 touoh of resentment that three young Englishwomen of good 
 birth and breeding should have been represented as exliibit- 
 ing themselves, to their own domestics, as so many flippant 
 and giggling barmaids. It is true that Fitzgerald's father 
 kept a small country hotel (and even that he did unsuc- 
 cessfully), but the Fitzgeralds of Inisheen were an old family, 
 and had always been held of consequence in that part of 
 Ireland: Master Willie had been accustomed all his life to 
 be addressed as "yer honor" when out over bog and hill 
 in search of game ; and M-as himself possessed of not a 
 little faith in the virtues of lineage and good blood. And 
 was it possible, he almost indignantly asked himself, that 
 any three young Englishwomen of decent parentage and 
 education — putting the duchess out of the question alto- 
 gether — should have so little self-respect as to make con- 
 fidantes of their maids in this fashion, and reveal their 
 mean little schemes with the pertness of a soubrette in a 
 fifth- rate farce ? 
 
 He passed on, however, in hope. The marquis arrives 
 just in time to be sent off to dress for dinner. Then the 
 people of the neighborhood who are coming to dine were 
 introduced; and here there was some very fair humorous 
 sketching of a light kind, Fitzgerald marking down one or 
 two passages for approval. He read on and on, until he 
 arrived at the courtyard. He read on and on (not so hope- 
 ful now), while his landlady brought him a chop, some 
 bread, and a glass of ale — his midday meal. He scarcely 
 paid heed to these things, so busy was he with this book — 
 so anxious to make something out of it — so disappointed 
 at finding, with all the occasional smartness, the characters 
 not flesh-and-b]ood creatures at all, but mere ghosts. The 
 
SHANDON BELLS. H3 
 
 ilry bones would not live. By four o'clock he had finished 
 the book ; and he laid it down with a sigh. 
 
 Yet out of it he had to make an article somehow ; more 
 than that, he was determined to have it done that very 
 night, so that the editor of the Liberal Meview should see 
 that he could do his work promptly. So he set to work 
 forthwith; and labored and labored away to make some- 
 thing out of the dry husks. Fortunately the bellowing 
 gentleman beneath was absent ; and he could work on in 
 silence. The hours passed ; he had a cup of tea. Finally, 
 after much correction and rewriting, he had a piece of work 
 put together which, if it did not form a highly interesting 
 article, was, he thought, as fair a judgment of the book as 
 he could give. 
 
 Just tlien, it being nearly nine o'clock, the last post 
 brought him a letter, which he eagerly seized, for though 
 he had heard from Kitty that morning, might she not have 
 taken it into her head — at the suggestion of her tender 
 lieart — to send him another little note by some strange 
 
 " My dear Willie, — That blackguard Maloncy — the 
 devil sweep him ! — won't renew tlie bill I told you of, and 
 he's going to put his low scoundrel of a brother on to have 
 the law of me if I don't have the £40 ready by Tuesday 
 next. I have tried to raise the money, but devil the penny 
 can 1 get of it. Have you any money you could spare? 
 ' Tis a mean trick of Maloney's : sure many's the time I've 
 lu^lpod his old grandfather when he hadn't as much clothes 
 on iiis back as would have lifted the kettle from the fire. 
 Bad luck to him, ' tis all because my Marshal McMahoa 
 beat his old scarecrow of a galloper at Drimoleague. 
 " Your affectionate father, 
 
 '' Edward Fitzgerald." 
 
 Master Willie had arrived in London with £38 in hisf 
 ])ocket ; and that was the total of his worldly wealth. Had 
 tliis letter come at any other moment, it is possible he might 
 have thought it hard he should have to part with that sum, 
 or rather the greater part of it, to pay his father's Coursing 
 Club debts. But what did he care for a few sovereigns 
 when a fine career had just been opened before him, with 
 no other than Kitty as the final crown and blushing and 
 beautiful reward ? Here was his first contribution to the 
 
34 SIIANDON BELLS. 
 
 Liberal Jieview ready to be deposited in tlie letter-box. To- 
 morrow lie was to see Mr. Hilton Clarke about the sub- 
 editorship of the new magazine. And this morning what 
 was the message, written in that sprawling but most lovable 
 hand! — "O Willie darling, liiake haste and get on, and 
 come back to me ! And if your fine friend introduces you 
 to any of the beautiful London ladies, just tell them, that 
 there's a poor girl in Ireland that is breaking her heart for 
 your sake.' " No ; it was not at such a moment he was 
 going to consider the question of a few pounds. 
 So he wrote : — 
 
 " My dear Father, — I have altogether now £38, of 
 which I send you £30, for I must keep a small margin. 
 Then you can bring * my gun to Lord Kinsale's new agent (I 
 forget his name), who offered me £6 for it when he knew 
 I was going away. The other £4 you will make up some- 
 how ; but don't sell old Bess ; she and I may still live to have 
 another turn at the snipe some day. I think 1 have a good 
 piospect here ; more particulars by and by. 
 " Your affectionate son, 
 
 '* William Fitzgerald." 
 
 That letter, of course, he could not send off just then : 
 the money had to be made transferable first. But here was 
 this other one for Mr. Gifford — which from time to time 
 he regarded with a qualm of anxiety, not quite certain that, 
 after all, he had done his best, However, he resolved that 
 it was now too late for doubt ; he took it up, sallied forth 
 into the night, sought out the nearest pillar letter-box, and 
 there deposited the fateful packet. Tiiat decisive step once 
 taken, his heart felt somewhat lighter. The night was fine, 
 and he went on aimlessly wandering along the gaslit pave- 
 ments, thinking of many things, but mostly of Inisheen, and 
 perhaps most of all of an inland glen not far from there, and 
 of running water, and of a certain moonlight night. Was 
 not this Kitty's soft, low, trembling voice he could hear 
 again in the silence ? — " J/y love I give to you\ my life 1 
 pledge to you ; my heart I take not hack from you, lohile 
 this water runsJ'* And })erhaps she also — far away there 
 beyond the sea, up in the little room overlooking the wide 
 sands — was recalling these words at this moment ; and 
 
 * He meant " take." But Master Willie liad not quite got riil of 
 all Ills Irishisms, despite his study of the style of the Liberal Beview, 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 35 
 
 perhaps also shivrering alktle as she thongbC of Don Fierna 
 and his elves? 
 
 It was nearly twelve o'clock when he returned to the 
 dirn little courtynrd ; and he was very tired ; and perhaps 
 the loneliness of this great dark world of London was 
 beginning to weigh on him ; so that he was glad to think 
 of his escape into the realms of sleep (where Kitty was 
 sometimes found walking about, with her soft black eyes 
 laughing, and her voice as glad as ever). But, as it turned 
 out, his adventures for that night were not just yet over. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 Fitzgerald was just about to pass through the arch- 
 way leading into the courtyard, when he heard a sudden 
 scuffling in front of him, and then a man's voice call out^ 
 " Help ! help ! police ! " Instinctively he paused ; for he 
 had no mind to enter into other people's squabbles ; and, 
 besides, he could not well see what was going on. But his 
 appearance on the scene had no doubt produced some 
 effect ; for before he had had time to think, a man had 
 dashed p:5st him. Fitzgerald was in truth bewildered ; he 
 had been dreaming of Inisheen, not thinking of midnight 
 robberies in London. And now he was incaned to let well 
 alone, and thank God he was rid of a knave, when another 
 dark figure dashed by — quite close by, indeed — and at the 
 same moment he felt a sharp blow on his face. This was 
 too much. This brought him to his senses. He did not 
 know exactly where he had been struck ; but he knew that 
 his face was tingling; he knew that he had a stout oak staff 
 in his hand, with a formidable knob at the end of it ; and 
 the next thing he knew was that he was in full chase down 
 the Fulham Road with the most unchristian-like determi- 
 nation to give as good as he had got, or even better. 
 
 The first man had disappeared, but this one was just 
 ahead ; and Fitzgerald was well aware that his only chance 
 was to overtake the fellow before he could dodge into some 
 byway or corner. Kow the thief, or burglar, or whoever 
 
3G SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 ho was, ran very well, but his muscles had not had tliat 
 training over rock and heather that his pursuer's had, and 
 the consequence was that in a very short space of time 
 young Fitzgerald had so nearly evertaken his man (and 
 was so fearful of letting him escape) that he aimed a blow 
 at the back of the fellow's head with his stout oak staff. 
 The next minute Master Willie had nearly fallen over the 
 body of his prostrate foe ; for down he had come after that 
 sounding whack, prone on the pavement where he lay 
 witliout a sign of life. 
 
 Then a third man came rushing up ; and Fitzgerald 
 faced about, feeling now rather angry, and inclined to have 
 it out with the rogues of London generally. But he in- 
 stantly perceived that this little bare-headed red-bearded 
 man, who now came wildly along, was no other than an 
 artist whom he had once or twice observed going into the 
 studio below his bedroom. 
 
 " Fou've got him ? '' he called out, in great excitement ; 
 "you've got one o' them ?" 
 
 " Yes, I've got him," answered Fitzgerald, " and now 
 I've got him, I'd like to know what to do with him." 
 
 "The scoundrels! " said the other, breathlessly. "If 
 ye hadna come up, they'd have taken every penny I had on 
 me. Eh, man,*' he added, staring at his rescuer, " did he 
 hit ye ? Your face is a' bluidy." 
 
 Fitzgerald had indeed felt something warm and moist 
 about his cheek and chin; and when he put his handker- 
 chief up to his face, he could see by the dim gaslight tliat 
 he must have been bleeding pretty freely. 
 
 " Yes, he did ; and I think I hit him too — unless he's 
 shamming. You go and get a policeman, and I'll wait 
 here by this fellow. If he tries to bolt, I'll give him an 
 other taste of my kipeen.^' 
 
 The wild-haired artist left rapidly, and in a few seconds 
 returned not only with one but two policemen, whom he 
 had found talking together, and into whose ears he was 
 now pouring the whole story of how it happened. 
 
 Just as they came up, the man on the pavement slowly 
 raised himself on his knees, and began to rub the back of 
 his head. 
 
 " Who done that ? " he muttered, as if he were not quite 
 awake. 
 
 Then he seemed to collect himself somewhat ; lie looked 
 up and around ; and perceiving the approaching policemen, 
 
sir AN DON BELLS. 87 
 
 he uttered tlie one word " Copped," and resigned himself 
 to his fate. 
 
 " Why, it's the Cobbler, as Fm alive ! " said one of tlie 
 policemen, getting liold of liim by the shoulder, and turn- 
 ing tlie apathetic face round to the gaslight. " He's been 
 wanted ever since that job in the Cromwell Road," 
 
 "Now look here, my good fellow," said the Scotchman, 
 "I'm going to pick up my hat. I'm no going to the station 
 at this time o' night. Ye maun take my name and address, 
 and I'll come in tlie morning, and prefer the charge — ■" 
 
 " That '11 do sir ; there's more nor one job agin this 
 man." 
 
 "Off to the station, then, wi' the scoundrel ; and don't 
 lose your grip of him. If you, sir, " he said, turning to 
 Fitzgerald, " will walk back as far as my studio, I will give 
 you a basin of water to wash your face in — it's the only 
 way I can thank ye." 
 
 "Oh, but we are neighbors," said Fitzgerald. "I know 
 you well enough. You are the man who makes such a 
 frightful row with your Scotch songs." 
 
 "Eh ! how do you know that?" said the other, sharply. 
 
 " Because my room is just over your studio." 
 
 " Bless me ! — then you are the man that goes tramping 
 up and down all night — tramp, tramp — tramp, tramp — then 
 five minutes' rest — then tramp, tramp — tramp, tramp — up 
 and down. Man, Fve always pictured ye as a sort of Eugene 
 Aram, wringing your hands ; I felt sure ye had murdered 
 somebody. Or a hyena in a cage. What do ye gang on 
 in that way for? '"* 
 
 "It's a bad habit, that's all." 
 
 " But what's your business ? " said the other, bluntly. 
 
 " I write for newspapers." 
 
 " I did not think that was such hard work. It must cost 
 ye a lot in shoe-leather," said the Scotchman, dryly "How- 
 ever, when I've got my hat, ye maun come in and have a 
 glass. I was just getting back to my supper, when they 
 scoundrels grippet me. I wish I had a candle. I'm think- 
 ing the police, now we've handed over to them such a noto- 
 rious creeminal, might give us another gas-lamp in this in- 
 fernal dark yaird. " 
 
 Without the aid of a candle, however, he soon picked 
 up his hat; then he led the way into a hollow-sounding and 
 apparently spacious room, lit the gas, and forthwith pro- 
 ceeded to get his companion some fresh water with which 
 
38 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 to wash his face. And while Fitzgerald, who found that 
 the bleeding had proceeded merely from the nose, and that 
 lie was not cut at all, was performing that operation, the 
 Scotchman, with a smartness which showed that he was 
 familiar with the exigencies of camping out, had lit a little 
 gas stove, produced some tinned meat, and put a quite snow- 
 white tablecloth on a small table, with some glasses, 'plates, 
 knives, and forks. 
 
 " Now we'll have a bit of supper and a crack, " said he, 
 " since we're neighbors. Will I make ye a dish of hot soup ? 
 Five minutes will do it." 
 
 " Oh no, thank you," said young Fitzgerald, who was 
 much taken with the frankness of tliis short, broad- 
 shouldered, red-bearded, and wild-haired person. '' That 
 tinned beef will do capitally for me. But what I should like 
 better than anything," he said, casting his eyes round the 
 big, gaunt, and dusty studio, which had very little furniture 
 beyond the heaps of canvases all ranged with their faces to 
 the wall, '* would be to have a look at your pictures." 
 
 " My pictures ? " said the other. " Oh yes. As ye're a 
 newspaper man, ye'rc no likely to be a buyer." 
 
 " You would rather not show them to a buyer, then ?" 
 
 " There is nothing in the wide world I hate so much,'* 
 said tlie other, busying himself with the table, " little ex- 
 perience as I have of it. I don't mind criticism — tlie 
 sharper, the more likely I am to get something out of it. 
 But the valuation in money — that's what gangs against the 
 grain. Come, sit down, man ; ye're none the worse for the 
 stroke on tlie m)se. The water is near boiling already : and 
 ye'U have a glass of toddy. Here's the bottle, and there's 
 the sugar." 
 
 " Thank you ; but I don't drink whiskey." 
 
 " Hwhat ! " r.houted the red-bearded artist, nearly letting 
 the bottle fall. " Ilwhat d'ye say — " 
 
 " But I've got some beer overhead. I will fetch some 
 in a minute." 
 
 " Gude preserve us laddie ! but if it's ale ye want, there's 
 a bottle or two in the corner. What's your name, by-the- 
 way r 
 
 '' Fitzgerald." 
 
 " Mine's Ross. John Ross. Fall to, man ; there's no 
 use wasting time over meat when there's a pipe and a glass 
 o' toddy to follow. " 
 
 Fitzgerald soon found out that he was excessively 
 
SHANDON BELLS 39 
 
 hungry, and as the cold beef and the bottled ale were alike 
 excellent, he did ample justice to both, while with equan- 
 imity he submitted to be examined and cross-examined by 
 this frankly downright acquaintance. 
 
 " You're one o' the lucky ones, 1 can see," said Ross, 
 when Fitzgerald had told him how his literary prospects 
 were. " Ye've fallen on your feet just at once. Here have 
 I been in London near six years, and I have na sold ns many 
 pictures as I have sold in two seasons when I was pentin' 
 in the Trossachs in a caravan. But bless ye, what does it 
 matter?" he continued, with clieerful good-lmmor. "I 
 have all the more pictures to sell Avhen I do fall on my feet. 
 I envy nobody, so long as I can get a crust of bread ; for I 
 reckon on my time coming." 
 
 "Of course if you were to get into the Academy, your 
 pictures would have a great additional value, I suppose," 
 Fitzgerald observed. 
 
 " The Academy ? " said John Ross, with a stare. " Do 
 ye mean me becoming a member of the Academy ? " 
 
 " Of course. Isn't that the natural ambition of every 
 artist?" said his new acquaintance. 
 
 " Oh, but that's luck beyond anything I'm thinking of," 
 said the other, imperturbably, as he proceeded to pour out 
 some scalding hot water on a couple of lumps of sugar. 
 *' Just think of all the men there are pentin' ; and the 
 chances of any one of them getting such a stroke of luck 
 as that ! No, no ; all I hope for is that they who are in the 
 Academy would be a bit friendly. If there's any one bears 
 them a grudge it's no me — if the chance happened my way, 
 wouldn't I take it? and how can I blame them? Ko, the 
 bit of luck I hope for is to get a good place some day on 
 the wails ; and that is no easy, if you think of all the peo- 
 ple who want to be hung. They did hang one o' mine last 
 year, but it was away at the roof; so you see my line of 
 luck is no clear before me yet, and yours is." 
 
 "But I have only the chance," said Fitzgerald. " Since 
 I have come to London I haven't earned a penny, as far as 
 I know." 
 
 " Hear till him ! Man, ye've everything before ye. 
 Ye've all the train nicely laid ; ye've only to light the 
 match, and ichaff ^oe^ the pouther !" 
 
 By this time they had both lit their pi] )es ; and John 
 Ross went on to talk about his own art in a way that very 
 soon astonished his companion. Whether he could paint 
 
40 SHANDON DELLS, 
 
 or not was still, so far as his companion was concerned, an 
 open question, but at least lie could talk, and that in a man- 
 ner that was quite surprising. His vague, rambling dis- 
 course, warming up now and again into enthusiasm, was 
 really eloquent, in a curious, bizarre, happy-go-lucky kind 
 of fashion ; full of figures, of quick, happy illustrations ; 
 scornful at times, as he hit right and left ; and occasionally 
 describing an object as if he had flashed a ray of sunshine 
 on it. Fitzgerald was intensely interested, and could have 
 gone on forever listening; but at the same time he could 
 not help wondering what the actual work was like of a man 
 who was at one moment denouncing the pre-Raphaelites 
 for their worship of sadness, their archaic mannerisms, and 
 their cast-iron hardness of form, and at the next denounc- 
 ing the French landscape artists for their f uzziness of detail, 
 their trickiness, their evasion of daylight. 
 
 "It is not what I can do myself," he said at last, ob- 
 serving that Fitzgerald's eyes had strayed once or twice to 
 the canvases. " It is what I know I sliould try to do. Sup- 
 pose ye want to paint a field of ripe corn ; will ye get at it, 
 do ye think, by sitting down and pentin' the stalks and the 
 heads — ay, if ye were to spend a life-time at it, and paint 
 fifty thousand of them ? Ay, and if ye painted a hundred 
 thousand of them as like as could be, ye'd be no nearer get- 
 ting at your cornfield. For what ye have to paint is what 
 ye see ; and when ye look at a cornfield ye see nae single 
 stalks at all, but a great mass of gold, as it were, with u 
 touch of orange here, or paler yellow there, and a wash of 
 green where the land is wet, and sometimes of warm red 
 even, where the stalks are mixed with weeds and ye are no 
 going to get that color either by chasing the daylight out of 
 t)ie sky, and taking the thing into a room, and making a 
 clever bit of a fuzzy sketch in gray and green and black. 
 That's easy — but it's no the cornfield. Ay, and there's 
 more. Ye've got to paint more than ye see. Ye've got to 
 put just that something into the cornfield that will make 
 people's hearts warm to it when they see it on your canvas. 
 Suppose that ye've been ill for a month or two ; laid on your 
 back, maybe, and sick tired of the pattern on the walls o' 
 your room ; and at last the day comes when the doctor 
 thinks you might be lifted into a carriage and taken oot for 
 a drive. And we'll say it's a fine warm afternoon, and 
 your heart is just full of wonder and gladness, like, at the 
 trees and the soft air ; and we'lt say that all of a sudden, 
 
SHAN DON BELLS. 41 
 
 at the turning o' the road, ye come in siclit of this field of 
 ripe corn, just as yellow as yellow can be under the after- 
 noon sky. Ay, and what is it wlien ye see such a wonder- 
 ful and beautiful thing — what is it that brinjys the tears to 
 youreen? I say, what is it? For it's that ye've got to 
 
 catch and put in your picture, or ye'll be a d d mistake 
 
 as a painter !" 
 
 Fitzgerald did not stay to ask him whether this was not 
 demanding that the landscape painter should possess the 
 nervous system of an invalid (though, perhaps, sometliing 
 might be said even for that theory, as applied to all forms 
 of art) ; he was much too interested to interrupt. But by 
 a singular chance Ross drifted away from painting alto- 
 gether. He was talking of the instinct for good color that 
 many people had who had no artistic training whatsoever, 
 and by accident he referred to fish and artificial flies, and 
 so forth. Fitzgerald looked up suddenly. 
 
 " Are you a fisherman, too ? " he said, quickly. 
 
 "A wee bit. Are you?" 
 
 " I have thrown a fly, " said Fitzgerald, modestly, and 
 feeling in his pocket for a certain envelope. 
 
 "As I was saying, that's why I hold the salmon to be 
 the king o' fish. He knows good color. It's no use trying 
 liim with your aniline dyes : yellow and scarlet and gold — 
 that's what he watches for ; whereas trout — ay, and even 
 sea trout, are a mean, depraved, magenta minded race o' 
 creatures. Man, I filled my basket last year in Perthshire 
 wi' the most miserable puce things. 
 
 " But what was the color? " 
 
 " Puce. A dirty, drab-lilac kind of thing it was. But 
 that was naething to the fly that was recommended me 
 for sea trout in Argyleshire — ay, and it took, too. Just 
 think of this : the body, arsenic green worsted, with a bit of 
 white tinsel ; the hackle, a purple-blue ; and the wings — 
 Heaven knows where they came from except it might have 
 been from a hoodie crow — a heedjous gray, like the color 
 of a decayed corpse. Do ye think a salmon would have 
 looked at such a thing?" 
 
 " Perhaps, " said Master Willie, as he slowly drew out 
 an envelope from his pocket and put it on the table, " this 
 would be more to his liking?" 
 
 " Eh, man ! " said Ross, drawing out the great flies in 
 all their royal si)lendor of crimson silk, and yellow tinsel, 
 and golden-pheasant feathers. " Where got ye them ? " 
 
42 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 "I have been amusing myself making tliem for a friend 
 — the man I tohi you about ; I could not think of any other 
 way of showing him I was sensible of his kindness." 
 
 "Ay, did ye make these yoursel? Now that I think of 
 it, ye dinna look as if ye had spent a' your life in a news- 
 paper office." 
 
 " I have spent most of it tramping over wild bogs and 
 on hillsides, " said Fitzgerald, with a laugh. "A good deal 
 more than I should have done." 
 
 *' Shooting ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What sort?" 
 
 " Oh, mostly wild fowl, teal, snipe, woodcock, and so on, 
 chiefly in the winter." 
 
 " Hard work, then ? " 
 
 But here the conversation went far afield ; for there 
 were descriptions of winter nights on the bog-land and, 
 winter mornings on the hill, and wild adventures along the 
 shore in snow-time or in the hard black frost. Even to 
 Fitzgerald himself — who was pleased to see how interested 
 his companion was in these reminiscences — it seemed that 
 they were more picturesque now and here in London than 
 when he had to get up shivering in the dark morning, and 
 dress by candlelight, and sally forth through the silent 
 streets of Inisheen. He forgot the wet clothes in describ- 
 ing the view from the mountain side outlooking to the sea. 
 He forgot the mortification of misses in the glory of lucky 
 finds. These days of sport that are lived over again in 
 memory generally end with a heavy bag; and however 
 tired and cold and wet and hungry the sportsman may have 
 been in realitv, he forgets all that, and remembers only the 
 delight with which that heavy bag is thrown down in the 
 hall, and the warm snug evening afterward, when the 
 dinner things are removed, and chairs drawn to the fire, 
 and the friendly tobacco begins to throw a charm over the 
 soul. 
 
 Only once did Fitzgerald, who, it must be confessed, had 
 enjoyed talking over these things, try to start his companion 
 off again about painting. "Are you a sea-painter?" he said. 
 "Do you paint sea-pieces as well ?" and then he glanced 
 again at the dusty gray canvases. 
 
 " I ? " said Ross. " No, I should think not 1 Why, it 
 would break my heart. Other things are difficult enough ; 
 but that ! Man, I see pictures of the sea at the Academy 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 43 
 
 that just make one laugh. Every wave as accurately 
 shaped and modelled as if it was cast out of melted cannon ; 
 every little turn of foam as clean cut as a meerschaum pipe. 
 God ! the fellows must be cleverer than Joshua the son of 
 Nun, for they must have got the sea as well as the sun 
 and clouds to stand still. Did ever man's eye see moving 
 water like that ? — moving water, that is a constant distrac- 
 tion of lights and shifting shadows and forms — lightning 
 touches, ye might say, so swift were they — all bewilder- 
 ing and glancing round ye ; and that is what ye begin to 
 cut and carve and stick on canvas as if it were slices of 
 cream-cheese on the top o' green sealing-wax. No, no ; it's 
 bad enough inland. Even when ye get perfectly still 
 shadows on a perfectly still loch, there's an oily kind of 
 glisten that no pent-box is likely to get for ye. Eh, and 
 such chances as we had sometimes at the wild fowl when 
 we were camping out — that would have made your mouth 
 water ; ay, and at black game too. Nearly every morning 
 when we went out to wash in the burn — that was when we 
 had the caravan in the Trossachs — I've seen them walking 
 about without the least fear o' us. Maybe the old black- 
 cock would give a cluck-cluck of warning, but the hen and 
 her brood scarcely heeded. Deed, I once hit an old gray 
 hen with a pent-brush, as sure as death. And when, at 
 last, the keeper lent me a gun, and said I might shoot a bird 
 once in a while — for our own cooking, ye ken, out I went 
 as early as six o'clock." So again they were back on the 
 various adventures and experiences of shooting ; recalling 
 vivid rambles in other years, now in Inverness-shire, now 
 on the desolate bog-lands near to Inisheen. And so inter- 
 esting was this talk that when Fitzgerald definitely rose to 
 depart, at the hour of half-past four in the morning, he 
 had almost forgotten he had not seen his host's pictures. 
 
 " Pictures," said John Ross, with a laugh, " toots no, 
 man, ye can see pictures any day, and better than mine. 
 But I would like ye to come in whenever ye have half an 
 hour, and smoke a pipe, and let us know how ye are get- 
 ting on." 
 
 ** All right, I shall be delighted," said Fitzgerald, most 
 heartily. " And I may learn something to-morrow — that 
 Is to say, if my nose has not become twice its natural size, 
 m which case I shall keep indoors." 
 
44 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF A CAREEK. 
 
 However, there was no trace of tlie blow discoverable 
 next day, and so on this fine May morning Fitzgerald set 
 about the accomplishment of his various tasks. First of 
 all, he had to accompany his artist friend to the police 
 station, though indeed he harbored no sentiment of revenge 
 against the luckless Cobbler who had once more fallen into 
 the clutches of the law. Then he proceeded to get the 
 thirty pounds made transferable to Ireland. This neverthe- 
 less, he did with some compunction. For, if he was to 
 fight his way in London, was it fair to Kitty, who had in- 
 trusted her future to liim, tliat he should thus throw away 
 the sinews of war? Was it not running a tremendous risk 
 to leave himself with only seven pounds before securing 
 some definite work? But then, on the otlier hand, he had 
 fair prospects before him ; and lie had the courage of two 
 or three and twenty; besides, he was not going to allow 
 that blackguard Maloney to triumph over his father. Cours- 
 ing Club or no Coursing Club. And so he went and sent 
 off tlie money, and then made his way to the Albany, 
 where he had an appointment with Mr. Hilton Clarke. 
 When Fiammetta showed him into tlie richly-colored room, 
 he found that gentleman reclining in a low easy chair, in a 
 voluminous dressing-gown ; arcigarette in one hand, a paper- 
 covered novel in the other, while before him on the little 
 table were the remains of a French breakfast. 
 
 " How are you, Fitzgerald ? " he said, throwing aside 
 the book. "Sit down and have some coffee and a cigar- 
 ette. No ? You'll find that Chartreuse worth trying. 
 Well, and what did you think of the great Gifford ? Was 
 the godlike man up to your expectations? " 
 
 " I was very m!ich interested," said Fitzgerald, rather 
 timidly ; for indeed he did not like the way in which Mr. 
 Hilton Clarke spoke of the literary calling and of its pro- 
 fessors, whilst he did not wish to show the presumpt'"on of 
 putting himself into antagonism with one who was so ranch 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 45 
 
 his superior, " I have alwa3^s had a great regard for the 
 Liberal lievieio^ and — of course I never thougljt I should 
 ever meet the editor. I haven't seen you to thank you for 
 giving me such a chance. Perhaps you don't quite under- 
 stand what it is to a young fellow who has only heard 
 of well-known men. I — I thought it was a great honor. 
 
 " Oh, you will soon get rid of all that modesty," said the 
 otlier. "It is a useless commodity in London." 
 
 " We walked home together," continued Fitzgerald, 
 *' as far as Sloane Sti-eet ; and Mr. Gilford was good ennngh 
 to say I might try my hand at a notice of that new novel 
 Daphnes Shadow for the Liberal Hevieic.^' 
 
 " The devil he did ! What can have made him so good- 
 natured ? " 
 
 " I think I know," put in Fitzgerald, dexterously. " His 
 good-nature was caused by your good-nature in recommend- 
 ing me." 
 
 "Oil, that was nothing," said the other, carelessly, 
 " Well, you must be cautious how you set about it. Bring 
 the book to me." 
 
 " But I have already sent in the review." 
 
 " Already ? You haven't been wasting time, then." 
 
 " And I liave been doing more than that," said Fitz- 
 gerald, pulling out a certain envelope. " I have been put- 
 ting together a' few salmon flies for you, if you care to have 
 them. I found I could get the materials better in Lon- 
 don." 
 
 " Ah, thanks — much obliged," said Hilton Clarke, 
 taking out one or two of the ilies with his beautiful white 
 fingers. '• But about this review. I am afraid the gray- 
 eyed Athene wasn't looking after you wlien you sent it in 
 in such a hurry. I wish you had come to me first. Young 
 reviewers don't seem to understand that they ought to con- 
 sider for whom they are writing when tlrey write. It isn't 
 the public; the public judge for themselves nowadays; 
 dinner tables and clubs do all that. Nor the author; tlie 
 author is pig-headed ; besides, if you don't tell him he is 
 better th'in Byron or Shakspeare, he will think you are 
 devoured with jealousy and sj)ite. No," continued Hilton 
 Clarke, as he carefully rolled up another cigarette, "you are 
 writing for your editor. He is the audience you ought to 
 consider. He is the person you must impress with a con- 
 viction of your sagacity. Now, to do that, you see, you 
 want experience ; you want to know your man. I wish you 
 
46 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 Iharl come to me. I suppose it never occurred to you to put 
 John Brown into the review you wrote for Gifford?" 
 
 " John Brown ? " said Fitzgerald, looking bewildered. 
 "What John Brown?" 
 
 "John Brown, of Harpei-'s Ferry. No, you never 
 thought of that. But if you had only come to me, I could 
 have told you that you had only to put John Brown into 
 the review — anywhere, anyhow — and you'd have fetched 
 old Gifford to a dead certainty. He can't withstand John 
 Brown. All you've got to do," he continued, contemplat- 
 ing one of the salmon flies and stroking out the soft featliers, 
 " is to take John Brown's body, without any wings, or 
 hackle, or tinsel, as one might say, and you drop that fly 
 quietly over Gilford's nose, and he'll rise to it like a grilse 
 just fresh run from the sea." 
 
 Fitzgerald could not understand why this friend of his 
 lost no opportunity of throwing taunts — however they 
 might be veiled in a sort of scornful fastidiousness — at Mr. 
 Gifford ; but for the constraint with which he listened to 
 such speeches there were also other reasons. Among the 
 various articles of young Fitzgerald's creed (he was only 
 three-and-twenty) there were none he clung to more implic- 
 itly than these two : first, that the great majority of 
 womankind were honest and honorable,, self-denying, 
 believable, and worthy of all the beautiful things that had 
 been said about them by the poets ; and secondly, that 
 literature was one of the noblest callings on the face of tlie 
 earth, and that he who did good work therein — whether it 
 was definitely adding to the world's possessions in that 
 way, or whether it was merely in teaching men, from week 
 to week, what they ought to value — was a public benefactor 
 who ought to be regarded with respect and affection and 
 gratitude. Now on both these points Mr. Hilton Clarke 
 discoursed with a complacently open scepticism ; and at 
 such times Fitzgerald wished he could close his ears against 
 this talk, not that it in the slightest degree affected his 
 beliefs, but that it affected what he wished to regard as the 
 character of his friend. Fitzgerald was naturally a hero 
 w('rshipper, and he was capable of a warm gratitude. Ho 
 wished to think the best of his friend. And when Hilton 
 Chirke talked in this fashion — which he seemed to enjoy in 
 proportion as Fitzgerald's face fell — the latter did try to 
 close Ills ears as much as he could. Then, again, when he 
 left he would try to forget all that he had heard. He would 
 
S HAND ON BELLS, 47 
 
 remember only Hilton Clarke's best points — the charm of 
 his conversation when he happened to light on some 
 literary point that interested him ; his great kindness shown 
 to a mere stranger met by chance in the south of Ireland; 
 and his personal courtesy (the way in- which he had come 
 to the relief of his improperly attired guest was still fresh 
 in Fitzgerald's mind). Besides, perhaps his experience of 
 women had been unfortunate ; and perhaps his disparage- 
 ment of contemporary literature, especially of critical 
 literature, was due to a sort of modesty, seeing that he him- 
 self held an enviable position in it 
 
 " Well, now, Fitzgerald, let's get on to this magazine 
 business. Won't you smoke?" 
 
 " No, thank you, I never smoke till night ; it takes up 
 too much time." 
 
 " Ah, the eager impetuosity of youth ! When you get 
 a dozen years older, you'll be glad of something lo help you to 
 pass the hours. Well, my friend the capitalist has got some 
 impetuosity too. In one day he has managed to secure a 
 business manager for us, and also a publishing ofHce in the 
 Strand. No doubt we should start as soon as possible ; for 
 in a short time every one will be in London for the season, 
 and then it is that people begin to talk about their plans for 
 the autumn. Scobell suggests the week after next ; but that 
 is clearly impossible. We must have material to begin 
 with ; people won't pay a shilling for a mere programme of 
 our intentions. My private impression is that the capitalist 
 imagines he will find himself a person of importance in 
 society through his connection with this magazine ; but it 
 will be part of your business, Mr. Sub-Editor, to remember 
 that it is I who am editor of the magazme, and not Dick 
 Scobell." 
 
 " Oh, of course. I know what rows with proprietors 
 are," said Fitzgerald. 
 
 "Proprietors are the most unreasonable of mortals. 
 They don't understand their proper sphere of duty — which 
 is to pay and look pleasant. If the venture succeeds, they 
 get good interest for their money. If it doesn't, they don't 
 mend matters by coming in at intervals, like a Greek cho- 
 rus : * Oh ! oh ! oh ! Woe ! woe ! woe ! ' Now, as regards) 
 your own position, Fitzgerald," he said, as he poured out a 
 small glass of Chartreuse, showing as he did so a singular- 
 looking ring on his finger, consisting of a little Indian god, 
 
4S SllANDON BELLS. 
 
 in gold, fastened on a broad silver hoop. "Have you co» 
 sidered the question of remuneration ? " 
 
 " As regards myself ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Not in the least," said Fitzgerald, with something of a 
 blush. "I don't expect very much at the outset. I think 1 
 am very lucky to get a start so early after coming to Lon- 
 don. There is an artist neighbor of mine who thinks 1 have 
 been very lucky indeed, and he considers everytliing a matter 
 of luck, even getting elected a member of the Academy." 
 
 " He must have been looking at this year's exhibition," 
 said Hilton Clarke, dryly. "Well, now, this capitalist friend 
 gives me a lump sum, I may explain to you, and liolds mo 
 responsible for all the literary matter, and for having the 
 thing properly put together. What you will have to do 
 won't interfere, I hope and think, with any more serious 
 literary work. Very well, what do you think of four pounds 
 a week ? Speak frankly, you know, for I may squeeze the 
 good Scobell a little further yet." 
 
 " Four pounds a week ?" said Fitzgerald, with his face 
 brightening up with surprise. " Tlien my artist friend was 
 right, I had five-and-twenty shillings a week from the 
 Cork ChronicW 
 
 " It is enough, then?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed. It is far more than I expected." 
 
 " You should never say that. It is not wuse. However, 
 as I am dealing with another man's money, I am not going 
 to reduce the offer ; and I think myself it is a fair one. 
 And so you had five-and-twenty shillings a Aveek on the 
 Cork Chronicle f ^^ said Hilton Clarke, regarding the 
 younger man. " Twenty-live-shillings a week ; youth and 
 Jiealth and high ambition ; and somebody to write love 
 verses about. I suppose you were not unhappy? Oh yes, 
 X could detect that subtle inspiration iiere and there, in 
 whatever guise the young lady turned uj). But I have al- 
 ways had a suspicion that when youthful poets gave their 
 sweethearts long and sounding names, the ladies themselves 
 were rather short of stature. Is not that so? It is like 
 calling a musical little verse in Horace a choriambic dimeter 
 acatalectic. The Lady Irmingarde, for example. That is 
 a fine name ; but I would wagej- now that the Lady Irmin- 
 garde is not over five feet three." 
 
 "I don't see what that has to do with this new maga- 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 49 
 
 zine," said Master Willie, striving to be very calm, but with 
 all the quick blood of the Fitzgeralds blazing in his face. 
 
 " Don't be angry, man," said the other, good-naturedly. 
 *'I hope it will have a good deal to do with the new maga- 
 zine. You see, in every well-conducted household you 
 will find two or three people either in love with somebody 
 or other, or else willing to think of the days when they 
 were ; and you can't appeal to that sentiment unless you, 
 the writer, have a fresh fount of inspiration to draw from. 
 You don't suppose that the old writers, when they were de- 
 scribing Helen, formed her out of their own head ? Of course 
 not. Of course they turned to the pretty Chloe or the 
 laughing Lalage of their acquaintance, to see what soft 
 cheeks and pretty eyes could be likened to. Do you 
 remember Symmon's translation of that passage in the 
 Agamemnon f — well, it is rather a paraphrase than a trans- 
 lation ; but listen to this as a piece of English : — 
 
 ' When first she Ccame to Dion's towers, 
 Oh, what a glorious sight, I ween, was there ! 
 The tranquil beauty of the gorgeous queen 
 Hung soft as breathless summer on her cheeks, 
 Where on the damask sweet the glowing zephyr slept ; 
 And like an idol beaming from its shrine. 
 So o'er the floating gold around her throne 
 Her peerless face di^. shine ; 
 And though sweet softness hung upon their lids, 
 Yet her young eyes still wounded where they looked. * 
 
 Is not that fine ? 
 
 ' Yet her young eyes still wounded where they looked. ' '* 
 
 And indeed Fitzgerald considered it was so fine, and so 
 nearly suggestive of a pair of soft, black, innocent young 
 eyes ihat he knew of far away, that he straightway forgot 
 all his wrath, and proposed to his companion that, if he 
 had time, they should walk down to the Strand, and have 
 a look at the offices. 
 
 " I can't very well," said Hilton Clarke, yawning and 
 stretching out his long legs, and stroking his yellow beard. 
 " I have got to dress first. Then I am going on to Jermyn 
 Street to the Turkish Baths. Then I've got one or two 
 calls to make in the afternoon. But you might go down if 
 you like, and introduce yourself to the manager. His 
 name is Silas Earp. And don't forget we must have a 
 
50 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 touch of sentiment in the magazine ; it is wonderful the 
 interest that grown peo}3le take in young people's love 
 a:ffairs. Look at the eagerness with which they read 
 breach-of-promise cases — the more absurd the better, don't 
 you see? for they are delighted to find other people mak- 
 ing just such fools of themselves as they did at the same 
 age." 
 
 Well, Fitzgerald got away, and was rather glad ; for 
 somehow he liked Hilton Clarke better, and was more 
 grateful to him, when he was not listening to him. And 
 now indeed the day was joyful to him — a fresh, clear May 
 day, with the pavements of Piccadilly looking quite white; 
 and all he could think of was that Kitty would not know 
 soon enough of the good fortune that had befallen him. 
 After all, Avhy should he have been angry about the men- 
 tion of the Lady Irmingarde. It was only good-humored 
 banter. For, indeed, as Andy the Hopper had remarked 
 *' 'twas Masther Willie had the duck's back," and annoy- 
 ances ran clean off his shoulders, so long as you gave him 
 plenty of fresh air and sunlight and a moderate share of 
 pavement for his eager and rapid walking. 
 
 He went down to the Strand, and saw the offices, which 
 were in a sad state of confusion and dust. Likewise he 
 had a long conversation with Mr. Earp, and a briefer one 
 with the great capitalist himself, who seemed surprised 
 that Hilton Clarke had not shown up, though Fitzgerald 
 ventured to point out that an editor could not be of much 
 use about the place until they had provided him with at 
 least a desk and a penny bottle of ink. Then with one 
 hurried and passing glance at the office of the lAheral 
 Heview — where, perhaps, that first contribution of his was 
 at this very moment under consideration — he sot off home as 
 fast as his legs could carry him, anxious to fill up the rest 
 of the day with some work, and also in the secret hope of 
 finding a letter from Kitty, missed by his early outgoing of 
 that morning, awaiting him. Moreover, he was very hun- 
 gry, after these many hours ; and so, on reaching his 
 spacious if somewhat-bare and low-roofed study, he 
 besought his landlady to cook him a chop with all conveni- 
 ent speed. And indeed that was a right royal banquet 
 that he enjoyed there, all by himself, in the silent big room, 
 made cheerful by the sunlight streaming in at the open 
 window ; for if it consisted only of a chop, some bread, and 
 a glass of ale, was there not a letter of Kitty's, over a dozen 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 51 
 
 pa^es long, to serve as a musical and laughing accompani- 
 ment? Tlie sun shone warm on the faded rugs on the floor ; 
 there was the faintest stirring of the wind among the young 
 plane-trees in the courtyard outside ; in the silence it 
 almost seemed as if he could hear Kitty talking to him. 
 And then, again, he had to imagine another picture — that 
 lofty little terrace that looked down on Cork and over to 
 Shandon steeple ; and a small room there ; and Kitty 
 bending over these precious leaves, and sometimes raising 
 her head to look at the rain or to think of him far away, 
 
 " AuDLEY Place, Tuesday. 
 *' My beloyed and bonny Coulin.* — What I have done 
 to deserve it I don't know, but since ever I came back to 
 this blessed town there has been nothing but rain, rain, and 
 ^ rain, and the Beautiful City, that you tried to make me 
 believe was like Venice, is nothing but a mass of smoke 
 away down in a hole, and St. Mary's steeple over there 
 seems to shiver with cold when it strikes the half-hours ; 
 and the only human beings within sight are a lot of rooks in 
 the meadows across the road, and you can tell by the noise 
 they make they are in a frightful temper because of the 
 wet. I do wonder now, more than ever, where, in such a 
 climate, a certain person got all the sunniness that's in his 
 face, and in his eyes, and more particularly his harr. Did 
 he take all there was to get, and leave none ? At all events. 
 Master Coulin, it's a very good thing for you, and it's a 
 very bad thing for me, that you and I did not live in the 
 time when the cold-hearted Saxon made the young Irish- 
 men crop their locks, for then I wouldn't have looked at you, 
 and Id have minded my own proper business. Dear me, 
 the audacity of some people, and the folly of others ! Just 
 when a good contralto is worth a mint of money in Italian 
 opera, jealousy steps in and says. No, you sha'n't; you 
 sha'n't even be allowed to sing in England ; no more Crys- 
 tal Palace for you ; nothing but concerts in such centres of 
 <iivilizatiou as Cork and Limerick and Belfast ; and just to 
 make sure of hiding away such a diamond — no, I suppose 
 it should be an emerald in Ireland — I'll set Don Fierna 
 and his wicked elves to bind you in invisible chains, and 
 something awful will happen to you if you even whisper 
 La Scala in your dreams. Well, whether it was her tremen- 
 * Coulin in Irish means " the youth with the flowing hair." Miss 
 Romayne was doubtless familiar with Moore's songs. 
 
52 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 dous good-nature, or whether it was the sunlight that had 
 got into the brown of Mr. Jealousy's hair, or whether she 
 got such a fright with the ghosts that she promised any- 
 thing without the slightest notion of keeping her word, I 
 don't know ; but the thing was done ; and then all of a 
 sudden — in return for her extraordinary good-nature and 
 self-sacrifice, she finds herself a forlorn and forsaken damsel ; 
 left to pace up and down the sand of Inisheen, which, as 
 Andy the Hopper remarks, is so firm and clean that, * Sure, 
 miss, ye might walk on it wid a satin shoe.' 
 
 " Oh, Willie, I'm sick tired of the rain, and I don't know 
 what I'm writing to you. I was wet through last night 
 coming home. What induced me to take these rooms I 
 don't know. I shall never again take lodgings where one 
 cannot drive home on a wet night. But Miss Patience 
 says she likes large views ; I suppose they conform with 
 her great mind. I have been so good, Willie ! I have 
 been really so very good that I don't know what to do with 
 myself, and I expect to find wings sprouting some morning 
 when I get up. I haven't gone round by the barracks 
 once, and the two or three times I have gone round, I have 
 kept my eyes fixed on the gravel the whole way^ just in case 
 a young ossifer might come riding out (I can seethe frown 
 on your face quite clearly, and perhaps it isn't safe to put 
 jokes in a letter, when one isn't by to be scolded for imper- 
 tinence, flippancy, unladylike manners, and all the pleasant 
 rest of it). So we'll get back to business, please, and tlie 
 truth is, you know. Master Willie, although it has been 
 reserved for an English singer to reveal to the Irish people 
 the pathos of * The Bells of Shandon,' all the same the 
 English singer can't earn a living by singing that one song, 
 unless, indeed, she were to sing it through the streets, like 
 Nellie in the Green Bushes. No, nor even when she makes 
 a skilful selection illustrating the wonderful virtues of the 
 Irish people, and when she shifts her engagements as much 
 as possible from north to south, and east to west ; yes, and 
 even when she makes excuses for pretty long holidays at 
 Inisheen or elsewhere — even the Irish people, though liking 
 to be told of their virtues, may get a little tired of her, 
 and wish to see a little less of her. In that case, managers 
 might begin to hint about reduction of terms; whereasi, 
 even at present, it's just about all she can do to keep things 
 straight — waiting for the glorious time when Prince 
 
S HAND ON BELLS, 53 
 
 Golclenhair is coming to claim her and cany her off, Very 
 
 Avell, now this is the point : at the Theatre in DnbUn 
 
 they're going to put in a panorama between the pieces, and 
 they've made me an offer (now you needn't jump out of 
 your chair like that ; it isn't to go on the stage) ; I say 
 they liave made me a very fair and liberal offer if I will go 
 and sing for them — only one song each evening, which is 
 light work, and I shall have no expense of dresses or 
 gloves, for I sing in the ' wings ' unseen. Don't you see 
 the panorama is really a series of pictures of Irish scenery, 
 and when they come to the finest of tliem — of course it's 
 Killarney in moonlight ; that's because they don't know the 
 glen near the Blackwater where Don Fierna lives, and 
 where mischief is done to the hearts of poor distressed 
 damsels — then the orchestra begins to play very softly and 
 sweetly, and then you hear the voice of an angel (that's me) 
 singing away somewhere — at Innisfallen or Killeenalougha. 
 I don't think much of the song they have sent me ; but I 
 dare say it will sound very nice in that mysterious Avay, 
 and the moonlight and the view of the lake will put a charm 
 into my poor singing. Now, Willie, I know you don't 
 want me to go to Dublin ; but this isn't like going to Dub- 
 lin in an ordinary kind of way, for my name won't appear 
 in the bills at all, and nobody will know who is singing. It 
 will really be a long holiday for me, and I shall come back 
 to my concert series after a sufficiently long absence j and I 
 promise you that as I shall have no audience visible, I will 
 sing every evening just as if I were singing to you, and 
 think of. you all the time; and the management will not 
 have reason to be sorry for that. Now what do you say ? 
 My father's half-pay just about keeps him, you know; but 
 I have always tried to send him some little present about 
 midsummer to induce him to go down to Ramsgate or Mar- 
 gate for a week. Then these long holdays, even with all 
 the good old Patience's economy, have very nearly emptied 
 my purse, and supposing that Prince Goldenhair were sud- 
 denly to appear and say, * Look sharp, Miss Kitty ; I've 
 found the bag of diamonds I went for; come along!' 
 "wouldn't it be very awkward if I had to say, ' Oh, but, dear 
 sir, I haven't got a farthing to buy my white satin dress 
 with ' ? So be a good boy and don't make any objections, 
 and every night I'll think of you as I'm singing the song — 
 oh, dear me, as if I had anything else to do now but think 
 of you ; with a bit of a cry now and again. 
 
! 
 
 54 SIIANDON BELLS, 
 
 " Wliat is the use of my writing to you ? I know what 
 you are doing at this moment. You are not working at 
 all ; you are not thinking of me at all ; you are walking in 
 Hyde Park with Mr. Supercilious, and admiring the fine 
 ladies, and I shouldn't wonder if he had got you to convict 
 crop your hair, like his own, and wear gloves to get your 
 hands white. Why should I waste my time on you when 
 you're not thinking about me? Perhaps you won't open 
 this letter at all; perhaps you will leave it lying unopened 
 on the table ; I shouldn't wonder a bit. 
 
 " I got Miss Patience to drive out on a car to the glen. 
 But it was common daylight, and Don Fierna and his elves 
 liad gone away indoors, and there was nothing but grum- 
 bling from the dear old Patience at her having to scramble 
 down the bank and scratch her hand with briers. She 
 couldn't imagine why I wanted to pull her to pieces like 
 that, nor could I get Andy the Hopper that same afternoon 
 to say a word about fairies or Don Fierna. Indeed, all the 
 neighborhood became quite commonplace. Inisheen is a 
 mean-looking, miserable hole ; I never saw such dirty 
 streets ; and the wretched tubs of vessels are lying not on 
 sand at all, but on mud. I hated it — except one or two 
 nights when the moon was up, and I looked out on the 
 cliffs beyond the bar, and I said to myself, ' Well, now, if 
 my bonny boy were coming home from these cliffs carrying 
 with him the wild pigeons he had been after all the day, 
 perhaps I'd like the place a little better,' and, then, you 
 know, how could I help thinking of the night you rowed 
 me home in the boat, and all Inisheen asleep, and you had 
 wrapped me up so tight in the shawl ? I waved my hand- 
 kerchief to you from the window, but I daren't lift the 
 window; so you couldn't see. I watched you go away 
 back to the town — the boat the weest black speck on the 
 the silver of the water. Dear me ! that I should say any- 
 thing against Inisheen, that is the dearest spot in the world 
 to me, and hallowed by associations that memory will 
 never give up. My dear, dear Inisheen ! My beautiful 
 Inisheen ! And will it be moonlight on that same night 
 seven years hence ? Perhaps I shall not be so frightened 
 then. 
 
 " But what I dread most of all, Willie, is next Sunday 
 morning. I know it will be a beautiful morning, just to 
 spite me. And I know liow I shall wait about tlie window 
 with all my things on long before the time, and looking 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 55 
 
 over to the clock of St. Anne's and wishing it would push 
 ahead and make the single Shandon bell strike the half- 
 hour. (Why did you quarrel with Miss Patience, Willie? 
 It was so nice to listen for your ring at the bell.) And 
 then half past ten strikes, and out I go ; and I am certain 
 ic will be the loveliest morning, and the hawthorn just 
 coming out, and all the fresh air sweet-scented. And no 
 one at the corner — the place quite empty — no trace of ^le 
 gamekeeperish young Apollo with the shy eyes and the sun- 
 brown locks, who used to say, 'The top of the moi-ning to 
 ye, Miss Kitty ! " and be so modest and grateful for her 
 condescension. Then away she goes, all alone, past the 
 barracks — but really, really and truly, honor bright, keep- 
 ing her eyes on the ground the ichole way until she has 
 passed the walls — and then do you know of a lane about 
 there. Master Willie ? Do you know of a lane about there 
 that you can go along, and twist and turn about, until you 
 get out among hedge-rows, where grown-up children can 
 pull wild flowers and say pretty things to each other? Did 
 you ever go along such a lane ? 
 
 " But you are not listening. You are out walking with 
 Mr. Superciliousness, and if there's anybody in the wide 
 world who hates you with her whole heart, it's your des- 
 pised but forgiving Kitty." 
 
 He looked at the beginning of the letter again. . 
 
 " I'm glad it rained on Tuesday," he said to himself, 
 and he thought that his conscience would perhaps absolve 
 him if he put off his work for a little while to send Kitty 
 just as long a letter as she had sent him — cheating the great 
 distance between them, as it were, and imagining himself 
 talking to her in the little room looking over the valley to 
 Shandon tower. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A FIRST CHECK. 
 
 Time passed, and Fitzgerald grew very anxious about 
 not hearing anything, good, bad, or indifferent, concerning 
 the review he had sent to Mr. Gifford. He ventured to 
 mention the matter to Hilton Clarke. 
 
56 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 " Get it back," he said, laughing, '' and put John Brown 
 into it." 
 
 However, if each morning brought its little pang of dis- 
 appointment, there was no time for balancing hope and 
 fear during the rest of the day ; for now the new magazine 
 was being pushed forward, and everybody had his hands 
 full. Everybody, that is to say, except the editor-in-chief, 
 who when Fitzgerald called on him and urged him to come 
 down to the Strand to decide some matter or other, seemed 
 much more inclined for a lounge along Piccadilly, if the 
 morning was fine, accompanied by this attentive Telema- 
 chus, who willingly listened to his discursive monologue. By 
 this time Fitzgerald had got to know something more about 
 Hilton Clarke, and had observed, among other things, that 
 he seemed quite incapable of denying himself any gratifi- 
 cation that lay within his reach. No matter what it was — 
 liaving his initials in silver on his ivory-backed hairbrushes, 
 or the purchase of an illuminated missal displayed in a shop 
 window — the whim of the moment had to be gratified, and 
 he was careful to point out to Fitzgerald that he, Hilton 
 Clarke, had already done a good deal for Mr. Scobell in 
 presenting him with the idea of this new magazine, and also 
 to assign as a reason for his carelessness or his idleness the 
 necessity of the business people having all their arrange- 
 ments completed first. 
 
 One morning Fitzgerald went up to the Albany, and 
 found his chief, with the accustomed cigarette in his hand, 
 reading the Contes llemois — or, more probably, and profi- 
 tably, looking over the delightful little woodcuts. He put 
 the book aside as Fitzgerald entered. 
 
 *' Mr. Scobell has made a suggestion that I think very 
 good," said the latter, after the usual greetings. " He thinks 
 you should have for your opening article a paper written 
 by a lawyer, some wellknown Q. C, for example, on the 
 terms of leases and arrangements, and the points that 
 should be carefully looked after. '•Points on lohich a solic- 
 itor should be corisulted^^ he suggests. You know, lots of 
 people enter into agreements about a shooting or a house 
 that look all right and safe, but that may land them any- 
 where. ISTow just at the outset wouldn't that be rather ap- 
 propriate ? " 
 
 Hilton Clarke looked at him. 
 
 " The suggestion is Scobell's." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
SHANDON BELLS. hi 
 
 " Well, you see, I don't think it is a bad one ; but at the 
 outset it is 'most important for me, and for you, and for 
 Dick Scobell to know precisely where we are. Now I am 
 the editor of this new magazine, and Mr. Scobell is not." 
 
 "Yes," said Fitzgerald, wondering; "but surely you 
 may take suggestions from anybody if they happen to be 
 worth anything ? " 
 
 " From anybody — except ray proprietor, you understand 
 No, we will get our own idea for an opening article, Fitz- 
 gerald. Let's talk about something you are more familiar 
 with. And I have some news for you. One of the most 
 charming women in London, one of the wittiest and one of 
 the best-iooking, too, has expressed an interest in you." 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said Fitzgerald, professing to be very 
 grateful, as in duty bound. 
 
 "I showed her your Woodland WalJt, and she com- 
 missioned me to ask you whether the verses were your 
 own " 
 
 " Which verses ? " said Fitzgerald, for indeed there were 
 several little bits of rhyme cunningly interwoven with that 
 gossip about birds and waterfalls. 
 
 "Why, those with the refrain, 'The little ringlets round 
 her ears.' Ah, I can see they were your own. I thought 
 so myself. And I was to ask whether the little ringlets 
 were dark or golden — golden, she guessed." 
 
 FitzgerakrHushed, and said, with an indifferent air, " I 
 suppose the lines can apply to any color — pink as well as 
 another." 
 
 " You won't tell us, then ? Well, it was a pretty notion 
 to bring the refrain in at the end of each verse. The music 
 of it catches you. If I were writing an opera, I should 
 have one particular air running all through it ; cropping 
 up here and there, you know, so that people should get 
 quite familiar with it, and be able to whistle it as they go 
 home. You have no idea how consoling it is to some j)eo- 
 ple to whistle an air from a new opera as they arc com iig 
 out. That is a pretty refrain you have in your verses, 
 
 * You hear the secret words she hears, 
 You little ringlets round her ears ! ' 
 
 Yes, I like it. The repetition is effective." 
 
 "I have been to the lithographer's," said Fitzgerald, 
 shortly. " The cover looks very well ; but 1 have told him 
 
58 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 to try red on a white ground. That would be clearly seen 
 on the book-stalls." 
 
 " Ah, yes, no doubt. Earp will see to that, I suppose. 
 Now, Fitzgerald, I suppose you know very little about 
 women as yet ? " 
 
 " I suppose riot," said the other. 
 
 "I know one thing that will surprise you when you find 
 it out, as I dare say you will." He stretched out his legs, 
 and regarded the tips of his fingers— a favorite attitude of 
 his when he nacl got something he liked to talk about. But 
 sometimes he regarded his companion. "I am quite con- 
 vinced myself that there is a large number of women who 
 know nothing about, who are incapable of knowing any- 
 thing about, the romantic sentiment of love. They have 
 never experienced it ; they will never experience it ; and 
 when they read about it in books they don't believe in it; 
 they think it is only the ridiculous exaggerations of a poet 
 or a playwright. They no more believe what they read 
 about the passion of love than a man with an unmusical ear 
 believes what people say about Mozart, or than a man 
 whose eye is uneducated believes what is written about 
 Titian. But, mind you, these are the women it is safest 
 to make a marriage contract with. They will honorably 
 fulfil their part of it ; make good wives and mothers ; and 
 be affectionate enough in a trustworthy, patient, unimagin- 
 ative sort of way, without causing any anxiety or bother. 
 Well, now, I believe there are other women who arc just as 
 much the other way — who have an absolute hunger and 
 thirst for the sentiment of love, for its dram-drinking, as 
 you might say — women of an unappeasable heart. If it is 
 your bad luck to come across one of these at the moment 
 when her affections are by some extraordinary chance dis- 
 engaged, she will almost certainly make you fall i^i love 
 with her ; and then, mind you, so long as you are near her, 
 and keep her amused and occupied with fallings out and rec- 
 onciliations and so forth, I dare say she will remain quite 
 faithful to you. Oh yes, I have no doubt of that. But if 
 you go away, that is dangerous. Her eyes will begin to 
 i"oam about, and her heart to put out trembling little feelers. 
 Of course if you were to marry her offhand, that might settle 
 It ; and certainly if she had children she would probably 
 keep all right, for she would transfer her excess of affection 
 to them. But to be left alone — to have this warm, gener- 
 ous little heart of hers waiting to be kind to somebody, and 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 59 
 
 her young eyes wounding where they look — poor thing ! — 
 liow can she help going and playing the mischief?" 
 
 " Perhaps your experience of women has been unfortu- 
 nate," said Fitzgerald, as respectfully as possible. It was 
 quite clear to him that Hilton Clarke had, perhaps in con- 
 junction with the clever lady he had referred to, been spec- 
 ulating about the person who had inspired the verses in the 
 Woodland Walk — that is to say, Kitty ; and Fitzgerald 
 resented this harmless curiosity as a piece of intolerable im- 
 pertinence. They wanted to know whether her hair was 
 dark or golden ; they had been wondering whether she was 
 a placid, faithful, unsentimental good sort of stupid crea- 
 ture, or a dangerous flirt — either suggestion seeming to him 
 monstrous; and generally, as it appeared to him, they had 
 been betraying a quite gratuitous interest in his private 
 affairs. But Hilton Clarke continued as if he were quite 
 unaware of the resentment that these generalizations of his 
 had provoked. 
 
 " No," he said, quietly, " I think not. And I would 
 call it observation rather tJian experience. I suppose, now, 
 you have never noticed tliat a woman's eyes are always 
 wandering? You have never sat at a table d'hote, and 
 watched, for the fun of the thing, have you ? " 
 
 " No, I should probably be attending to my dinner." 
 
 " Ah, that is it. That is just it. If you look at the 
 married couples, the husbands are attending to their din- 
 ners. It is the women whose eyes are constantly on the 
 alert. You may look at the man as long as you like, and 
 he won't know anything about it ; but look at the woman 
 only for a second, and lier eyes will meet yours — of cours^ 
 instantly to turn away again. Indeed, I believe that women 
 can tell when they are being regarded, even when their own 
 eyes are bent upon the table. It is a kind of instinct." 
 
 " You seem to do a good deal of staring when you go 
 abroad," remarked Fitzgerald. 
 
 " No ; I think not. But I have tried the experiment a 
 few times. Oh, by the way, my charming friend says I may 
 take you to one of her smoking-parties." 
 
 " Smoking-parties ? Are there ladies there ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course." 
 
 " And they smoke ? " 
 
 *'If they are inclined to. Some do; some don't. It is 
 Li])erty Hall." 
 
 '* And does the charming lady smoke ? " said Fitzgerald. 
 
GO S HAND ON BELLS, 
 
 timidly. He wanted to know something about her, as sho 
 had wanted to know something about Kitty. 
 
 " Well, occasionally. But she is quite as willing to sit 
 in a corner with you, and talk to you ; and very so(»n you 
 will imagine you are listening to one of the laughing ladies 
 out of Boccaccio. But it is dangerous." 
 
 "What is?" 
 
 " Her trying to keep those parties away from Sir John's 
 ears. She'd much better own up. Some time or other he'll 
 come back from Ireland unexpectedly, and there will be a 
 row.'' 
 
 " Sir John is her husband, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes. I've asked her to write an article on grass 
 widows for our magazine, and I'll have to see it doesn't set 
 Clapham in a blaze — Islington, rather. But we shan't have 
 many subscribers in Islington." 
 
 " I think I must be oft" now," said Fitzgerald, rising. 
 " You think, then, Mr. Scobel had better not speak about 
 that article to a lawyer ? " 
 
 " I think, with Mr. Scobell's permission, I will edit the 
 magazine myself. And so I am not to take any message 
 about the little ringlets about her ears ? " 
 
 " Oh, certahily, I told you," said Fitzgerald, "that pink 
 was a good color. Let them be pink, if you like." 
 
 " Wait a bit," said the other laughing. " You won't be 
 60 uncommunicative when a certain bright-eyed lady gets 
 you into a corner and talks to you, and asks to be allowed 
 to light her cigarette at yours. Tliat is coming very near, 
 isn't it ? Good-by. Oh, about that review : if you are 
 anxious, why don't you call and ask Gifford about it ?" 
 
 " I would," said Fitzgerald, hesitatingly, " if I thought 
 I shouldn't be driving him." 
 
 " Oh, bother him ! " said Hilton Clarke, cheerfully. " If 
 he does not want it, we can use it in the magazine." 
 
 That parting touch took away all Fitzgerald's resent- 
 ment. The man was really good-natured. And even sup- 
 posing he had been driving his questions or his surmises 
 about Kitty a little too close, might it not have been 
 through a really friendly interest ? Then, again, it was some- 
 thing that so great and acknowledged an authority as Hil- 
 ton Clarke had looked favorably on the little verses. Fitz- 
 gerald had placed no great store by them himself. He had, 
 indeed, hidden them away in a rambling sort of gossij), iju- 
 agining that no one but Kitty and himself would know that 
 
SHA NDON BELLS. 1 
 
 be liimself had written them. And as they had pleased tlie 
 great critic, he would write to Kitty and tell her. Had she 
 not a sort of joint ownership in theni? 
 
 Fitzgerald had now to return to the Strand ; and as he 
 was walking along tliat tlioroughfare, it suddenly occnrred 
 to him that he would take Hiltan Clark's advice, and call 
 at the Liberal Review office, and so pnt an end to his anxiety. 
 The advice was well meant ; but it was injudicious; and 
 still more injudicious was Fitzgerald's choice of an oppor- 
 tunity To go and worry an editor about a neglected manu- 
 script is a mistake at any time ; but to do so before luncheon 
 is pure madness. When the morning scramble of corre- 
 spondence is well over, when the frugal chop and pint of 
 claret have moderated the sceva indignatio produced by the 
 contrariety of things, and, when, perhaps, the mild Manila 
 and the evening papers may be still further inducing the 
 editorial mind to repose, then, indeed, there may be hope 
 for the anxious inquirer; but not before. Fitzgerald had 
 to wait some twenty minutes in the office, during which 
 time there was a constant passing up and down stairs on 
 the part of strangers, whom lie regarded with considerable 
 awe. Then a boy brought him a message that Mr Gifford 
 could see him, and he followed the inky-fingered Mercury. 
 In a minute or two he was standing very much like a cul- 
 prit in front of a long writing table ; and Mr. Gifford, who 
 was on the other side, and who looked impatient and troubled 
 and hurried, was plunging to and fro in a sea of manuscripts. 
 
 " Ah, here it is,""he said at last. " Sit down. Glad 
 
 you have called. I meant to write. Well, you see " He 
 
 looked over a page or two, and an expression of dissatisfac- 
 tion was very plainly on his face. " Why, you seem to 
 liave found nothing in the book, one way or the other ! " 
 
 If Fitzgerald had had his wits about him, he would per- 
 haps have remarked that that was precisely what he had 
 found in the book ; but he was far too disturbed and aghast 
 at the querulous fashion in which the editor spoke of the 
 article upon which he had built so many hopes. 
 
 "No, I don't think this wdll do," continued Mr. Gifford, 
 looking over the pages. " I am sorry to have given you 
 the trouble ; but really you have made nothing out of the 
 book. Surely tiiere must be something in it, good or bad ; 
 you liave found it nothing but lukewarm, like the Church 
 of the Lacedemonians. There is no flavor in what you 
 have written. Look there ! " 
 
62 SIIANDON BELLS. 
 
 Fitzgerald was too agitated to think of putting the Lao- 
 diceans in their ])roper historical place ; he mechanically 
 took from Mr. Gifford a printed slip which the latter pulled 
 off a file. It turned out to be a proof of a bookseller's ad- 
 vertisement ; and at the head of the column appeared the 
 contents of the forth-coming number of a great Quarterly. 
 
 "Do you see ? " continued Mr. Gifford. " That article 
 about ' A New Novelist ' has been called forth by this very 
 book til at you see nothing in ; and I am told they regard 
 its publication as marking a new departure in English liter- 
 ature." 
 
 " Then I say that that is most shameful," said Fitzgerald, 
 driven to desperation. " There must have been briber j^ or 
 personal influence. The book is as weak and feeble as it 
 can be ; it is a scandal to English journalism that bribery 
 of some kind or another should have got such an article 
 written." 
 
 " How can you tell ? " said the other, peevishly. " In 
 your opinion the book is bad. Other people may not 
 think so. And even you don't seem to think the book bad 
 enough to call forth any definite disparagement." 
 
 " It is merely frivolous." 
 
 "And you are even complimentary here and there. 
 Well, then, perhaps you will excuse me if I point out some 
 things that may be of service to you. You know you 
 ought to be accurate in your quotations : — 
 
 De par le Boij defense a Dieu 
 D^operer miracle en ce lieu. 
 
 JD^operer instead of defaire miracle^ and that in so familiar 
 a quotation, " 
 
 " But d'operer is right," says Fitzgerald, hastily inter 
 rupting. 
 
 Gifford stopped and regarded him. 
 
 "Oh, is It? What is your authority? I should have 
 thought the old police distich was well enough known." 
 
 Fitzgerald was so anxious to justify himself that his 
 memory failed him altogether at this critical point. Nothing 
 but confusion met him when he tried to recall where he 
 had met with that luckless couplet. And so Mr. Gifford, 
 turning from him to the manuscript, proceeded : — 
 
 " Then you introduce extraneous matter for no sufiicient 
 reason. You say here, * One might arrive at a sort of nega- 
 
SITANDON BELLS. C3 
 
 tive defiiiition of poetry by saying that it was precisely that 
 quality which, is conspicuously absent from every page of 
 Pope, and which is conspicuously present in nlmost every 
 line of Coleridge.' Now what is the use of advancing an 
 opinion like that? " 
 
 *' One of the characters in the book — — " 
 
 " Yes, yes,'' said Mr. Gifford, witli an impatience that 
 was scarcely civil ; though it was most likely he had been 
 worried about something or other tliat morning; "but a 
 reviewer can not be expected to set all the opinions of all 
 the characters in a book right. And when you proceed to 
 remove Pope from the category of English poets, you want 
 more than a single sentence if you would justify yourself. 
 It is not enough for you to say that such and such a thing 
 is : you must prove it to be so. You can't go and settle 
 lialf a hundred disputed literary points in the course of a 
 single book notice " 
 
 " I am sorry it won't do," said Fitzgerald, lifting his 
 hat. "I may as well take the manuscript with me, if you 
 don't mind." 
 
 "I am sorry you have had the trouble; but one must 
 learn reviewing as other things ; and perhaps I made a 
 mistake in thinking you had had enough practice. There 
 are one or two other points I might show you." 
 
 " Oh no, thank you ; no, thank you," said Fitzgerald, 
 with great courtesy ; " I wouldn't trouble you. I must not 
 take up so much of your time. Good-morning. I am very 
 much obliged to you." 
 
 And so he got himself out of the ofHce with all his mind 
 aflame. It was not so much disappointment as indignation 
 that consumed him — indignation that such a book should 
 be made so great a matter of, simply because it was written 
 by a member of the government, by a man in political life. 
 What was the objection, then, to this review but that he had 
 not made it violent enough either with praise or blame ? If 
 he had made of it a balloon, now, and tied the worthless 
 volumes to it and sent them up into the blue, or if he had 
 made a nether millstone of it and hung it round Spencer 
 Tollemache's neck and plunged him in mid-ocean, no doubt 
 the black-browed editor would have been charmed. But 
 because he had merely told the truth, the review was luke- 
 warm, like the Lacedemonians! And defaire miracle! — 
 he knew it was d'operer miracle ! As for Pope, he declared 
 to himself that the whole " Essay on Man," boiled down 
 
 I 
 
C4 SJ/ANDON BELLS. 
 
 and strained tlirougli a cotton rag, would not produce ah 
 much poetry as you could find in a single phrase of Ilei-rick' 
 or Suckling s. And then he devoted the whole art and 
 function of criticism to the infernal gods : and then — in the 
 middle of the Strand, among the hurrying strangers — ht 
 laughed lightly. 
 
 For it suddenly occurred to him that to betray sucli 
 temper, or to feel so keenly his disappointment, was not 
 bearing out the character that Andy and Hopper had given 
 of him to Kitty. Was he going to allow this first bit of 
 misfortune to cast him down ? He began to regard the 
 matter from a common-sense point of view. After all, his 
 being debarred from further hope of contributing to the 
 Ijiheral Meview (and he liad to admit that Mr. Gifford's 
 manner seemed conclusive on that point) did not necessarily 
 doom him to starvation. And why should he be angry 
 with the ereat Quarterly, even if it had been unduly influ- 
 enced ? The public would speedily put the matter right 
 by leaving the book, if it was worthless, unread. Wlien he 
 came to think of it, moreover, there might be some justifi- 
 cation for Mr. Gifford's harsh censure, regarding the article 
 from the editorial point of view. Doubtless he ought to 
 have left Pope alone. He should not have altered a familiar 
 quotation without being ready with his authority. In fact, 
 by the time that he had reached Ch;iring Cross he had con- 
 vinced himself that the world was not so much amiss; and 
 this gradual revival from his fit of disappointment did not 
 at all stop there ; but quite suddenly — and in a manner that 
 seemed to fill all the dusky sunlight of the Strand with a 
 sort of rose-color — it sprang to a wild resolve. What if he 
 were to go away back to Ireland, and spend a day among the 
 hawthorn lanes with Kitty ? 
 
 He could not resist. The rebound from that extreme 
 depression carried him away with it ; and only the necessity 
 of havion to buy a Bradshaw and get some information out 
 of that distressing volume succeeded in calming down this 
 bewilding delight and anticipation that had seized hold of 
 liim. Yes, by taking the mail train to Bristol that night, 
 which was a Friday, he could reach Cork on Saturday even- 
 ing ; and then the Sunday morning — and his meeting Kitty 
 — and clasping her warm white little hand ! The whole trip 
 would cost little over two pounds: was it not his only 
 chance before the long drudgery of the new magazine be- 
 gan ? A hundred times over he i^ictured to himself Kitty's 
 
SIIANDON BELLS. 65 
 
 face when she should suddenly see him there waiting for 
 her, and each time the expression was different. And as 
 for reviews, and quotations, and black-browed editors, and 
 any fifteen dozen of Daphne's Shadows, he let all these 
 things slip entirely away from him, to bo lost in the jangle 
 and roar of the mighty town he was leaving. He was not 
 thinking of them at all. He was thinking of Sunday morn- 
 ing and of Kitty's tender look of wonder and welcome. 
 
 It was about a quarter past eight in the evening when 
 he reached Cork, and they were just beginning to light the 
 lamps. There was still a lurid sort of twilight in the 
 stormy purple-blue sky, and the pavements were of a wan 
 gray ; but o-ne after another the orange ])oints of the lamps 
 declared themselves, and here and there a warm glow shone 
 out from the shop windows. The omnibus rattled through the 
 town, past the black groups of idlers ; now and again a 
 woman darting out with an angry objurgation to snatch in 
 a vagrant child. He had been looking forward to his pass- 
 ing through the familiar streets as a sort of dream. Now it 
 seemed strangely real. Tiiat sense of being at home that 
 he had never experienced in the vast wilderness of London 
 had possession of him again ; the accent of the people had 
 a pleasant, almost ])athetic, touch in it ; he seemed to know 
 them, so well, to have got back among old friends. 
 
 But he was not going to seek to see Miss Romayne that 
 night, wildly as his heart beat when he thought of her being 
 so near him — just over there in the darkness — little think- 
 ing of what was in store for her. No ; he would wait for 
 the morning ; he would have nothing less than the fresh and 
 clear May morning to show him the sudden, glad lovelight 
 leap into Kitty's wondering eyes. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " WHEN ALL THE WORLD WAS YOUNG." 
 
 Master Willie was up and abroad early the next morn- 
 ing — too early, indeed, for anything but a stroll through 
 the wide, empty, silent thoroughfares of Cork. It was a 
 lovely morning ; the sunlight shining clear on the tali fronts 
 
C6 SIIANDON BELLS, 
 
 of the houses, and on the deserted streets ; a light breeze 
 from the south bringing with it suggestions of the sea; tho 
 silence only broken by the occasional soft tolling of a dis- 
 tant bell. Was it the silence of this Sunday morning that 
 made the place seem so strange ? — for surely he had not 
 been long enough in London to have forgotten these famil- 
 iar streets. Or was the keen interest and even affection 
 with which he regarded so well-known a tlioroughfare as 
 the South Mall, for example, due to far other causes? Sup- 
 pose that as lie walked along he did not see this actual 
 sunlight around him at all; suppose that instead he was im- 
 agining these pavements swimming wet on a dark and mis- 
 erable week-day night ; the cars rattling by and splashing 
 mud : and two figures closely holding together, arm in arm, 
 under one umbrella? And suppose now that he sees one 
 of these two look suddenly up to her companion with a 
 quick, earnest gaze — a look of revelation, confession, com- 
 plete surrender of love — a look that pledged her life away ? 
 For even the South Mall, in its canopy of darkness and 
 rain, may enclose the rose-red, shining jewel of a love- 
 secret. 
 
 So he walked hither and thither to pass the time away, 
 half dreaming of these recent days that already seemed to 
 be growing distant, until he found himself in the broad and 
 winding thoroughfare of St. Patrick's Street, where more 
 passers-by were now becoming visible. Was this then, the 
 part of the Beautiful City that he had tried to persuade 
 Kitty was like Venice ? He looked at the place with. a new 
 interest ( comparing it with the Fulham road ), and perhaps 
 also, as he thought of Kitty, with a trifle of compunction. 
 But at all events it was picturesque enough — these masses 
 of tall, narrow variously built houses in all sorts of archi- 
 tecture ; their slate fronts, their red brick fronts, their 
 plaster fronts, their stone fronts, their bow windows, 
 flat windows, and French windows all shining in the 
 sun, and their uneven sky-line sharp against the blue ; and 
 if he did make that bold comparison to Kitty, no doubt he 
 pointed out to her that they were standing on an island ; 
 tliat there was actually water running below the street ; the 
 street itself leading down there to the canal-like Lee, with its 
 busy quays and boats and bridges. He looked at his watch — 
 it was half past nine : would Kitty chance to have put on 
 that pretty soft gray silk dress he was so fond of, with its 
 touch of deep crimson here and there ? Poor Kitty : she 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 67 
 
 did not know he was down here by St. Patrick's Bridge, 
 looking at the boats. 
 
 He crossed the river and began to ascend leisurely 
 enough the steep and rugged little thoroughfare leading to 
 Audley Place. Every step had an interest for him ; he rec- 
 ognized every feature of it — the red road, the white walls 
 hot in the sun, the soft green of the foliage, here and there 
 the golden tresses of a laburnum hanging over from a gar- 
 den. And Kitty had to toil up this steep ascent on the 
 dark nights going home — sometimes getting wet, too, for 
 want of a covered car. Thr.t was because the Prince had 
 not found his bag of diamonds yet. Never mind ; the 
 world had not come to an end merely because Mr. Gifford 
 did not like the review of Daphne's Shadow ; and Kitty 
 might have even something better than a covered car, all 
 in due time. 
 
 At length he reached the little terrace on the top 
 of the hill that is known as Audley Place ; and he passed 
 along to the end, so that Kitty should not see him prem- 
 aturely ; and leaned his arms on the red stone wall 
 that enclosed a meadow, in the long grass of which rooks 
 were loudly cawing. How well he knew the spacious pic- 
 ture that now lay before him ! — of Cork, and its surround- 
 ings, and the outlying country. The bulk of the city, it is 
 true, lay down there in the hollow to the left ; a dishevelled 
 heap of purple slate roofs softened over by a pale blue smoke, 
 with masses of dark green foliage farther up the valley, and a 
 glimmer here and there of the Lee. But then from the deep 
 of this ravine the hill opposite him sloped gradually upward, 
 the slate roofs becoming less and less dense, until in mid- 
 air rose erect and tall and square the dark red tower of St. 
 Anne's which holds the Shandon bells ; at the foot of it the 
 little churchyard, with its gray stones, and the green and gbld 
 of grass and buttercups together. Then, still getting higher, 
 the houses grow fewer ; the sunlight catching here and there 
 on a white gable among the gardens ; the town loses itself 
 m the country ; there are lush meadowns dotted with 
 sheep ; there are tall hedges powdered with hawthorn 
 blossoms ; there is a farmhouse half hidden among 
 the elms. And then, finally, the long, softly undu- 
 lating sky-line, brilliant in the sunny green of the spring- 
 time, meets the tender aerial blue of the morning sky, and 
 we reach the limits of what is visible from the red stone 
 wall, or even from Kitty Romayne's window behind us. 
 
63 SIIANDON BELLS. 
 
 Master Willie's heart was very full : for there was not a 
 wild thoroughfare in that dusky city — no, nor a little by-path 
 in the suburbs, nor a winding road leading through the fair 
 green country beyond — that he and Kitty had not made them 
 selves familiar with in their long perambulations. And Shan- 
 don tower over there — how could he forget the pretty speech 
 she made when he had casually said it was odd of the 
 builders to have made this one side of it next them red and 
 the other three sides gray? " I am going to be like Shandon 
 steeple,Willie ; and the rose-red side of my love will always 
 be turned to you ; and other people may think me gray if 
 they like." Perhaps it was a trifle incoherent ; but Kitty 
 was not a literary person ; and at all events he knew what 
 she meant. 
 
 The slow hands of Shandon clock were now invisibly 
 drawing toward half past ten ; and so he thought he would go 
 round the corner and await her there, where their meeting 
 could bo observed by no one. He paced up and down by 
 this tall gray cheerless stone wall ; and he wished the villain 
 rooks would not make such a cawing. But nevertheless the 
 silence was sufficient to let him hear the swinging of a gate. 
 Then he listened, his heart like to choke him. Then — he 
 could not tell how it happened — the world became just filled 
 with a wild delight ; for here was the identical soft gray 
 dress, and the pretty little figure, and Kitty herself, who 
 was passing him without looking up. But what was this ? 
 Was she rying? Was she trying to hide her face from any 
 stranger r 
 
 "Kitty !— Kitty, what is the matter ? " 
 
 Sb.e turned instantly — the wet eyes startled, her face 
 grown suddenly pale ; and then, after one second of wild 
 bewilderment and joy, she threw herself sobbing and cry- 
 ing into his arms. 
 
 " Oh, it is you after all, Willie ! I thought you were 
 coming to-day ; I thought of it all the morning ; and then 
 to come out and find no one " 
 
 ** But how could you think I was coming, aiy darling?'' 
 he cried. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know, I don't know," she said, almost 
 wildly ; " something in a letter, I think. See, I put on the 
 dress you liked, I made so sure — but, but — oh, you have come 
 to me after ail, Willie ; " and with that she kissed him, and 
 kissed both his hands, and kissed the sleeve of his coat half 
 a dozen times, holding his arm tight the while. '* Oh, don't 
 
SHANDON BELLS if'y^ 69 
 
 
 go away again, Willie ! Don't leave nie again. I can not 
 live without you — it is not living at all. You won't go away 
 again, Willie will you? We will live on nothing rather." 
 
 The light that was shining in her eyes as she regarded 
 him ! 
 
 '' And they liaven't altered your looks a bit, Willie — not 
 one bit. My bonny boy ! Promise me you'll never, never, 
 never go away again, Willie ! " 
 
 " Well, you audacious creature ! " he said, putting 
 straight the pretty little gray hat with its crimson feather. 
 " Whose fiery, ambition was it sent me away ? " 
 
 '* Oh, but I've found out my fault ; and haven't I cried 
 enough about it too? I don't want any more ambition ; I 
 want you Willie; and I'd work for you if I were to work my 
 fingers off." 
 
 But at this moment a smart young corporal, having 
 emerged from the gate of the barracks, cnine along tlie road 
 whistling *' Garryowon" and twirling his small cane. So 
 Kitty had to dry her eyes and look presentable ; and slie 
 slipped her hand into her lover's arm and they proceeded 
 on their way — well known to both of them. 
 
 " That is a most praiseworthy sentiment, Kitty," he said, 
 m answer to her proposal. " I suppose you would sing in the 
 streets : and I could enjoy myself in an ale-house with a long 
 pipe — isn't that how it generally ends? But now that I've 
 begun, I'm going on ; and some day or otlier Kitty won't 
 have to get wet through in going home from a concert at 
 niglit " 
 
 " Oh, Willie, that is too cruel ! Did I ever complain ? 
 What a stupid I was to mention it even " 
 
 " Never mind. You see, I've got a very fair start, Kitty 
 four pounds a week for a half-mechanical land of work that 
 will leave me many chances of getting ahead in other direc- 
 tions. And what have you to say now. Miss Romayne, 
 about the person you suspected so much ? I think you 
 ought to be grateful to him. I don't know any one else 
 who would have so gone out of his way to befriend a stran- 
 ger." 
 
 " That's like you," said Miss Romayne, promptly. 
 " You're too simple. My dearest, you think everybody's 
 like yourself. Don't I see through your fine friend ? Every- 
 thing you have told me in your letters confirms it. I can 
 see it. The fact is, he never thought about that magazine 
 until he saw you at Inisheen j and then he thought he 
 
70 SHAN DON BELLS, 
 
 could make some use of such an unusual combination oi 
 knowledge of all kinds of out-of-door sports along with 
 literary genius " 
 
 " Hillo, Kitty ; we're on the line of high phrases." 
 
 "Oh," she said, coolly, "if you don't know what you 
 are, I do. It was you who gave him the idea of the maga- 
 zine — I will wager anything " 
 
 "A kiss?" 
 
 " Yes — and pay you now if you like." 
 
 By this time they had got to the end of Fairy Lane — 
 which may be a Fairy Lane enough in certain circum- 
 stances, though as a matter of fact it has a gaunt stone wall 
 on one side and a row of commonplace little cottages on 
 the other — and were making their way round by the back 
 of the barracks, by rugged little roads and crumbling walls 
 and stunted hedges, to the open country. 
 
 "I say," continued Miss liomayne, " that he got the 
 idea of that magazine from you. Gratitude, indeed ! Where 
 else could he have found any one fit for such a place? 
 Where else could he have got any one who knows all 
 about hounds, and horses, and salmon, and things like that, 
 and who has the education, and ability, and humor of a de- 
 lightful writer to make it all — all — all just delightful? " 
 
 '' But wait a minute, Kitty," said he. " Are you so 
 sure about all those nice things ? I know I can shoot 
 snipe " 
 
 *' And you once brought down a wild duck," said Kitty, 
 demurely. " Crippled her entirely — she couldn't fly away 
 a wee bit ever after." 
 
 " But I want you to be just to Hilton Clarke — but for 
 the post he has given me do you think I'd be here this 
 morning ? — and I want to assure you, Kitty, that every- 
 body doesn't regard my literary masterpieces as you do. I 
 told you about the review I had written. Of course I 
 should have been awfully glad to get an article into the 
 Liberal lleview — even if it had been only three times a 
 year. I never dreamed of such a thing being possible " 
 
 *'Yes, but it is possible. You told me " 
 
 " I called on Mr. Gifford on Friday. Oh, he wouldn't 
 have it at all." 
 
 But Kitty was not the one to be daunted. 
 
 " The more fool he ! " she said, with decision. Nay, 
 she stamped iier little foot, and said : " And if he were 
 
SUA ND ON BELLS. 7 1 
 
 here, I would tell him so ! Why, thesp old fosses are all 
 running in grooves " 
 
 *' But fossils don't run in grooves, Kitty." 
 
 " And they can't recognize fresh talent," she continued 
 not heeding him in her wrath. "How could they be ex- 
 pected to recognize yours ? You haven't been brought up 
 in libraries and inky dens all your life. You have been 
 brought up face to face with the real things of the world — 
 with the sea, and the sky, and the dark nights, and tiie 
 winter, and all about Inisheen that you have told me. 
 That's living ; that's not talking about living, or earning 
 your bread by writing about what other people have said 
 about living. Wiiat would Mr. Gifford have done when 
 the ship came ashore at Kenvane Head? Do you think ho 
 could have scrambled down the cliffs to help the fisher- 
 men — " 
 
 " But his business is to write, Kitty " 
 
 " It is not ; it is to write about other people's wn-iting," 
 she said, promptly. " Why, I'd like to have seen him^ 
 write that description of that very thing — the struggles of 
 the fishermen, and then the captain's wife refusing to be 
 saved because her child was drowned. Would thei-e have 
 been any need to cry if Ae had written it? Would they 
 liave got w]} a subscription if he had written it? No, I 
 think not. And I should like to see him try to throw a 
 salmon line thirty-eight yards ! And do you think he 
 could have climbed up the face of the Priest's Rock with a 
 gun in his hand ?" 
 
 *' But these things are not necessary to the editing of a 
 paper, Kitty." said lie, laughing. " And it's very kind of 
 you to try and find excuses ; but I am afraid the truth was 
 that I wrote a bad review, and Mr. Gifford properly said no. 
 Well, I was very down-hearted about it " 
 
 "You!" she exclaimed, with a smile of scepticism. 
 " No, you can't.make me believe that. The tiling isn't in 
 existence that is likely to turn your liair gray," 
 
 " Unless it's you, yourself, Kitty ; — what do you say to 
 that? But I was — entirely down in my boots; for I'd 
 rather see an article of mine printed in the Liberal Review 
 than be made Lord-Lieutenant and live at the Castle. And 
 then I walked along a bit ; and then I thought that the 
 hawthorn must be out about the woods and hedges here ; 
 and that you would be having your Sunday morning walk 
 
72 SHANDON DELLS. 
 
 all alone ; and then I said to myself, * I'm going to seo 
 Kitty, whatever happens ! ' " 
 
 " And if it was Mr. Gifford that led you to say that, 
 Willie, I'll forgive him ; though I still think him a stupid 
 person who doesn't know his own interests. Oh, I made so 
 sure you would be at the gate this morning ! You told me 
 last week always to look out for tlie unexpected, or some- 
 thing like that ; and what do I care to expect about or think 
 about except you ? I haven't had on this dress since you 
 left ; I thought I would keep it till you came back. Miss 
 Patience said this morning, * Catherine, why aro you taking 
 out that gray dress again 'i ' and I said, ' Well, I can't liave 
 all my things saturated with camphor ; I must take them 
 out and air them sometimes.' And then when I came out 
 and saw no one, I — I thought it was too bad. I don't 
 know whether I was angry with you^ or with myself, or 
 London and the tall yellow man " 
 
 " Now, now, Kitty, none of that ! How can you be 
 spiteful on such a morning? See, here is a bit of haw- 
 thorn ; let me pin it on for you. I thought the hawthorn 
 would be out. The hedges over there look as if there was 
 snow on them." 
 
 By this time their arm-in-arm loiterings and meander- 
 ings had brought them witliin view of a spacious tract of 
 country that lay fair in the warm and clear sunlight. The 
 landscape, it is true, was somewhat marred by certain tall 
 chimneys that rose in the valley below, with mountains of 
 refuse hard by, and a coal-black railway line twisting 
 through; but there was no need for them to look that way 
 unless they liked. Here on these sunny uplands were still 
 meadows all bestarred with daisies, and hedges white with 
 the fresh-scented May, and over there were softly foliaged 
 woods all in the tender green of the springtime. Then the 
 fair mansion on that distant hill — looking so white among 
 the trees : had its stately repose any attraction for youthful 
 eyes and thoughts ? Was there any dream of resting in 
 some such place, away above the din of the world, after the 
 fight and stress are over? Or rather, were not such 
 ambitions quite imthought of? Was it not enough for 
 them to have this still, beautiful morning, the sunlight on 
 the warm meadows, the skies blue above them ; to havo 
 life, love, and youth ; a pressure of the hand, a glance of 
 kindly eyes, perhaps a swiftly snatched kiss where the 
 hedges were tall? For indeed the place was so still and 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 73 
 
 silent on this fair morning that they were sucldenly startled 
 by a peculiar silken whistling noise in the air, and looking 
 up, they found that an equally startled rook had just flown 
 over their heads, and was already half-way across the mea- 
 dow behind. 
 
 She stooped and picked a germander speedwell from the 
 bank, kissed it, and gave it to him. 
 
 "It is just the color of your eyes, Willie," she said. 
 *' They keep reminding me of you when I am out walking ; 
 and oh ! it is so lonely walking now ! I have to go over all 
 the things you ever said to me ; it is my only company. I 
 say to myself ' Here Ave quarrelled ' ; and again, ' Here we 
 made it up ' ; and * There's the stile he helped me over, 
 and caught me when I jumped down' ; and ' Here's where 
 tlie anemones used to grow, that he used to put in my hair.' 
 Then on I go again ; thinking of all the nice love-names you 
 used to call me ; and not a human being to say a civil word 
 to one — nothing but the cows staring at you, and the flow- 
 ers all occupied with their own business of drinking in the 
 sunlight. And of course every one else you meet is sure to 
 have a companion " 
 
 " Never mind, Kitty," said he. " You'll have plenty of 
 society in Dublin ; you will have half the young oflicers 
 from tiic barracks wanting to get introduced to you." 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" she said. "Indeed! I'd ask them if 
 they had learned their drill yet ; and if there wasn't one 
 part of it called * Right-about-face.' But it is very nice of 
 you not to object to my going to Dublin, Willie. You see, 
 it will be a six weeks' engagement, and for me a six weeks' 
 holiday as well ; and no silk dresses, or gloves, or music, or 
 bou-juetsto buy. And they say the picture of Killarney is 
 quite lovely ; and just imagine how effective it will be — 
 the lights in the theatre all down ; then the moonlight be- 
 gins to show on Muckross Abbey, perhaps, or perhaps it's 
 Innisfallen, and all the water begins to be silver, and then 
 the orchestra plays a very slow accompaniment ; and then — 
 I am going to begin very softly — you hear ' By Killarney's 
 lakes and fells,' sung somewhere in the distance. You must 
 imagine it to be a voice in the air ; and won't I do my best 
 with it when it is my boy's native country that it is all 
 about ! Ah me ! there won't be anybody then to sing my 
 praises in the Cork Chronicle. It will no longer be re- 
 served for' an English singer to reveal to the Irish people 
 +Jie pathos of anything at all No ; the only one she ever 
 
7d "; II AN DON BELLS. 
 
 cared to sing for will be far away, not thinking of her, but 
 having fine dinners in his splendid rooms in London." 
 
 He burst out laughing. 
 
 " My splendid room in the Fulham Road, Kitty, is fur- 
 nished with one table and two chairs, and is otherwise 
 about as bare as a billiard ball. You don't get much 
 splendor for six shillings a week." 
 
 "Ah," she said, shyly, "if you had only stayed in Ire- 
 land you might have had lodgings cheaper than that." 
 
 "Where? "lie asked. 
 
 " You might," said she, very prettily, and with her eyes 
 cast down — "you might have 'lived in my heart, and pjxid 
 no rent.' " 
 
 However, not once during this long, delicious ramble 
 along lanes, and by farmhouses, and through woods, did 
 Miss Romayne recur to that first eager heart-cry of hers 
 that he should give up his ambitious projects in London, 
 and come back to L*eland. For although she could make 
 love very pi-ettily, in a shy, tender, and bewitching fashion, 
 she was nevertheless a sensible young woman, and slie per- 
 ceived that whether she liked Mr. Hilton Clarke or not, he 
 was affording her lover a very fair start in London literary 
 life. No, she would not ask him to sacrifice those prospects 
 merely to gratify sentiment ; but seeing that he was here, 
 and seeing that merely to touch the sleeve of his coat, to 
 know that he was beside her, was the greatest delight in 
 the world to her, her first thought was how he and she 
 could be most together. 
 
 " When do you go back, Willie ? " 
 
 " To-morrow morning." 
 
 " To-morrow morning ! " she cried, and her face fell. 
 " Must you ? " 
 
 " My darling, I must, without a doubt." 
 
 " But this is dreadful, Willie. Am I only to see you 
 for three hours — and — and the three hours nearly over — " 
 
 Her eyes began to fill, and her lips to tremble. 
 
 " What do you mean, Kitty ? The whole day is before 
 us " 
 
 "There's dinner at two," she said, with her eyes turned 
 aside from him, " and there's church in the afternoon ; and 
 then Miss Patience will expect me to stay in all the even- 
 ing; and how can I see you? Three hours — and it may be 
 years again." 
 
 " Oh, but that won't do at all, Kitty," said he, cheer- 
 
SHANDON- BELLS, 75 
 
 fully. "I haven't come all this way to spend a day with 
 you, and have half of it cut off. Not a bit. I am going 
 to call on Miss Patience. I am going to apologize for any 
 and every offence that she can think of — for I'm sure I 
 don't know what I've done. She may draw up a list aa 
 long as my arm — or as long as her face, which is longer — 
 and I'll write at tlie foot of it : ' Peccam peccatam grancle^ 
 et mihi conscius muhorum delictorum, sed gratia Patientia) 
 — that's through the favor of Miss Patience, Kitty — I've 
 been acquitted." 
 
 Kitty's face rose again. 
 
 *'And. I think it could be managed, Willie, if yoi 
 wouldn't mind being a little considerate. I have founr. 
 out what made most of the mischief. You printed a lette< 
 of hers in the Cork Chronicler 
 
 " I know I did ; I thought she would bo pleased.'' 
 
 " But she sent it annoymously." 
 
 " I only appended her initials. I recognized the hand- 
 svritmg, and it was a sensible enough letter. I thought she 
 would be pleased." 
 
 *' But you don't understand, Willie ; I must tell you 
 about poor old Patience, though it is absurd. You see, 
 she takes a great interest in public affairs, and thinks she 
 is in a good position for being an impartial adviser — «ot in- 
 fluenced by interested motives, you understand, Willie — 
 and so she writes letters to the newspaper editors through 
 out the country, and to the cabinet ministers, and advises 
 them. She writes and approves of what they've said, oi 
 she suggests things they should do, and of course some- 
 times they do do that, and then poor old Patience is very 
 delightful to live with, for she'll let you do anything on 
 these days. But then she believes that if her name was 
 known, all her influence in public affairs would fade away, 
 for the public would think he was wanting something from 
 them, and so she writes anonymously. Then you must 
 needs go and discover her secret, and put her initials to the 
 letter." 
 
 " There was no harm in the letter, Kitty. It only said 
 that on some particular question — I forget what — we were 
 the only paper in the country tliat spoke the truth, and 
 every editor likes to print letters like that." 
 
 " Then the very next day, I believe, you must needs go 
 and say something about editors being plagued with corres- 
 pondence, and that she took to herself — " 
 
76 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 " I wnsn't even thinking of her, Kitty ; thongli anything 
 more diabolical tlian a woman who spends her life in tor- 
 turing editors and cabinet ministers with continual writing 
 to tliem — " 
 
 " Whish — sh — sh ! Many a pleasant evening you owe 
 to Miss Patience, young man. So now I'm going in to 
 dinner. No, you mustn't think of it; I will manage it; 
 men always bungle these things; and if you go and get 
 your dinner, and be back about here at three, I will send 
 you a message somehow as to how the weather looks. 
 Oh, where are you staying, Willie ? " 
 
 " At the Imperial.'' 
 
 " Sure, can't ye say the Impayrial ? " remonstrated Miss 
 Romayne. " Very w^ell then, I will try to send a line to 
 you there." 
 
 " Is it much use ? " he asked. " I am coming to spend 
 the afternoon with you, Kitty, whatever kind of weather 
 there is." 
 
 *' Go away now, you headstrong boy ! You may have 
 command over Don Fierna and his pixies in that dreadful 
 glen, but you don't know how to manage a woman's temper. 
 Good-by, Willie — oh, dear me how 1 shall hate the ser- 
 mon ! " 
 
 '' Good-by, Kitty. Tell Miss Patience that I know quite 
 well whose advice it was that induced the American gov- 
 ernment to give up Mason and Slidell." 
 
 He went down to the Imperial, and got something to 
 eat. He was not much distressed about wliat was going to 
 liappen ; he would see Kitty that afternoon, and that 
 evening too, despite all the female diplomatists in Ireland 
 or out of it. But in about half an hour any little anxiety 
 was dispelled by the following note, hastily scribbled in 
 pencil, which was brought him by a shock-headed boy. 
 
 " My Dearest, — I have moUyfied \sic\ Miss Patience, 
 She has said you might come to supper at eight. If you 
 are about the front of St. Anne's when afternoon church 
 comes out, I will go for a little walk with you ; but let me 
 leave Miss Patience first ; she would not like an explana- 
 nation in the street. Shall you be in the church ? 1 will 
 look out for you. Do, do be civil to her to-night. 
 *' Your very nmch obliged, 
 
 " Catherine the Incomprehensible." 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 77 
 
 So thev had another long and delightful walk in the 
 sunny afternoon, though this time they remained nearer 
 the city, visiting various spots that were hallowed by their 
 own wonderful experiences, and on one occasion standing 
 mute to hear the distant chiming of Shandon bells. Kitty 
 was most interested in listening to the smallest details 
 about his life in London ; but nothing that he could urge 
 could overcome her dislike — or jealousy, or whatever it 
 was — of Hilton Clarke. This was the more unreasonable 
 that slie liad never spoken a word to him, and had only 
 seen him once or twice in front of the inn at Inislieen. 
 Even about his appearance, which to ordinary eyes seemed 
 liandsome and distinguished, nothing would please her. He 
 looked finical. He looked supercilious. He stared imper- 
 tinently. Wasn't his high-priest his tailor? And so 
 forth. 
 
 "But you shouldn't say that," Master Willie remon- 
 strated. " He never said anything against you. No ; he 
 was quite complimentary. He called you an epichorianibic 
 trimeter acatalectic." 
 
 " I'll take that with a little water, please ; it's rather 
 strong," she said, saucily. 
 
 " I wish you'd give over your concert-room slang," said 
 he. 
 
 "Oh, slang!" slie said, "Slang! and what was that 
 you said, then ? Wasn't that slang, or worse ? " 
 
 " It's the d«scription of a verse in Horace — a verse that 
 is just as musical and graceful as you yourself, Kitty, when 
 you like to behave yourself, which isn't often. And if you 
 had any gratitude in your miserable little soul — " 
 
 "Oh, thank you," she said, snatching her hand away 
 from his arm. "Mr. Impertinence, that's the way to your 
 hotel. I'm going home." 
 
 But Kitty's wrath was usually evanescent; you had but 
 to take her hand and she surrendered; and so it was that 
 they were very soon climbing the steep little hill together, 
 with much cheerfulness, in the gathering dusk, the while 
 Kitty was lecturing her companion on the wisdom of con- 
 sideration, and the advantages of politeness, and also hint- 
 ing that, if he ould but introduce the names of one or two 
 distinguished political persons into his talk that evening, no 
 harm would be done. And as it turned out, Miss Patience, 
 %vho was a thin, tail lady, with a somewhat dark face and 
 severe gray eyes that made her look like a hawk, proved 
 
7 8 SHAND ON BELLS. 
 
 exceedingly placable. She avoided all reference to the 
 quarrel. She hoped he was succeeding in London. Then 
 Bhe lit two candles and put them on the table of the little 
 parlor, and drew down the window-blind, and rang the bell 
 for supper. 
 
 Master Willie returned her kind treatment of him with 
 liberal interest. For when the little maidservant had come 
 in to lay the cloth, and when she had placed thereon the 
 cold beef, and salad, and cheese, and bottled stout, and 
 when Miss Romayne had, in honor of her guest, lit two 
 more candles and put them on the chimneypiece, then 
 they all sat down to the modest banquet, and Fitzgerald 
 proceeded to inform Miss Patience as to what was being 
 thought in London concerning some topics of Imperial in- 
 terest. And he listened with profound attention to her 
 views on these wide subjects ; although, it is true, she spoke 
 with much caution, and even mystery, as though she were 
 afraid of revealing secrets. She was anxious, above all, to 
 know whether the pnblic approved the line the Times was 
 taking with regard to the government; and also what sort of 
 person the editor of the Times was. Master Willie replied 
 that he had met one or two highly distinguished literary 
 people in London, but not the editor of the Times^ who 
 was no doubt, on account of his position and duties, one not 
 easily approachable. 
 
 '^ There again Sir Rowland Hill comes in ! " exclaimed 
 Miss Patience, triumphantly. • 
 
 Fitzgerald looked puzzled. 
 
 " Think of how we are indebted to him," she continued, 
 forgetting for the moment her mysterious manner, "for the 
 diffusion of information, and for breaking down conven- 
 tional barriers ! Nowadays nobody has to bribe lacqueys 
 to get to the great man's chamber. The penny-post has 
 done away with that. That is the messenger who can not 
 be denied. The humblest in the land can reach even to the 
 throne." 
 
 Gracious heavens, thought Master Willie, has the woman 
 been writing to the Queen ? But all the same he agreed 
 with her ; the penny-post was a noble institution ; and if 
 she referred to the editor of the Times^ no doubt he wns 
 approachable that way. But Miss Patience, fixing her se- 
 vere eyes on him, instantly disclaimed any such allusion. 
 No; she declared she was merely thinking of the system, 
 and of ita wonderful advantages of communication between 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 79 
 
 humble people and the great. Then she grew mysterious 
 again ; and began to put dark questions to liim about the 
 probable effect of a certain royal marriage then being talked 
 of, and whether it was not high time that the voice of the 
 people should be heard. 
 
 But the evening was not entirely given up to politics ; 
 for Miss Patience, with the kindest consideration, and un- 
 der the protest of going to search for some papers in her 
 room, disappeared, and remained absent ; and Kitty went 
 to the little cottage piano ; and lier companion was not a 
 great Avay off. Miss Romayne, if not a highly finished 
 musician, was at least a sympathetic player; and well she 
 knew the airs which would awaken the tenderest associa- 
 tions in her lover's heart. They were those that ho had 
 listened to when he and she were idling away the glad 
 hours along country lanes, or as they came home through 
 Inisheen in the evening, thinking of all the things that life 
 had in store for them together. 
 
 " And so the Irish people," she said, letting her fingers 
 touch the keys very gently, " were not aware of the pathos 
 of ' The Bells of Shandon ' until I revealed it to them? " 
 
 " I wasn't," said he, " and as I was the sub-editor of the 
 Corh Chronicle^ hadn't I the right to speak in the name of 
 the Irish people ? " 
 
 " I wonder who first began to make words for these old 
 tunes? I suppose the tunes were in existence ages ago. 
 Oh, that wasn't much of a discovery. Master Willie ; be- 
 cause everybody sees how the air can be made pathetic if 
 you take pains with it ; but what I am certain of is that 
 another bell song, ' The Bells of Aberdovey,' was originally 
 not a sentimental thing at all, but a splendid battle march 
 of the old Britons. If this wasn't Sunday evening, and if 
 I wasn't afraid of frightening the neighbors, I could let you 
 hear something with the ' The Bells of Aberdovey.' Now 
 there is a task for you : write a war song for that splendid 
 march — a war song with a tramp in it and thunder ! " 
 
 " Play ' Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour,' 
 Kitty," said he, gently. " You remember you sung it in 
 the boat coming back to Inisheen ? " 
 
 " Do I remember ? Am I ever likely to forget that fear- 
 ful night," said she, " when I signed my soul away to 
 witches in the moonlight ? " 
 
 But she played the air, nevertheless, very exquisitely 
 and softly. And she played many more, wandering from 
 
80 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 one to the other, while he listened in silence and dreamed 
 over again the mornings, and the clear days, and the silent 
 twilights they had spent so happily together. And well 
 she knew — for she also had a tender memory — that how- 
 ever familiar these airs might be to others, there was no 
 commonplaceness about them for him. She played one 
 and then another, but it seemed as if they were all speak- 
 ing of the sea, and of Inisheen, and of glad days gone by. 
 These two were together so close now, the world shut out 
 and forgotten. Why should there be any cruel gray dawn, 
 and a wide gray sea, and then a disapi^earance into the 
 frightful loneliness of London ? 
 
 But the parting had to come, nevertheless, out there by 
 the little gate, under the stars. Kitty was crying a little 
 bit. What was the use of his coming over for one day, 
 only to have all the old sorrow to go through again? And 
 then he chid her gently. Had it not been a long, happy, 
 idyllic day — something to look back upon, perliaps, for 
 years? Was it not enough that even now, under the clear 
 shining stars, he could hold her warm little hands for yet 
 one other minute, and listen to the smooth and tender voice 
 that he knew? Perhaps Kitty would rather not have him 
 come back, then ? 
 
 "Oh yes, oh yes," the faltering voice said, and she drew 
 him closer to her. " Never mind about tlie excuse, Willie. 
 To-morrow- — Wednesday — next week — any day, any hour, 
 come back to me ! That's all I want ! And it isn't so 
 much ; and other people seem to have everything they want ; 
 and they are not nearly as grateful as I should be. Ah, 
 must you really go ? " 
 
 But the last word took a long while in saying ; and even 
 after she had given him the last kiss, and the last blessing, 
 and when she had watched him disappear away into the 
 darkness of the night, she still stood by the little gate there, 
 trying in vain to dry her eyes before going into the house 
 again, and wondering why fate should be so cruel to some, 
 while others were so happy. 
 
SIIAN J ON BELLS. 81 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 TN LONDON AGAIN. 
 
 At length the fateful day arrived for the issuing to thQ 
 British pr.blii. ot the first number of the new magazine, 
 anil Fitzgerald was glad to be able to draw a long breath 
 of relief. During these past two or three weeks his labors 
 had been indeed hard. He had been constituted a sort of 
 intermediary between the managerial and the editorial de- 
 Dartments, everybody wanting to hold him responsible for 
 everything. 
 
 "Mr. Fitzgerald," the distressed manager would say, 
 bringing him the proof of an article written by the editor, 
 "dolook here, if you please. 'The vile decoctions being 
 continually invented and supplied to the public in the shape 
 of effervescing drinks.' '"* 
 
 " Well ? " said Fitzgerald, on that particular occasion. 
 « Why not ? Where's the haitii ? " 
 
 " We've fifteen different firms," cried the manager, 
 almost in despair, "advertising their effervescing drinks and 
 mineral waters." 
 
 " They must imagine sporting people to be a thirsty 
 race," said Fitzgerald, laughing. "Very well, I'll get Mr. 
 Clai-ke to titke the phrase out, if it's likely to hurt anybody." 
 
 Then again Mr. Scobell would call in some morning, 
 perhaps with ^l proof of the same article in his hand. 
 
 " Look here, Fitzgerald — look here, my dear f 'lah. 
 This vvih t do at all. You'll shock the public : I tell you 
 you'll ^hock the public. Look at this : ' That numerous 
 aad miportant section of the British wealthier classes who 
 Lave long ago given up the fear of God, but who are kept 
 A\ pretty fair social order by the fear of gout.' It won't 
 do, Fitzgerald ; I tell you it won't do. You must ask 
 Clarke to cut that out. I told him I wouldn't have any 
 d d atheistical Radical stuff in a paper I was responsi- 
 ble for. I'm not going into society as the proprietor of a 
 d d Radical and atheistical journal." 
 
 But this was a far more serious matter ; Jar if Hilton 
 Clarke were to know that Mr. Scobell had bet q furnished 
 ■wilh proofs of the articles, or had expressed yuy opinion 
 
82 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 about them, tliere would be the very mischief to pay. So 
 Master Willie had to assure the capitalist that the most 
 perverse ingenuity could not discover a trace of atheism 
 or Radicalism in any one of the contributions that had been 
 written for i\\q Iloicsehold Magazine; that Hilton Clarke 
 would be pei-fectly astonished to hear of any such charge 
 being brought against him ; but at the same time, if there 
 was a chance of any stupid person being offended by this 
 chance remark of Hilton Clarke's, no doubt he, Clarke, 
 would at once remove it. 
 
 Then he w^ould go up to the Albany, and make some 
 casual suggestions in as pleasant a way as he could. 
 
 "Well, you see, Fitzgerald," Hilton Clarke, said, 
 promptly, in answer to these timid proposals, " I'm not 
 going to edit the magazine in the interests of the advertis- 
 ing department. " They'll want us to puff pianos next, 
 and write reviews of window curtains. And what idiot 
 could be offended by a little joke like that ? We can't 
 write down to the microcephalous. Where are you going 
 now?" 
 
 " I am going to have some luncheon, I think." 
 " Ah," said the chief, regarding him, " I suppose you 
 can afford to do that now. But it is not wise. Nothing 
 BO certainly destroys the figure in time. I don't know how 
 many years it is now since I gave it up : nothing between 
 eleven and eight is my rule. Oh, by the way, can you help 
 mc ? Have you sufficient ingenuity to suggest the kind of 
 present one might buy for a lady — well, how am I to ex- 
 plain it? Something that will not be merely for vulgar 
 use — such as she would have to buy in any case ; and yet, 
 on the other hand, something pretty that would not attract 
 too much attention as a gift. 
 
 " I don't quite understand," said Fitzgerald. 
 
 " It is difficult to define," said the other, absently. '' I 
 have been puzzling over it myself. I daren't give her a 
 piece of jewelry, for that would provoke question. And 
 of course I wouldn't give her a piece of furniture, or cost- 
 ume, or anything she would buy in the ordinary course 
 with her husband's money. That's the difficulty, and I 
 can't hit on the juste milieu. It must be ornamental 
 enough for a gift, and yet something she might have 
 bought for herself " 
 
 " What about a cigar case ? " said Master Willie, at a 
 venture. 
 
SHANDON- BELLS. 83 
 
 The other laughed. 
 
 " Very well hit. You're not far from the mark. But 
 I think a cigar case would not precisely have the effect of 
 Btaving off awkward questions. Well, if you are going to 
 lunch, ta-ta. Be prudent, and you'll be thankful at forty 
 that you've still got a waist." 
 
 Now Hilton Clarke had a vein of light facetiousness in 
 his nature, and but little satire ; moreover, he was good- 
 natured in a selfish and indolent sort of way. But he 
 never nearer reached a sharp satirical stroke than when he 
 advised this poor lad, who was on the verge of starvation, 
 not to destroy his figure by overeating and drinking. The 
 fact was that, despite the most rigid economies, Fitzgerald's 
 worldly wealth was reduced to a sum of a few shillings, 
 and that was slowly diminishing. The Irish trip had cost 
 nearer three than two pounds. His father had written 
 asking for two pounds more to make up the money to 
 meet the bill, and he had got it. Then on the remainder 
 Fitzgerald had continued to exist, if not to live, during 
 these past three weeks an^ more. He gave up his only 
 luxury — that single glass of ale with his dinner. The 
 amount of walking he did was incredible ; for he had much 
 hurrying to and fro, and he would not take an omnibus. 
 The luncheon that Hilton Clarke had warned him against 
 generally consisted of a biscuit, with sometimes an apple. 
 And he had given up going in to see his artist friend John 
 Ross, because he could not ask him in return to a banquet 
 of tinned meat, bread, and beer. 
 
 His salary having begun four weeks before, the House- 
 hold Magazine now owed him a sum of £16 ; and if that 
 money had been in the hands of Mr. Silas Earp, or owing 
 to him by the proprietor, Mr. Scobell, he would not have 
 had the slightest hesitation in making application for it. 
 But somehow or other — he could not himself strictly analyze 
 the feeling — it was impossible for him to go and ask for 
 the money from Hilton Clarke, in whose hands he under- 
 stood it was. He was certain that if Clarke knew he was 
 in want of it, he would have it at once. No doubt it was 
 owing to mere carelessness that he had not had it already. 
 And to go and confess his need of it: would not that be 
 almost like bringing a charge of want of consideration 
 against one who had greatly befriended him ? There may 
 have been a little pride mixed up in this feeling, an indis- 
 position to confess that, having scarcely a penny left in the 
 
84 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 world, he could not write home to his own people for sup- 
 plies. But the chief notion he had was undoubtedly that 
 such an appeal would cause Hilton Clarke to be vexed 
 about his own thoughtlessness: and Fitzgerald was a trifle 
 sensitive himself, and did not like the thought of giving 
 that pain to any one else. And so he contentedly trudged 
 all over London (the printing-oflices were in the City Road) 
 instead of taking omnibuses, and he lived on next to no- 
 thing, and gave up — but this was hard — his nightly chat 
 witli Ross, rather than make an application that would 
 cause Hilton Clarke to accuse himself of inconsiderateness. 
 This conduct may havje been Quixotic ; the only sure 
 thing about it was that it could not go on forever. Tliat 
 small stock of jealously guarded shillings grew fatally smaller 
 and smaller. 
 
 On the afternoon of the day on which the Household 
 Magazine was finally issued, Hilton Clarke, Fitzgerald, 
 Silas Eai*p, and Mr. Scobell left London by one of the after- 
 noon boats for Greenwich, to dine there at the invitation 
 of the last named. It was not merely the prosj)ect of liav- 
 ing for once a substantial dinner that put Master Willie in 
 good spirits. They were all in good spirits. So far as 
 could be judged, the new venture promised to be successful. 
 The quantity of advertisements that had been secured was 
 remarkable. The " trade " had subscribed liberally for 
 the first number ; in fact, the last thing that had to be done 
 before they went down to Charing Cross was to send word 
 to the City Road to print a further five hundred copies. 
 The poster, scarlet letters on a white ground, was effective; 
 it was conspicuous on the hoardings they passed.^ and, 
 needless to say, they looked out for it. Mr. Scobell talked 
 as if the whole scheme had been his own, and pooh-poohed 
 his manager's cautious reminders to the effect that the ad- 
 vertisers wei'e always willing to patronize a first number, 
 and that the sale could not be even approximately gauged 
 until they began to get back the "returns." The capita- 
 list would not hear of any such qualifications. He was 
 assured of success. The richer section of the public could 
 not fail to see what an invaluable manual this would make. 
 Even with a moderate sale, the margin of profit at a shil- 
 ling would be large. And so he paid for all their tickets 
 to Greenwich. 
 
 Fitzgerald had not been down the Thames before, and 
 to him it was a wonderful and a beautiful sight, the sum^ 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 85 
 
 mer atternoon shining warm on the masses of sliipping, oa 
 tlie gray tower, on the surging stream. And then Avhen 
 they reached Greenwich and the hotel there, and when be 
 went out on to the balcony of the little private room, 
 there was something that was more than beautiful in the 
 sunset streaming along the wide reach of the river. There 
 was a touch of the pathetic in it. That very wideness 
 suggested the nearness of the sea. And was not the sea 
 the great bond of association with those who were far 
 away? He thought of Inisheen, and that seemed sad; for 
 now there would be no Fairy Frigate — that was the fanci- 
 ful name that Kitty had given to the boat he and she used 
 to go out to row in — there would be no Fairy Frigate 
 gliding over the golden waters, with the blades of the oars 
 shining in the sunlight as they dipped and rose again. Can 
 not you take her a message, then, you wide rushing waters, 
 and you, great ships, floating down with the dying day ? 
 Alas ! the distance is too great ; she is so far away she can 
 not hear ; and there is one whose heart is so full of the 
 thought of her, and so burdened with the sadness of being 
 remote from her, that he has not much of a mind for the 
 festivities to which he is summoned within. A hand is 
 laid on his shoulder. 
 
 " Twenty pounds that I can tell you what you are 
 thinking of ! " says Hilton Clarke. 
 
 Master Willie starts up from his reverie. 
 " She looks like a Norwegian," he says, " the bark there 
 ivith the green hull.'* 
 
 And yet, after all, when they had sat down to the very 
 elaborate feast prepared within, and when their host was 
 descanting on the merits of one or two of the wines he had 
 ordered, the humor of the situation, so far as he, that is, 
 Fitzgerald, was concerned, could not escape him. It seemed 
 to him that all the dinners he had not had for the past month 
 were now being offered him, when he could make no use of 
 them. It looked ridiculous that one who had been living 
 on next to nothing should find himself able — nay, con- 
 strained — to send away dish after dish only tasted, when 
 tasted at all. 
 
 " To-morrow," he said to himself, " when I shall be feel- 
 ing myself very hollow about two o'clock, I shall be saying, 
 * What a fool I was, then, not to have had some more of 
 that turbot ! ' This wine, now. Twelve shillings a bottle, 
 I suppose. Six glasses to the bottle, probably : two shil- 
 
86 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 lings a glass. I drink it ; and I have drank what would 
 have kept me in beer for a week. There is something wrong 
 about the constitution of the human organism. When you 
 can get plenty to eat and drink, you ought to be able to lay 
 in a store against future need. What is the use of all this 
 to me, if I am to be hungry again to-morrow?" 
 
 " Well, now, gentlemen," said he of the red face and 
 bristly yellow-white whiskers, as he held up a glass of wine 
 between him and the light, and then put it on the table 
 again, " I did not ask you to come to Greenwich to talk 
 business ; but I think we are entitled to congratulate our- 
 selves all around — I do, really. I say it's a deuced good- 
 looking periodical we've turned out. I call it a respectable- 
 looking, a gentlemanly sort of looking magazine. I'm not 
 ashamed of it. I'm not ashamed to have it lying in my 
 drawing-room, and when any one comes in I'm not ashamed 
 if they take it up. What I say is, give a good thing, and 
 charge a good price. I think twelve shillings is too much 
 for this champagne, as I tell ye ; but I consider it's as good 
 a glass of wine as any I've got in my own cellar, and so I 
 don't grumble. I'm for having good things. Give people 
 good things, and they'll pay. A shilling a week is a good 
 lot ; but it looks respectable to have a thing like that lying 
 about ; it looks as if you wanted a country house or a steam- 
 yacht, and were looking out. My wife had it lying in her 
 drawing-room yesterday when Lady Ipswich called ; and 
 Lady Ipswich said she'd order it from her bookseller at 
 once. Now that's what I like : I want to have it talked 
 about in sassiety. And I hope, Clarke, your friend Gifford 
 will give us a flaming article about it I'd have asked him 
 to come down to-day, but I thought we'd better be private. 
 I suppose you'll drop him a line ! " 
 
 ''Mr. Gifford," said Hilton Clarke, with a slight em- 
 phasis on the '' Mr. ," " is peculiar. It would be better to 
 leave him to discover the extraordinary merits of the shil- 
 ling's worth for himself. Oh, talking of discoveries, Fitz 
 gerald," he added turning to his neighbor, " did you read 
 the review of Daphne's Shadow ? " 
 
 Fitzgerald, with a sudden flush, admitted that he had: 
 but Hilton Clarke, not perceiving his embarrassment, or 
 whatever it might have been, laughed lightly. 
 
 " That was the Liberal Review all over. The most por- 
 tentous discoveries ! The well-known this and the well- 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 87 
 
 known that under thin disguises ; a wonderful study of 
 contemporary life and society in England '' 
 
 " Then have you read the book ? Do you think it is 
 trumpery ?" said Fitzgerald, eagerly; he was so anxious 
 to justify himself to himself. 
 
 " The book !" said Hilton Clarke, with a sort of good- 
 natured scorn. " To call such a thing a book ! Twopence- 
 halfpenny worth of persiflage ; the rest of the coppers in 
 cheek : then throw in a few allusions to current politics : 
 and the British public will take your mere nnmes as types 
 of English character. What Gifford will do about our 
 magazine it is impossible to say. He may think it trivial : 
 he may regard it as the servant of Mammon, and he is not 
 too well affected toward the rich. But one can't say. 
 He may make a discovery about it : about the possibility 
 of converting fox-hunters to the study of higher things — 
 who knows ? And then when he gets into a tempest of 
 conviction, he rides the whirlwind. He'd hang you in a 
 minute to prove to you the impolicy of capital punishment.'* 
 
 AVell human nature is but human nature, after all : 
 and it is possible that Fitzgerald, after that rejection of 
 his anxiously written article, may not have been so quick 
 as he would otherwise have been to resent these scornful 
 taunts that Hilton Clarke occasionally directed against the 
 Liberal Review and its editor. But none of these affected 
 Master Willie's secret conciousness that, if the two ways of 
 regarding human life were offered him as alternatives, he 
 would rather have that of the Liberal Iteview than that of the 
 Weekly Gazette. The most desperate thing in the world 
 seemed to him to be hopelessness. Your conviction might 
 be wrong, but at least it gave you something to look for- 
 ward for. And at twenty-three one is busier with the fu- 
 ture than the past. 
 
 The evening went on pleasantly enough, and coffee and 
 cigars did not tend to diminish that halo of success which 
 already seemed to surround the new magazine. Indeed, so 
 satisfied was Mr. Scobell with the gentlemanly appearance 
 of the periodical, and with his own relations to the enterprise, 
 that he broadly hinted his intention of sharing any great in- 
 crease of prosperity with these coadjutors of his. 
 
 " I am not a money-grubber," said he, leaning back in 
 his chair to watch the smoke ascend. " I don't worship the 
 golden calf. I like to have plenty of money ; and I have 
 plenty of money '• 
 
88 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 " I wish some more of us could say as much," said }filton 
 Clarke ; but the remark was an unfair one, for Mr. Scobell 
 was not really boasting of his wealth. 
 
 " I was going to say," continued the capitalist, glancing 
 at Clarke somewhat reproachfully, ''that I have plenty of 
 money because I am not an extravagant man. I think when 
 a man has a thorough well-managed establishment in town, 
 a good cook and a good cellar, a couple of hacks for the 
 Park, a barouche for his wife, and then, don't you know, a 
 snug little place in the country, where he can keep a good 
 glass of wine for his friends, and give them a day through 
 the turnips, or a mount if they are hunting men, don't you 
 know, I say he should be content, and not want to win the 
 Derby, or have the biggest deer forest in Scotland. I haven't 
 gone into literature to make money, not I. What I sav is, 
 if it is a big success, let them share it who made it ' 
 
 " Then Fitzgerald should have three-fourths," said Hilton 
 Clarke, with a laugh, *' for he has done three-fourths of the 
 work." 
 
 " I don't say I wouldn't take a fair return for my money," 
 said Mr. Scobell, grandly. "I don't say that. But when 
 I go into literature, it isn't to make money. I want to have 
 my name connected with a thorough good thing. I don't 
 want to go into my club and hear men say, * That's Scobell ; 
 
 he's the proprietor of a d d low Radical print.' I say 
 
 we should stick up for our own country. I don't see any 
 better. If there's a country where you'll find better fight- 
 ing men, and handsomer women — ay, and horses too — well, 
 I don't know where it is. I think we are very well off. You 
 can get the best of everything in London, if you'll only pay 
 a fair price for it. Look at Covent Garden, now ; what is 
 there you can't get there? And then you get a lot of low 
 trades-unionists and Radicals trying to stir up discontent, 
 and setting class against class, trying to put a lot of stuff 
 into the heads of the farm laborers. What I say is, let well 
 alone. I don't see any other country better governed. I 
 don't see any other country better off. If Church and State 
 have brought us where we are, then I'm for Church and 
 State ; I want none o' their Liberty, Equality, and Stupid- 
 ity. I say we're precious well off." 
 
 '* You are, my dear Scobell, but I am not," observed 
 Hilton Clarke, pleasantly. " However, you need have no 
 fear of ih^Household Magazine adventuring on these troubled 
 waters. We will assume that everything is for the best in 
 
SIIANDON BELLS. gg 
 
 tliis favored island ; and in the mean time we had better 
 think of getting to the railway station." 
 
 Here Mr. Earp, who was a large, heavy, bilious-looking 
 man, and who had scarcely spoken all the evening, looked 
 at his watch. 
 
 " There is one thing I would like to mention," he said, 
 slowly. " Very soon people will be leaving town." 
 
 " Doubtless," said Hilton Clarke, whom he now particu 
 larly addressed. 
 
 " And you may be drawing attention to it in an article 
 — perhaps more than once," the melancholy-looking man 
 continued. 
 
 " Well, that is possible." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Clarke," said the other, hesitatingly, " if it 
 is all the same to you, I would rather not have any such 
 article. It is, if I may say so, imprudent. All the daily 
 papers do it. They have articles about London being empty ; 
 about the dead season ; about everybody being abroad. 
 And then, you see, how can you ask the advertisers to keep 
 on paying money, when you're telling them at the same time 
 that everybody is away?" 
 
 " Oil, I .^ee ! " exclaimed Mr. Clark, as he rose from the 
 table. " It is tlie advertisers you are thinking of? " And 
 tlien he laughed, and put his hand on Fitzgerald's shoulder 
 as they left the room together. " There, Fitzgerald, don't 
 forget these hints. Rules for the editing of a news])aper, 
 they might be called. 'Uphold Churcli and State; and jn 
 August don't remind advertisers that people have left 
 town.' " 
 
 " We might have them printed and hung up in the 
 office for the guidance of contributors," said his companion. 
 
 They returned to town apparently very well pleased 
 with each other and with tlie prospects of the new period- 
 ical. But just before reaching Charing Cross sometliing 
 occurred which was calculated to give Fitzgerald a still 
 more favorable recollection of that evening. 
 
 " I suppose you'll take a hansom, Fitzgerald ? " Hilton 
 Clarke asked of him, casually. 
 
 "No ; I'll walk," was the reply. 
 
 ''Walk? ToFulham?" 
 
 " To the Fulham Road, at least." 
 
 It is impossible to say whether or no this answer may 
 have suggested to Hilton Clarke some suspicion about 
 
90 S HAND ON BELLS. 
 
 Fitzgerald's circumstances, but at all events he said, a 
 ininuto after, and apparently without premeditation: — 
 
 " Oh, I quite forgot, Fitzgerald, that you've drawn noth- 
 ing from tlie treasury during these past Aveeks. That was 
 my forgetful ness ; for I am responsible to you. Why 
 didn't you remind me " 
 
 " It was of no consequence," said Fitzgerald, hastily ; 
 but how glad he was that Hilton Clarke had not had to be 
 reminded ! 
 
 " Well, then, shall I give you something on account ? 
 Oh, don't be bashful, man ! This is a business evening. I 
 should not have been so remiss." 
 
 " It is of no consequence at all," said Fitzgerald again : 
 it was quite enough for him that his friend had remembered. 
 He had had enough eating and drinking for a time. He 
 would willingly go back to dry biscuits and apples. 
 
 " When I was your age I knew what it was to be hard 
 up," continued Hilton Clarke, "and sometimes I know it 
 now when paymasters are neglectful. So I'm not going to 
 incur that charge, whilst I remember. But I find I've only 
 a sovereign or two. Scobell, lend me ten pounds, like a 
 good fellow ; Earp can score it up against me at the 
 office." 
 
 "Oh, certainly," said Mr. Scobell, though he seemed a 
 little surprised on hearing that Fitzgerald had up to that 
 moment received no salaiy. 
 
 The two bank-notes were handed to Clarke, who in turn 
 passed them on, and Fitzgerald, so far from having any 
 hesitation about accepting them, was altogether delighted. 
 He had looked forward with the utmost shrinking to 
 the obvious necessity, sooner or later, of having to recall 
 Hilton Clarke to a sense of his carelessness. It was now 
 clear to him that Mr. Clarke would so have regarded an 
 application from him — as a reminder that he had been cul- 
 pably neglectful. And now to find this deplorable thing 
 removed was an inexpressible relief ; and the first thought 
 he had was that he would invest a portion of this sum in 
 paying for a ride on an omnibus, get home quickly, and see 
 if John Ross were still awake and at work, that he might, 
 as he surely would, rejoice in the good fortune of his 
 nearest neighbor. 
 
 When Fitzgerald reached the little courtyard in the 
 Fulham lioad, there was no doubt possible about Ross's 
 being at home, whether he was at work or no, for loud and 
 
SIIANDON BELIS, 91 
 
 martial strains were resounding through the big empty 
 studio. It was with the utmost difficulty that Fitzgerald 
 could make himself heard. Then the bawling suddenly- 
 ceased, and the door was opened. 
 
 " Come in, man, come in. What's the need o' ceremony ? 
 What for did ye wait to knock ? " 
 
 " I heard the end of ' Scots wha hae' by waiting," 
 said Master Willie, getting a chair for himself. 
 
 " Ay," said liis host, fetching him a canister of tobacco, 
 " I'm thinking King Edward, poor man, thought he was 
 never going to hear the end o' they Scotch folk while he 
 was alive. I daresay whenever he found himself with 
 nothing to do — wi' half an hour to spare, like — he would say 
 to his friends. ' Come and let us sit down and curse Scot- 
 land.* Well, now, what have ye been about ? What has 
 come over ye ? " 
 
 " I have been very busy ; but the magazine I was tell- 
 ing you about has come out at last ; and to-night I have 
 just got back from a dinner at Greenwich which was meant 
 to celebrate the occasion." 
 
 " But ye're sober ! " exclaimed the other, 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " What's the use o' going all that way for a dinner, if 
 ye come home sober? Ay," said he, regarding him criti- 
 cally, " but if they've sent ye back sober, they've put an 
 extra bit o' color in your cheeks. It's no often one sees 
 color like that in London. It's no a London complexion at 
 a'; it reminds one more o' a cornfield in summer, and a 
 strapping young fellow lying by the side of a stook, wi' 
 l»is face half turned away frae the sun. Man, I'd like to 
 liave a try at your head. You go on smoking, and let me 
 hear all your story since I saw ye last. I'd Just like to 
 have a try." 
 
 He threw aside his pipe, and quickly stuck on his easel 
 a sheet of light brown board, and took up his palette and 
 colors. And then he began to walk up and down a bit, 
 ultimately putting colors on the palette, and studying Fitz- 
 gerald's head from different points of view. 
 
 " Man," he said, " ye've more character about ye than I 
 thought. Ye'll have a fine head when ye grow up." 
 
 Fitzgerald thought he had done growing, as he was 
 three-and-twenty, and five foot ten. But by this time he 
 was familiar with Ross's way of working, and with the 
 jerky observations with which he usually accompanied that, 
 
92 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 and so lie did not interrupt. After a while Ross suddenly 
 went to a portfolio that stood near the wall, and after hav- 
 ing rudely tumbled about a number of slieets, lie brought 
 back a large and dusty photograph — of Giorgione's armed 
 warrior in the Uffizi. 
 
 *' That's what your head '11 be in middle age." 
 
 " That ! I don't see the least likeness," said Fitz- 
 gerald. 
 
 "But I do. It's my business. Of course you'll no be 
 dark like that, but that's your nose and forehead. Ay, 
 and the mouth too. But the com})lexion makes a great 
 difference ; and the hair — have ye been burning yourself in 
 the sun a' the day ? Where got ye that straight noso in 
 Ireland ? " 
 
 " I suppose there are as many tliere as elsewhere," said 
 Fitzgerald, trying to steal a look at the board on the easel, 
 but failing. 
 
 " I dinna believe ye," said Ross, who was now working 
 very eagerly, with snatches of contemplative whistling 
 coming in at intervals. " I've watched the shearers that 
 come over from Belfast. There's no one in twenty that 
 escapes from the general type — the turned-up nose and 
 long upper lip. Ay, and so the wonderful new magazine's 
 out. We'll, tell us all about it, man ; ye need no be feared 
 about altering your expression ; it's only the tan o' the 
 sunlight I'm trying at, though whether I can do anything — 
 but there's no two curls o' your hair the same color, man ! 
 What do you mean by that? There's an inconsistency 
 about ye that's aggravating. Well, about the magazine ? " 
 
 So Fitzgerald told him all that had happened ; and 
 dwelt on his great good fortune in having been able to 
 make so eaHy a start in London, thanks to one or two 
 kind friends ; and said how everybody was pleased at the 
 prospects of this venture. 
 
 "Ay, ay," said the broad-shouldered, red-bearded little 
 man, as he stepped back a yard or two from the easel, and 
 regarded his handiwork, "and that may partly account for 
 the color, as well as the warm day and the trip to Green- 
 wich. The flush of success, eh ? And I warrant there's a 
 young lass somewhere that's just as pleased as yoursel'." 
 
 Taen he suddenly bawled out in a prodigious and rau- 
 cous voice, looking intently at his work the while : — 
 
 " And we'll tak a right guid-willic wauglit 
 For auld lang syne ! " 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 93 
 
 Ko-cvevcr. tins vocal outburst was not the result of self- 
 saiisf action. 
 
 ** What put it into my head," he continued, in a series 
 of inconsecutive growls, as he stepped baak, and then 
 stepped forward, and then bit the end of his brush, " to try 
 such a blaze of flesh-color ? It's the most infernal thing in 
 the world. I'm a landscape painter; at least I say I am/ 
 I think I'll take to house fronts and doorsteps. The por- 
 trait painting I can do is a wee dabbie o' red and white 
 under an auld wife's cap if she's coming along the road 
 about twa miles off. 
 
 *• * And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught' " — 
 
 But there was no joy left in the jovial song ; nothing 
 but perplexity and irritation. 
 
 " Don't bother about it to-night," said Master Willie. 
 "Let's have a quiet smoke and a chat." 
 
 The next thing he saw was Ross suddenly advance and 
 with one stroke drive liis fist right througli the frail board, 
 sending the easel and everytliing flying and sprawling across 
 the room. Then, that action having apparently assuaged 
 his passion, he quietly took the palette from the thumb of 
 his left hand and laid it down. 
 
 " I am a failure," he said, drawing along a chair to the 
 bare wooden table. ''Nothing I try will do. Ye are one 
 'o the lucky ones ; only ye dinna ken the contentment there 
 is in a glass o' good Scotch whiskey. I do. But d'ye think 
 I'm to be cast down because I canna pent ? No while I 
 can light a pipe ! " 
 
 " But it's nonsense your talking like that ! " exclaimed 
 Fitzgerald, who had been privileged to look over these can- 
 vases, and who, little as he knew about painting, had been 
 greatly struck with the strangely vivid effects he saw here 
 and there, along with, as he imagined, an absolute want of 
 definite construction or technical skill. Amid all this con- 
 fused chaos of impressions — which he was not surprised the 
 dealers had for the most part regarded as quite hopeless — 
 he had seen bits that were to him a sort of revelation. 
 Moreover, he had gone out once or twice into the country 
 with John Ross ; he had listened to his talk ; had watched 
 the things he had pointed out ; and it seemed to him that 
 tlie world had grown a great deal more interesting since 
 this red-haired Scotchman had taught him how to look at itr 
 
94 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 " It is nonsense your talking like that," repeated Fitz- 
 gerald. '* And very soon the world will find out, and will 
 tell you, whether you can paint or not." 
 
 " But do I complain ? " said the other, fetching over some 
 fresh-water and a tumbler. " Do I howl ? Have you seen 
 me lie down on the floor and squeal? Bless the laddie, 
 I've my wits left. And I'm thinking that, now this machine 
 o' yours is fairly on the rails, ye'd better have a day's holi- 
 day the morn ; and I'll take ye and shoA^ ye as fine a bit o' 
 wilderness within five miles o' this very place as ye'd want 
 to find in Canada. Will ye go ? " 
 
 " Won't I? said Master Willie, who had discovered that 
 a walk in the country with this keen-eyed, talkative, dog- 
 matic person was in itself a sort of liberal education. But 
 then again he added : " No, not to-morrow. We will put 
 it off for a few days, till I see how this thing is really go- 
 ing." 
 
 " You are as cautious as a Scotchman," said his friend 
 with a laugh. "Well, here's to the magazine, and to you, 
 and to all good fellows ; and may the black deil be aye a 
 long way away from us ! " 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN STRAITS. 
 
 The high hopes that had been raised by the demand for 
 the first number of the Household Magazine were y^vy 
 speedily abated. An ominously large number of the copies 
 came back unsold from the news-venders. Worse than 
 that, as week after week passed, the small minimum circu- 
 lation on which, after these returns, they had calculated, 
 showed signs of still further slirinking. In these disheart- 
 ening circumstances it must be said for Mr. Scobell that he 
 played a man's part ; he accused nobody ; he was not dis- 
 mayed ; nay, he ventured even yet to hope. 
 
 " Rome wasn't built in a day," he would say. " A shil- 
 
 lin's a good lot. And if the public won't buy it, at all 
 
 events we've done our best. I'm not ashamed of it when I 
 
 e it on a book-stall. I'm not ashamed to see it lying on 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 95 
 
 the table of my club. I say there's nothing to be ashamed 
 of about it. I call it a gentlemanly-looking tiling. We'll 
 haye to be content with small beginnings. Mind a shillin'sp 
 a shillin'." 
 
 Hilton Clarke, on the other hand, was disappointed, and 
 inclined to be peevish, and openly laid the blame on the 
 management. There was no pushing of the magazine. They 
 had not spent enough money in advertising. Indeed, he 
 very soon showed that he was hopeless of the whole affair ; 
 and it was only by the exercise of much tact that Fitzger- 
 ald kept him, as far as he could be kept, to his duties as 
 editor. 
 
 With Fitzgerald, however, he remained great friends ; 
 and it was Master. Willie's privilege to listen, for many a 
 half-hour together, to his companion's ingenious and clever 
 talking, that was full of a very curious and subtle penetra- 
 tion in literary matters. Once or twice it almost seemed 
 to him a pity that a man who could talk so well should not 
 write a little more ; and indeed on one occasion he went 
 the length of hinting to Mr. Hilton Clarke that the world 
 had a right to expect from him some more definite work 
 than he had already done. They were walking in Hyde 
 Park. 
 
 " You mean some substantive publication ? " said he, 
 as he crumbled up some bread he had brought with him, 
 and began to throw it to the ducks in the Serj^entine, this 
 being a favorite amusement of his. " I doubt whether the. 
 public care much about viewy books. They can manage 
 an essay now and again. I have thought of it, though. I 
 could bring together two or three things I have written, 
 under some such title as 'Laws and Limitations of Art.'" 
 
 " Why not ? " said Fitzgerald, eagerly. Here, indeed, 
 w^ould be something he could triumphantly place before 
 Kitty. No longer would she be able to ask of his literary 
 hero, " What has he done ? " "I am sure it would be most 
 interesting," he continued. " I am sure no one could make 
 such a subject more, interesting; and it wants clearness; 
 there is so much confusion — about it." 
 
 " But some day or other " 
 
 " That is what you are always saying." 
 
 " Wait a bit. I say some day or other I mean to tackle 
 something with a trifle more of human nature in it. I might 
 begin it in the Household Magazine^ only it would be 
 
OG SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 tlirowii away on squires. Perhaps it would not run to a 
 book." 
 
 " But the subject ? " 
 
 " The Private Meditations of Zenobia's Husband." 
 
 "Zenobia's husband — t " 
 
 '* I forget what the gentleman's name was ; most people 
 do ; that's the point of the situation. But you remember 
 that the lovely and virtuous Queen of Palmyra had a hus- 
 band ; and he must have had his own little thoughts about 
 things. I suppose now," he continued, throwing away the 
 last of the crumbs, and linking his arm in his companion's 
 as they set out again — " I suppose now you think that be- 
 fore writing such a book I ought to go and qualify by 
 marrying somebody." 
 
 " You might do worse." 
 
 " I doubt it. I shall never marry. Life is only endura- 
 ble when you have all round you an atmospliere of possi- 
 bility. Then the unexpected may happen ; each new day 
 may bring new relations. But when you marry, your fate 
 is tixed ; life is closed, the romance of it vanished •" 
 
 "But what do you call the romance of it?" said Fitz- 
 gerald, bluntly. " Going philandering after another man's 
 wife?" 
 
 "I perceive, Mr. Fitzgerald," said Hilton Clarke, 
 blandly, " that on one occasion I must have been indiscreet. 
 However, as you don't even know the name of the lady of 
 the. cigars, no great harm has been done. Feuerbach, if 
 you remember, maintains that a being without attributes is 
 non-existent. Now a person whose sole attribute, so far as 
 you know, is that she smokes cigars, can only exist a very 
 little bit, as far as you are concerned. The Lady Irmin- 
 ^arde, now : she wouldn't allow even a cigarette to sully 
 the purity of her sweet mountain air." 
 
 "The Lady Irmingarde?" Fitzgerald repeated, inno- 
 cently. 
 
 "I can imagine her. A coquettish nose; very blue 
 eyes ; a little freckled ; a mischievous laugh ; and a figure 
 that would go charmingly in a short dress with a milking- 
 pail." 
 
 " It doesn't take much trouble to imagine all that," said 
 Fitzgerald. " You can see it any day in an operetta." 
 
 " Well, you know, some prefer the maid with the railk- 
 ing-pail, while some prefer a woman of the world, with wit 
 and courage and dexterity, as well as beauty. Don't let U8 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 97 
 
 quarrel. In fact, Fitzgerald," he said, in a franker way of 
 speaking, but still with that careless air, " I am rather in a 
 muddle. Who was it who said, * My mind to me a king- 
 dom is'; My kingdom, I know, sometimes gets very re- 
 bellious — tries to push me off the throne, in lact. If it 
 doesn't take care, I'll abdicate altogether. And so to let 
 matters settle down a little^ I am going to retreat for a 
 while to Dover. I was thinking of running down this after- 
 noon " 
 
 " But the article for to-morrow ? " exclaimed his assis- 
 tant editor. 
 
 " Oh, you can get something or other — do, like a good 
 fellow. Print one of your ' Confessions of a Young Man.' 
 T think they are excellent. It won't be throwing much 
 away ; for you can forward it to a publisher, and ask him 
 to judge of the bulk by the sample. It will look better in 
 type. You won't mind sacrificing one of them ; and I'll do 
 as much for you some other time." 
 
 This was the last of Hilton Clarke that Fitzgerald saw 
 for many a day; and after his chiefs departure for Dover, 
 he very speedily found that the whole work of editing the 
 magazine and writing the literary section of it had to be 
 borne on his own shoulders. Occasionally a few contribu- 
 tions would be sent up from the Lord Warden Hotel ; but 
 they were slight and unimportant. Nevertheless Fitzgerald 
 would not admit even to himself that this conduct showed 
 any want of consideration on the part of his friend and 
 hero. What if this seclusion were to lead to the production 
 of one or other of those books that had been vaguely indi- 
 cated ? Ought he not to be proud to have the chance of 
 lending a helping hand in this way? Or — for this suspicion 
 would crop up from time to time — suppose that Hilton 
 Clarke had got into some delicate entanglement in London 
 from which the only sure escape was his prolonged absence 
 from town ? Master Willie worked away as hard as he 
 could, and bore with equanimity the remonstrances of Mr. 
 Scobell about the absence of the editor, and sacrificed not 
 one only but several of the " Confessions of a Young Man," 
 and tried to give the best account he could of his circum- 
 stances in his long letters to Kitty. 
 
 Theie was one very serious consideration, however, that 
 could not be speciously glossed over : he was again almost 
 penniless. Not even in leaving London had Hilton Clarke 
 made any reference to money matters, though by that time 
 
98 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 he was very considerably in Fitzgerald's debt. For all his 
 work on the magazine the latter had received nothing be- 
 yond the ten pounds Hilton Clarke had handed over on the 
 journey back from Greenwich ; and that sum, welcome as 
 it was, could not be expected to last forever, even if Kitty's 
 birthday had not intervened, demanding a little souvenir. 
 Sovereign after sovereign went, despite the most rigid 
 economy. Again and again the dire necessity of having to 
 remind Hilton Clarke of his thoughtlessness arose before 
 his mind, and again and again he would put that off for a 
 few days, making sure that Clarke would remember and 
 write to him of his own accord. He had himself to blame. 
 It was not a proper arrangement. He ought to have in- 
 sisted on being put on some definite footing at the office, 
 instead of being thus contracted out, as it were. That 
 Hilton Clarke had drawn the full sum, month by month, he 
 knew, for Mr. Silas Earp had casually mentioned it. It 
 was beyond measure distressing to him to think of his friend 
 being tlius cruelly inconsiderate ; but he held his peace, and 
 went on with his work, and hoped for the best. 
 
 One night he was sitting alone, and perhaps rather 
 down-hearted, for he had had no letter from Kitty these 
 two days back, when he heard his Scotch friend ascending 
 the stairs outside. John Ross had been for some time ab- 
 sent, sketching up the Thames ; and the solitary lodging in 
 the Fulham Road had been even more solitary since his 
 departure. Master Willie was glad to hear that brisk foot- 
 step outside. 
 
 Then the sharp-eyed little red-haired man came into the 
 room, and seemed to take in the whole situation at a 
 glance. 
 
 "What's the matter with ye, man? Hard work? 
 The London air ? Ar« ye in the dumps about some young 
 lass ? " 
 
 " Well,*' said Fitzgerald, brightening up, " maybe I 
 Iia\e been working too hard. The magazine isn't a very 
 groat success bo far, you know. I have been offering some 
 things in one or two other quarters; but it's like trying to 
 squeeze through the eye of a needle." 
 
 " Time enough, time enough," said John Ross. " Your 
 face is no the right color." 
 
 Then he glanced suspiciously around. 
 
 " Where's your supper ? " he said abruptly. 
 
 Fitzgerald flushed, and said, hastily. 
 
S HAND ON BELLS. 99 
 
 " Oh, supper? supper? It isn't nine yet, is it?" 
 
 " It's nearer ten. Now look here, my lad ; you come 
 down the stairs with me, and I'll show ye something. A 
 fellow has sent me a kippered salmon fi-ae the Solway, and 
 if ye've never tasted a kippered salmon, then ye dinna ken 
 how bountiful Providence has been to mortals. Come 
 away down, man, and I'll brander ye a steak that '11 make 
 your mouth water — to say nothing o' your een, if ye happen 
 to come across a wee bit lump o' pepper." 
 
 He would hear of no excuse ; he carried off Fitzgerald ; 
 went below, and lit the gas in the big gaunt studio ; also the 
 stove ; laid the table ; cut a couple of steaks from the firm, rud- 
 dy-brown fish, and put them on the gridiron ; fetched tum- 
 blers and bottles ; and then, as he stood over the gridiron, 
 and turned the salmon steaks with a fork, he regaled his 
 companion with " Auld Lang Syne," one line whistled, the 
 next sung, with occasionally a bit of a double shuffle com- 
 ing in. It was clear that he was in very excellent spirits, 
 or pretended to be. 
 
 Then, when he had popped the frizzling hot steaks on a 
 plate, and put them on the table, he drew in a couple of 
 chairs. 
 
 ^' Come away, my boy. Pass the bread. Fitz, my 
 laddie, I'm going to ask ye an impertinent question. Have 
 ye got any money ? " 
 
 He affected to be very busy in cutting the loaf, and 
 fetching a couple of lemons, and so on, so that he should 
 not see any embarrassment his companion might betray. 
 
 " Not very much," was the answer, with a doubtful 
 kind of laugh. 
 
 "I dinna want to borrow. I want ye to tell me if 
 j^ou've got any, that's all." 
 
 " As I say, I haven't very much." 
 
 " Have ye got any ? " said the other, pertinaciously, and 
 for a moment fixing his keen eyes on him. 
 
 " I've got four shillings," said Fitzgerald '" It isn't 
 what you might call a princely fortune ; but while I have it 
 I sha'n't starve." 
 
 "Are ye so sure o' that ? " said John Ross, pretending to 
 be much occupied with the lemon he held. " I'm tliinking 
 ye have been starving yourself. Now I'm flush. And it's 
 so seldom in my life I've had ower much money, I'd just 
 like to try the effect o' lending ye a pound or two. Just 
 think o' the luck! Just tell me this is anything but luck! 
 
100 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 There am I sitting in front o' the inn one afternoon, having 
 a pipe, and little else to do. 'Landlord,' says I, 'get down 
 your sign, man, and I'll repaint it for you.' Away the fat 
 old fellow goes, and fetches a ladder, and down comes the 
 rickety old board. Then soap and water, and a rub over 
 with megilp. Man, I took a fancy to the thing ; the sod- 
 ier's red coat ;vas fine, and I put in some trees, beside the 
 mn, and a bit of a glimmer o' sunlight down the road. 
 Ma certes, when it was dry, and hung up on the iron rod 
 again, it looked fine, I can tell ye ? And that very after- 
 noon — just think of the luck o't ! — by comes a gentleman, 
 and he wants a drink of meal and water for his horse, and 
 he begins to ask the landlord about the sign, and what 
 does the fellow do but ask him to go in and look at my 
 sketches ? — me away down the river at the time in a punt. 
 And then the upshot was that he bought two at £10 apiece ; 
 that was £20 ; and if the half o' that would be of use to 
 you, ye're welcome to the loan of it, and may ye live until 
 I ask -ye for it ! " 
 
 Fitzgerald was deeply touched by this kindness on the 
 part of one who knew almost nothing about him. What, 
 indeed, could Ross know ? It is true, the lad had clear 
 and honest eyes, that were likely to win the confidence of 
 a stranger ; but it is more probable that this friendly offer 
 was in great measure the result of that sort of subtle free- 
 masonry that seems to exist among those who have a 
 romantic affection for out-of-door sports and sights and 
 sounds, and who have had opportunities of talking over 
 these together. 
 
 " Are ye proud ? " said John Ross, sharply. 
 
 " I don't know how to thank you," said Fitzgerald, 
 simply. " I — I think it is tremendously kind of you. 1 
 would take it in a minute if there was need " 
 
 " How long do ye expect to live on four shillings ? " de- 
 manded the other. 
 
 But then Fitzgerald proceeded to explain how there was 
 a very considerable sum of money owing to him, and how 
 from day to day he had been expecting it, or part of it. 
 
 " Bless me, laddie, ye seem to be clean daft ! " Ross cried. 
 " To go starving yourself deliberately, out o' sensitiveness 
 for another man's feelings ! Let him be as sensitive about 
 you, to begin with ! Nonsense, nonsense, man ; get hold 
 o' the money at once! I would make a hundred and fifth 
 applications for it before I'd let both soul and body go down 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 101 
 
 into my boots. The picture ye were wlien I went up 
 to your room a while since ! A snuff for his fine feelings ! '* 
 
 " Oh, but you don't know how grateful I ought to be to 
 this Hilton Clarke," contended Fitzgerald, cheerfully. 
 ''Mind you, I've just been finding out for myself how diffi- 
 cult it is to get an entrance into London literature. And 
 you see through him I got employment right at the begm- 
 ning '* 
 
 " What on earth is the use of employment that ye're no 
 paid for?" 
 
 " But the money is there. I can have it for the ask- 
 ing." 
 
 " In God's name ask for it, then ! " said his emphatic 
 companion. " I dinna want to have to attend a funeral. A 
 nice thing it would be for me to ken yo were just over my 
 head, lying in a wooden box. No more kippered salmon 
 for ye then. No more ale for ye — it is pretty clear, isn't 
 it ? No more long letters from a young lass somewhere. 
 It's no that that's putting ye out ? " he added, with another 
 sharp glance. 
 
 " No, no ; there's no trouble there." said Fitzgerald, 
 brightly. " Nor, indeed, anywhere. I will hang on as long 
 as I can with my tour shillings ; then, if I don't hear by 
 that time, I will write. Now we will light up ; and you 
 will let me see the sketches you have brought back from the 
 Thames." 
 
 They lit their pipes. But before fetching the canvases, 
 Ross stepped over to a dusky recess, and brought back a 
 brace of wild-duck — both beautifully-plumaged mallard— 
 and threw them down. 
 
 " There," said he, " that's better than sketches. Take 
 them with ye, since ye're bent on starving yourself. Bonnie 
 birds, aren't they ? That shows ye the use o' having a gun 
 lying beside ye when ye're sketching in a punt." 
 
 "If you'd only bring some whiskey with you," said Fitz- 
 gerald, laughing, " I think I could afford to ask you to have 
 some dinner with me to-morrow night." 
 
 "But I will," responded his companion, seriously. 
 " Dinner, or supper, or what ye like. And the next night 
 ss well, if ye're willin' ; I'll see ye have two good meals be- 
 fore they make a corpse o' ye ; and one wild duck makes a 
 good enough dinner, an excellent dinner, for two folks. Eh, 
 man, if I had had a bit spaniel wi' me ! Many's and many's 
 the time I heard the duck quite close by me in the rushes, 
 
102 S HAND ON BELLS. 
 
 dipping their bills and flapping their wings. Then away 
 would go the mallard with a whirr like a policeman's rattle ; 
 and then you'd hear the mother quack, quacking to the 
 brood. Catch her leaving them till she had got them 
 hidd(m somewhere ! The drake, I'm thinking, is like the 
 buck rabbit : c'atch a buck rabbit warning anybody, so long 
 as he can show a clean pair o' heels and a white fud ! but 
 the doe, when ye startle her, down comes her liind-legs on 
 the ground with a whack ye can hear a hundred yards off, 
 and if the young ones dinna take heed o' that, they deserve 
 what they're likely to get." 
 
 "Yes — but the sketches?" suggested Fitzgerald. 
 His companion had contentedly sat down again. 
 " Oh, ay. I got some work done — I did a good deal o' 
 work. Did ye ever see a kingfisher fishing? ' 
 
 "No; they're not common with us in the south of Ire- 
 land." 
 
 "Man, I watched one for near half an hour last week, 
 and the whole o' that time he never stirred a feather. He 
 -was on a stone, or maybe it was a withered stump, under a 
 bush that was hanging over the water, I was beginning 
 to doubt but that somebody had stuffed him, and put him 
 there to make a fool o' folk, when snap ! down went 'his 
 head and neck, and the next second there he was with a 
 small fish crosswise in his beak. Then he twitched his head, 
 or maybe he was striking the fish on the stump ; then there 
 was no fish visible ; and then a kind o' streak o' blue flame 
 went down across the rushes ; that was the gentleman him- 
 self going off in a flash o' glory, as it were." 
 
 "Did you put him in your sketch?" asked Fitzgerald, 
 insidiously. 
 
 " It's an ungainly kind o' a beast, too," continued John 
 Ross, taking no heed of the hint. "Stumpy in shape. 
 And there are too many colors when he's standing still like 
 that. But once he's well on the wing you sea nothing but 
 blue — just a flash o' blue fire, that's fine enough when it 
 crosses a long, standing clump o' yellow rushes; but then 
 again when it crosses a dark bit o' shadow it's more than 
 that; it gives a kind o' metallic jerk that gets beyond color 
 a'thegither. I used to sit and watch for them. It becomes 
 a sort o' fascination ; it's like waiting to hear a pistol-shot 
 when ye see a man aiming." 
 
 '* I suppose you did a little painting as well while you 
 were up the river? " inquired Master Willie, dexterously. 
 
SHAND ON BELLS. \ 03 
 
 " Pent ? Bless the laddie, what did I go there for but 
 to pent ? I pented a signboard to begin wi', which was a 
 good honest piece o' work ; and I made fifteen sketches at 
 least ; and I came home £ 20 richer than when I went away, 
 just to find a young idjut wearing himself away for want o' 
 the common necessaries o' life. For that's what it comes 
 to, my callant ; and if ye'll no take the £10 I offer ye, I'll 
 no leave grup o' ye until ye write and get the money that's 
 your ain." 
 
 And indeed that was what it did come to ; for so persis- 
 tent was the Scotchman that before he let his companion 
 go that night Fitzgerald had definitely promised that the 
 next day, if no letter arrived for him in the morning, he 
 would write to Dover, and remind Mr. Hilton Clarke that 
 even the most willinor hack must have its handful of corn. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER X. 
 
 NEW FKIENDS. 
 
 Just at this moment an incident occurred which seemed 
 Blight enough in itself, but which proved to have somewhat 
 far-reaching consequences. Among these " Confessions of 
 a Young Man " which Fitzgerald had been forced to print 
 in the Household Magazine for lack of more substantial 
 material was a paper entitled " On Murder." It was chiefly 
 an essay on the doubts of a young sportsman over the kill- 
 ing of beautiful and innocent creatures — his compunction 
 on seeing them lying on the grass stone-dead and besmeared 
 with blood, or, worse still, ineffectually fluttering with 
 broken wing to try to get away from him on his approach. 
 Or suppose he has wounded one of those sea-birds that 
 are extraordinarily tenacious of life, and finds himself forced 
 to murder in cold blood, and with protracted difiiculty, this 
 beautiful, wild-eyed panting thing ? "Who could ever for- 
 get the mute glance of a wounded roe-deer ? Or fail to be 
 struck with remorse at the piteous squeal of a kicking and 
 struggling hare ? These were the moments of reflection, 
 of contemplation, that occurred in the eagerness of pursuit; 
 they were not pleasant— especially to the sportsman who 
 
104: SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 was alone. But then again the paper went on to speak of 
 doubts on the other side — doubts whether it was not possible 
 to cultivate sentiment to an unwholesome degree. To live 
 by the taking of life was a universal law of nature. Animals 
 had to be killed for food ; and if it was objected that the 
 sportsman shot for amusement and not for the procuring 
 of food, one misjht ask a rabbit which he preferred, to be 
 killed outright by a charge of No. 5 shot, even in the way 
 of amusement, or to be snared by the keepers for the market, 
 strangling for a couple of hours perhaps with the brass wire 
 getting tighter and tighter. Then the training and hardi- 
 hood and skill and health of the highest of all the animals 
 had to be considered. In short, the whole essay was a con- 
 flict between Mr. W. Fitzgerald as a hardy eager, and 
 practised wild-fowl stalker and Mr. W. Fitzgerald as a 
 literary person of acute, and perhaps even poetic, sympa- 
 thies. 
 
 It is just possible that a consciousness of the impossi- 
 bility of reconciling these two people had been borne in 
 upon the writer of the article during its progress : he wound 
 up witli an appeal ad rem ; that is to say, a description of 
 a day's cliff-sliooting in the south of -Ireland. How, he 
 asked, could one be expected to pause and consider such 
 questions at such a time in such a place? The Atlantic 
 thundering on the rocks below ; the steep cliffs ablaze in 
 the sunliglit ; the dark mystery of the caves ; then a sudden 
 whirr of half a dozen pigeons, the quick snap-shot right and 
 left (your feet tlie while steadying you on a ledge not four- 
 teen inches wide), and then the scramble down to the beach 
 after the slain. The exhilaration of sky, and ocean, and 
 buffeting sea-winds was fatal, he contended, to metaphysics : 
 even the still small voice of conscience was lost in one's 
 anxiety not to slip on the close crisp turf, and go headlong 
 into the sea below. And so forth, and so forth. However 
 the conflict may have gone in the previous portions of the 
 essay, it was the pupil of Andy the Hopper that had the 
 last word. 
 
 Well, on the day following the publication of this article, 
 the following note came to the office : 
 
 "Mrs. Chetwynd presents her compliments to the editor 
 of the Household Magazine, and would be much obliged if 
 he would kindly acquaint her with the name and address of 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 105 
 
 tlie writer of the papers entitled ' The Confessions of a 
 Yoii/ig Man.' 
 
 '' Hyde Park Gardens, Monday 17th." 
 
 Now Fitzgerald had had enough experience of the mulitiule 
 of people who write to newspaper offices on the slightest 
 pretext, and he scarcely looked at this note twice. No 
 doubt , if he sent his name and address, he would receive in 
 reply a pamphlet by a member of the Anti-vivisectionist 
 Society, or an appeal for a subscription to the Home for 
 Lost l3og.s, or some such thing. So he merely sent a po- 
 lite reply, in his capacity as assistant editor, to the effect that 
 it was a rule of the office not to furnish such information, 
 and thought no more of the matter. 
 
 However the next day brought another note. 
 
 •* Dear Sir, — I respectfully apologize for my intrusion, 
 but I think if you knew the circumstances of the case you 
 would not refuse the request which my aunt made to you 
 yesterday. She is an old lady who has met with a great 
 sorrow ^ and she has been very much interested in the series 
 of papers mentioned in her note, as recalling to her some- 
 tliing of one who was dear to her. I may say frankly that 
 she is very desirous of seeing the gentleman who wrote these 
 papers, if only to thank him for the pleasure he has given 
 her ; and I am sure he would not grudge giving up a few 
 minutes of his time some afternoon, if you would have the 
 kindness to forward this request to him. 
 " I am, dear Sir, 
 
 " Your obedient servant, 
 
 " Mary Chetwynd. 
 " Hyde Park Gardens, Tuesday y" 
 
 Fitzgerald paid more attention to this note, and even re- 
 read it carefully — with Kome little admiration of the pretty 
 handwriting. No doubt, also, in other circumstances, he 
 would not have hesitated for a moment to respond to this 
 simple, frank, and kindly invitation. But the truth was, 
 at this moment he was in no mood for making new acquaint- 
 ances. Not a word or line had come from Dover, and his 
 four shillings had been reduced to eighteenpence. Kitty 
 was in Dublin ; her engagement finished ; her immediate 
 prospects somewhat uncertain. Moreover, if it came to 
 that, his clothes were a trifle too shabby for the paying of 
 
106 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 afternoon calls ; and so having written a formal note as fi-om 
 the editor, informing Miss Chetwynd that her letter had 
 been forwarded to the contributor referred to, he folded up 
 the sheet of note-paper and laid it aside, considering the 
 correspondence closed. 
 
 Two days after, he found among the letters awaiting 
 him at the office one with the welcome Dover postmark on 
 it. He eagerly opened it. 
 
 *' Dear Fitzgerald, — Don't be in a hurry. I'll make 
 it all right. 
 
 ** Yours ever, 
 
 *' Hilton Clarke. 
 " P. S. — I enclose a bit of copy." 
 
 He looked at that for some time, not knowing what to 
 think. In the midst of his perplexity Mr. Scobellmade his 
 appearance ; and Mr. Scobell was evidently in a very bad 
 tcra]>er. 
 
 " I say, Fitzgerald, this won't do at all, you know," said 
 he putting his hat down and taking a chair. " I say this 
 won't do at all. I've stood it long enough." 
 
 " What?" said the assistant editor, calmly. 
 
 " You know very well. I'm not going to put my money 
 into a thing simply for the amusemec^ of somebody else. I 
 say it isn't fair; I don't call it gentlemanly. The magazine 
 is going down every week ; I say the circulation is going 
 down ; and it never was much, and it '11 soon be nothing. 
 And all the time I'm paying my money to a gentleman who 
 amuses himself at Dover. I won't stand it. It's false pre- 
 tences. I pay him ; he's my servant ; and he should do 
 his work." 
 
 " But he writes there," said Fitzgerald. "I have just 
 tliis minute got an article in MS. from him." 
 
 " Oh, it's no use trying to humbug me " 
 
 ** I beg your pardon, I am not trying to humbug you," 
 said Fitzgerald, with an angry color in his face. "And if 
 you've got any complaint to make against Hilton Clarke, 
 you might make it to himself. I'm not responsible for 
 him." 
 
 " No, nobody is responsible, and the magazine is going to 
 the devil ! " exclaimed Mr. Scobell. " That's just it. I'm 
 losing money every week, and nobody is responsible." 
 
 Master Willie was on the point of saying that precious 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 107 
 
 little of Mr. Scobell's money had found its way into his 
 pocket ; but he refrained. 
 
 " Has Hilton Clarke ever denied his responsibility ? " 
 said he, somewhat w^armly. "It is not necessary for an 
 editor always to be on the spot. If the magazine is not 
 succeeding, it is a pity ; but I suppose it was a commercial 
 speculation, like any other. I consider that Hilton Clarke 
 has put very good work into it ; and his name as editor was 
 of itself valuable " 
 
 " Look here, Fitzgerald," said Mr. Scobell, in a milder 
 tone, " I'm not complaining of you. You are doing your 
 work well enough — and Clarke's too, for the matter of that. 
 You may stick up for him if you like ; but what I say is 
 that it isn't fair of him to go and neglect his business. I 
 pay him. Confound it ! I pay him ; he takes my money, 
 and amuses himself at the Lord Warden Hotel. If you 
 were getting his salary, I could understand your sticking up 
 for him. And the airs he gives himself ! ' Scobell, my dear 
 fellow.' But he takes my money ; and I'm getting tired of 
 it; and that's the long and the short of it." 
 
 "I don't think," said Fitzgerald, slowly, as if he wanted 
 to gain nerve — "I don't think, Mr. Scobell, that if Mr. 
 Clarke knew you were discontented, he would wish you to 
 continue the 'magazine. He would probably ask you to 
 give it up at once." 
 
 '^ Discontented ! " exclaimed Scobell, with a not un- 
 natural indignation. " Haven't I a right to be discontented ? 
 Isn't it losing me money every week ? " 
 
 " But that possibility was before you when you started 
 it," observed Fitzgerald, respectfully. 
 
 " Oh, I don't care about supply and demand and all 
 that d d nonsence," said Mr. Scobell, somewhat inap- 
 propriately. " Theories don't make the loss of money any 
 the pleasanter. And I say to myself, Why should I go on 
 losing money? I never proposed to pay for keeping 
 Hilton Clarke at the Lord Warden Hotel. That wasn't 
 spoken of when I started the magazine. What do I gain 
 by it ? It isn't even known as my magazine, losing as it is ; 
 it is Hilton Clarke's ; it's his name that's connected with it 
 in everybody's mouth — that is, when anybody speaks of it. 
 But they don't. They don't even cut the edges of it at my 
 club. I go into my club, and I ask people about the articles 
 in it ; they don't know anything about them. I have men- 
 tioned it when I have gone into sassiety ; no one has heard 
 
lOS S //AND ON BELLS, 
 
 of it. Wliat is it to me ? What am I paying for ? Wh}^ 
 M'lieii I wrote a paragraph about a new brand of champagne 
 imported by a particular friend of mine, I coukln't get it 
 printed in my own magazine ! I like that ! He struck it 
 out without saying a word." 
 
 " Oh no ; I struck it out," said Fitzgerald. 
 
 ** You ! " said Mr. Scobell, with an angry glare. 
 
 " lo was agreed at the very outset that there was to be 
 no private influence like that brought to bear," said Fitz- 
 gerald, respectfully, but quite coolly. " That kind of thing 
 is fatal to a paper. A single paragraph that the public 
 would suspect would ruin it " 
 
 " How far off ruin is it now ? " said the other, scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 « Well," said Fitzgerald, " I did what I thought was 
 right ; and I don't want to shirk the responsibility. I 
 know it is what Hilton Clarke would have done ; and I 
 was acting for him; and I had no time to ask him first. 
 But if you are dissatisfied with the magazine as a whole," 
 he continued, formally, " or with my share in it, the remedy 
 is simple, as far as I am concerned. You may consider my 
 place vacant from this minute." 
 
 He rose. Scobell seemed rather disconcerted for a 
 second ; but immediately lie said : — 
 
 "Sit do'.vn, Fitzgerald. Wait a moment. I'm not 
 blaming you; you've done your best; you've done all the 
 work ; I wish to goodness we had started with you as edi- 
 tor, and saved Hilton Clarke's salary." 
 
 '* Considering that the idea of the magazine was his — " 
 Fitzgerald tried to interpolate ; but the proprietor w^as bent 
 on mollifying him, and would not be interrupted. 
 
 *' What's more, though I say it to your face, when I 
 hare heard any one in my own circle speak of the maga- 
 zine at all, it has been about those papers of yours. Mrs. 
 Chetwynd spoke to me yesterday. She said she had writ- 
 t«;n tc you. Now that's what I like. I like to be con- 
 nected with something that is spoken of among a good set 
 of people. I confess to a little weakness that way ; I like 
 to be able to say something about the magazine, and hear 
 it approved by the best people. And I said you would be 
 delighted to call." 
 
 " I didn't know that was part of my duties," said Fitz- 
 gerald, somew^hat stifliy. 
 
 " What ? " replied Mr. Scobell, with a stare. 
 
S HAND ON BELLS. 109 
 
 ** To go and call on strangers. Why should I call on 
 Mrs. Chetwynd ? I never heard of her." 
 
 " God bless my soul ! never heard of the Chetwynds ! " 
 exclaimed Mr. Scobell. " There are no better-known peo- 
 ple in London. The very best people are glad to know 
 them. I used to meet Mrs. Chetwynd everywhere in so- 
 ciety, until her nephew died. Her husband you must have 
 lieard of; why, he was deputy-lieutenant of my own county 
 before they made him Governor of Tasmania. And slie 
 was one of the Cork Barrys ; she was delighted to hear you 
 were a countryman of hers. Not know the Chetwynds ! 
 But you will be charmed with tliem, I assure you. I will 
 take you there myself if you like." 
 
 Not only, however, did Fitzgerald decline tliis magnani- 
 mous offer, but he even liinted that he would much rather 
 not go and call on these strangers. He was not familiar 
 with the ways of London life, he was busily occupied, and 
 so forth. Whereupon Mr. Scobell, who appeared to have 
 promised Mrs. Chetwynd that she should make the acquain- 
 tance of the young man, went on a different tack altogether, 
 and appealed to liis generosity. It appeared that this poor 
 old lady had recently lost her nephew, in whom her wJioIe 
 life had been bound up. She had adopted him as her 
 son; she had left him in her will every, ;ii"u^- belonging 
 to her — for his sister, Mary Chetwynd, was already uiri|;'. 
 provided for ; she had made over to him "jy deed. of gift a 
 small property in Cork, on the shores of B.:rtry Bay. Then 
 a luckless stumble when he was out riding on<j J^ ' 
 Windsor Park brought an end to all the fair hopes of which 
 he was the centre ; and since then the old lady seemed to 
 do nothing but mourn his memory, while keeping up a 
 strange and keen interest in the various pursuits he had 
 followed. She knew all the hunting appointments; she 
 read accounts of the new breech loaders ; she took in the 
 sporting papers? And somehow or other she had got it 
 into her head that those " Confessions of a Young Man '' 
 were just such essays as would have been written by this 
 beloved nephew of hers if he had turned his mind to litera- 
 ture ; for tliey were continually touching on the sports and 
 pastimes that he enjoyed. Was it wonderful that she 
 should wish to see the writer ? Was it a great sacrifice for 
 him to give up ten minutes of an afternoon to please an 
 old woman who had suffered much, and who was near the 
 t^rave ? The upshot of Mr. Scobell's representations and. 
 
110 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 entreaties v;-as that Fitzgerald agreed to call at the house 
 in Hyde Park Gardens on the following afternoon. 
 
 But until then? Well, he had discovered that cocoa- 
 nut with new bread was an excellent thing with which to 
 stave off the pangs of hunger, and he had a few coppers 
 left, while in the evening, on getting down to the Fulham 
 Road, he took the precaution of putting out the light 
 early, and slipping off to bed, so that John Ross should not 
 think he had come home. The worst of it was that tLis ex- 
 treme privation produced deplorable fits of sleeplesaness ; 
 and as the brain seems to take a pleasure in painting the 
 gloomiest possible pictures in the middle of the night, the 
 thing that haunted him chiefly was the prospect of his hav- 
 ing to visit «i pawnbroker's shop. He thought of the man 
 looking at him ; he felt his own self-consciousness tingling 
 in his face ; he wondered whether he should be suspected 
 of being a thief. No ; he could not do that. He could not 
 ^o into a pawnbroker's shop. He would go out into the 
 open streets rather, and offer to sell his boots to the first 
 passer-by. Besides (this was the cheering thought that 
 came with the first gray light of the morning) he had still 
 some pence left; and cocoa-nut and bread was not an ex- 
 pensive meal ; and who could tell but that Hilton Clarke 
 had at last taken enough trouble to reckon up what was 
 owing to him, and had already sent it off ? 
 
 About four o'clock the next afternoon, Mr. Scobell 
 called at the ofiice and persuaded Fitzgerald to accompany 
 him to Hyde Park Gardens. In the brougham, as they 
 were driving up, he endeavored to impress his companion 
 with a sense of the advantages of getting into good society. 
 It was so important for a young man. True, the Chet- 
 wynds did not entertain as they had done before the sad 
 death of the nephew ; but good people — people one ought 
 to know — went about the house. Fitzgerald, who rather 
 felt himself in the position of a slave being carried off for 
 exhibition, listened in silence. He had had nothing to eat 
 since breakfast ; perhaps it was that circumstance that made 
 the prospect of being introduced to " good people " a some- 
 what intangible benefit. 
 
 However, after all, as it turned out, he was glad he 
 went, for he was quite delighted with this old lady, whom 
 he found propped up in an easy-chair by the side of the 
 tal French window. He forgot all about Mr. Scobell's 
 pompous patronage of him ; he ignored his presence alto- 
 
STIANDON BELLS, \\\ 
 
 ii^ether, indeed, for he was so charmed with this little dainty 
 wliite-haired woman, who talked so sweetly, and with a 
 touch of sadness too, and who, moreover, had just the 
 faintest something in her tone that told him that she too in 
 her youth must have heard the chimes of St. Anne's. Did 
 he know Bantry ? she asked. Why, of course he did. And 
 Glengariff? Certainly. Bearhaven? He had only seen 
 that in the distance. Perhaps he had never heard of Boat 
 of Garry ? 
 
 She seemed to hesitate a little as she mentioned this last 
 ]>lace; and as Fitzgerald was replying that he had not 
 heard of it — that, indeed, he did not know much of Bantry 
 Bay — she was silent for a second or so, and lie thought 
 there was a little moisture in her eyes, and that her mouth 
 was inclined to be tremulous. But that passed instantly. 
 The pretty little old lady grew quite cheerful again ; she 
 said she could see in his writing that he was what the Ban- 
 try people called a " great sporter," and wondered how he 
 could write so much when he seemed to spend all his life 
 out of doors. 
 
 " That is all over now," said Fitzgerald. " I've sold 
 myself into slavery." 
 
 " And do you find London a lonely place ? " 
 
 " Yes, rather." 
 
 "But you will soon make plenty of friends. Where 
 can Mary be, I wonder?" 
 
 Just at this moment, as if in answer to her question, 
 the door was opened, and a young lady came into the room 
 and went up and shook hands with Mr. Scobell. 
 
 "Mr. Fitzgerald," said the old lady, " let me introduce 
 you to my niece." 
 
 As he rose he found before him a tall young woman, 
 who had exceedingly shrewd and clear and yet merry eyes, 
 a fine face, handsome rather than pretty, and with a good 
 deal of decision in it. Altogether the first impression pro- 
 duced on him by this young lady was not entirely sympa- 
 thetic. He liked gentleness in women. This young per- 
 son looked as if she could take very good care of herself. 
 However, this first impression was modified when she spoke. 
 She had a soft and musical voice, beautifully modulated ; 
 and she talked with a bright cheerfulness and frankness 
 that was pleasant to hear. For one thing, he thought it 
 Btrange that her dress, which was scrupulously plain and 
 
112 SBA N'DON BELLS. 
 
 neat, sliould not be black, seeing that it was for her brother 
 tliat Mrs. Chetwynd appeared to be still in mourning. 
 
 " I suppose auntie has apologized to you, Mr. Fitzger- 
 ald," said she, "and I ought to, also. You must have 
 thought me terribly intrusive ; but I think our friends have 
 spoiled us with their kindness of late ; and soon I expect 
 to find auntie printing on her cards of invitation, 'Mrs. 
 Chetwynd commands the attendance of So-and-so at five 
 o'clock tea on Tuesday next.' Really they are too kind ; 
 and but for that I don't know what my aunt would do, be- 
 cause I have to be so much out of the house at present. 
 
 " How you find time for all you have to do, Mary, 1 
 can't make out," said the pleasant old lady. " You see, Mr. 
 Fitzgerald, I get blinder and blinder every day, and Mary 
 has to be my eyes for me. But this is the worst of it, that 
 I am a silly old woman, and like to have read to me nice 
 things. Mary is of the younger generation, and cares for 
 nothing but science, and education, and teaching people 
 how many miles it is to the sun, as if thoi'e was any chance 
 of their getting there. It is really too hard on her ; and I 
 can scarcely read at all now ; and the way she sacrifices her 
 time " 
 
 " It isn't my time that is to be considered at all, Mr. 
 Scobell," said the young lady, brightly, " but you have no 
 idea what my aunt will insist on my reading to her. Pretty 
 stories and poems of the affections. I do believe nothing 
 would please her so much as a whole column of the senti- 
 mental verses — breaking hearts and the rest of it — that the 
 local poets send to the country newspapers." 
 
 " But aren't these interesting enough ? " says Fitzgerald, 
 perhaps conscious that he himself had appeared frequently 
 in that quarter. 
 
 " They are a little monotonous, are they not?" said the 
 young lady of the clear eyes, regarding him with something 
 like scrutiny. " A little too much of love and dove, and 
 posies and roses ? " 
 
 " At all events, they are human nature," said he, with 
 some slight flush in his face. "If they are not merely 
 literary imitations — if they are the real expression of the 
 hopes, or fancies, or feelings of the writers, I can not ima- 
 gine anything more interesting. It is a human life laid 
 bare ; and that to me is more interesting than a frog's foot, 
 or the question whether there is bismuth in the moon." 
 
SHANDON BELLS 113 
 
 She regarded him for a moment curiously. Then she 
 rose. 
 
 " You will excuse me, Mr. Scobell ; I have to get to 
 
 Whitechapel by half-past five. Good-bye, Auntie dear ! '* 
 
 She kissed her aunt ; she bowed to Fitzgerald, and left 
 
 the room. Fitzgerald, without knowing why, experienced 
 
 a sense of relief. 
 
 How pretty this dear little old lady looked, sitting in 
 state there, with the warm afternoon liglit lending a faint 
 color to tlie somewhat worn and sad face ! Fitzgerald 
 thought he had never seen such silvery hair. And she 
 seemed pleased to have visitors ; she prattled away about 
 the things of the hour, and what this or that distinguished 
 person was doing ; and all through, by a chance remark 
 here or there, she would remind Fitzgerald that she was his 
 countrywoman. And when they rose to leave, she made a 
 direct appeal to Master Willie to come and see her again 
 whenever he had an idle half-hour ; for she wae an inquisi- 
 tive old woman, she said ; and she could not read ; and she 
 liked to know what was going on. 
 
 When they got outside, Fitzgerald's admiration broke 
 forth. 
 
 " Well, that is a most delightful old lady ! " he ex- 
 claimed. "It is simply delightful to hear her talk. And 
 she seems to have known everybody worth knowing for the 
 last sixty years." 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Scobell, in his lofty manner, as the 
 footman opened the door of his brougham for liim. " Yes. 
 They are a good sort of people, the Chetwynds. They are 
 very well known in sassiety. I have a few more calls to 
 make. Ta, ta." 
 
 So Fitzgerald set out to walk home. He had had some 
 tea and a piece of cake ; and that was cheering ; in fact, it 
 had raised his spirits so much that he now resolved that if 
 John Ross were at home, he would frankly ask him for a 
 share of his supper that evening ; and hfe knew pretty w^ell 
 that Ross would be as glad to give it as he to get it. It 
 Avas not, however, his supper that chiefly occupied his 
 thoughts as he walked down to the Fulham Road. Mca-e 
 than once he kept thinking of Mary Chetwynd, and of her 
 manner toward him, and of what that could possibly be 
 that called her to Whitechapel. 
 
114 BHANDON BELLS. 
 
 CHAf^TER XL 
 
 • A DISCLOSURE. 
 
 Quite clearly, matters were approaching a climax. 
 Notwithstanding all his shifts and devices, Fitzgerald was 
 ftt length forced to accept a loan of a few pounds from hia 
 neighbor below, and he at the same time sent an urgent 
 note to Hilton Clarke, representing how his affairs stood. 
 Of course he never doubted but that that appeal would be 
 instantly answered. 
 
 Days passed ; there were no tidings of any sort. Finally 
 two letters that had been forwarded to the Lord Warden 
 Hotel were returned through the Post Office, with the inti- 
 mation that Mr. Hilton Clarke had gone away and left no 
 address. 
 
 . Fitzgerald, very much aghast, took these letters to Mr. 
 Silas Earp. The heavy, black-a-vised manager regarded 
 them in his usually lugubrious way, and merely observed : 
 
 " A very good job if we hear no more about him. He 
 was only drawing his salary, and doing no work." 
 
 ^' But," said Fitzgerald, who was rather bewildered — • 
 " but he owes me my salary. I never had anything sinco 
 the magazine was started except £10.'* 
 
 " That's a pity," said the other, slowly. " I always 
 heard he was fishy about money matters — and other mat- 
 ters too." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," said Fitzgerald quickly, 
 **0f course he'll pay me. I don't doubt that. But it's 
 too bad of him to be so careless '* 
 
 " I expect he h'as spent all the money by this time. 
 Wish I had known ; I'd have told you not to have Hilton 
 Clarke in your debt to the tune of twopence. It's a pity ; 
 I don't expect you'll ever see a farthing of it." 
 
 *' You don't mean to say that you accuse him of steal* 
 ing my salary?" said Fitzgerald. But his resentment 
 against this implication was accompanied by a wild guess 
 at what his own situation would be if it were true. 
 
 "Oh no, I don't say that," said the manager, regarding 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 110 
 
 hira< * I wouldn't call it that. He wouldn't look at it in 
 that light. But you ought to know Hilton Clarke better 
 than I do. I only know of him by report ; and I know I 
 wouldn't lend him a sovereign I couldn't afford to lose." 
 
 Fitzgerald went back to his own room and sat down. 
 It was not only the loss of the money — supposing this thing 
 were true — that troubled him. He could replace that loss 
 in time. But to think that this friend of his, who had 
 seemed so kind and considerate, who had such delicate per- 
 ceptions and sympathies in literary matters, could act like 
 a common vulgar scoundrel, and that in a peculiarly cal- 
 lous fashion — this it was that crushed him. But only for a 
 few seconds. He refused to believe such a thing. He 
 was ashamed of himself for having deemed it possible. He 
 went back to Mr, Silas Earp and told him that he need not 
 mention to any one the fact of Hilton Clark's being 
 pecuniarily indebted to him, Fitzgerald, for of course the 
 matter would be put straight. The lugubrious manager 
 regarded him as if with a little sad curiosity, and only 
 fiaid, " Very well." 
 
 The next few days were days of deep suspense to 
 Fitzgerald, for he knew not what to think of this persistent 
 silence. When the explanation came it was short and de- 
 cisive. One morning he went into the office as usual. Mr. 
 Silas Earp met him. 
 
 " The fat's in the fire now," said the manager calmly. 
 *' Mr. ^cobell has been here this morning. A mad bull is a 
 fool to him." 
 
 " What is the matter, then ? " 
 
 " The story got all over London last night, he says. 
 And the magazine is to be stopped this week. There is 
 the announcement." 
 
 He handed the stupefied assistant editor a printed slip 
 with these words underlined in writing ; " We have to an- 
 nounce to our readers this week that the publication of the 
 Household Magazine ceases with the present number." 
 
 " But what is it all about ? What is the story ? " 
 
 " Well, I only got bits, he was in such a rage," said the 
 manager. " It's all about Lady Ipswich, I believe : and 
 when her brother found her at last, at Geneva, with Hilton 
 Clarke, she wouldn't come back, not a bit. She says Sir 
 John can take out a divorce if he likes." 
 
 Fitzgerald was staggered but only for a moment. 
 
 " And even if the story is true,,' he cried, " what has 
 
116 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 that to do with the magazine? Why stop the maga- 
 zine on account of it ? "We never advised our readers to 
 run away with other people's wives ; it has nothing to do 
 with the magazine/' 
 
 *'0h, but Mr. Scobell wants to smash something oi 
 somebody," the manager said, calmly. " His wife is furi. 
 ous; Lady Ipswich was a friend of hers," And then 
 there's money ; Mr. Scobell thinks Hilton Clarke only 
 started this magazine to get money out of him — — " 
 
 " Oil, that's nonsense ! " said Fitzgerald, warmly. 
 "That is quite preposterous ; Hilton Clark may be this or 
 that, but lie is not a deliberate swindler. He wouldn't 
 take the trouble. He is too self-indulgent. And then if 
 you go and stop the magazine now, you make an associa- 
 tion between it and this scandal that doesn't exist. You 
 draw attention to it. You ask people to believe " 
 
 But at this moment Mr. Scobell himself made his a}> 
 pearance, and an angry man he was. It was in vain that 
 Fitzgerald pointed out to him that to stop the magazine 
 that very week would be the very thing to make the public 
 believe there was some connection between it and what 
 had happened. " Sassiety," Mr. Scobell declared, was 
 talking of nothing but this scandal ; and here was Hilton 
 Clarke's name outside the periodical that he owned. A 
 nice thing to have the editor of your own paper run away 
 with the wife of one of your own friends, and lead every- 
 body to believe that you had introduced them ! He*\vould 
 have no more of this. He had lost enough money, without 
 having to incur scandal as well. No doubt it was a fine 
 thing for literary men to have a paper go on forever " 
 
 " But what do you mean by that ? " said Fitzgerald, 
 with a sharpness that brought Mr. Scobell to his senses, 
 *'If you are tired of the magazine, and have no faith in it. 
 drop it when you like. I was only anxious you should 
 not associate it with a merely personal scandal. But you 
 needn't talk as if it had been a fine thing for me. For all 
 my work on it I have received £10 ; I should have made 
 more at sweeping a crossing." 
 
 Mr. Scobell was bewildered ; but when the circum- 
 stances were explained to him, he not only exempted Fitz- 
 gerald from the vague charge he had brought against lit- 
 erary persons generally, but said he had been infamously 
 treated, and that as he might suffer from the sudden cessa^ 
 tion of the magazine, some compensation was due to him. 
 
SJ/AJVDOJV B£LL^^ ^^ '^ 117 
 
 "It was plunder — a deliberate schema for plunder," he 
 maintained. "And he has done you as he has done me. 
 It isn't more than three weeks since he got an extra £100 
 from me. It was a deliberate swindle. He never cared 
 about the magazine ; he never worked for it ; it was a 
 scheme to get money " 
 
 " It was nothing of the kind, Mr. Scobell," said Fitz- 
 g«3rald, bluntly " I know what he thought of the maga- 
 zine ; I talked enougii with him about it. He expected it 
 to be a great property, and that as he had presented you 
 with the idea, he ought to have a liberal salary and not too 
 much work. He is a self-indulgent man ; he can deny him- 
 self nothing. If you and I have lost this money, you can 
 afford to lose it better than I can ; but there's no use in 
 making wild charges. It was not a scheme to defraud ; 
 that is absurd. I think he was very soon disappointed; 
 he didn't care to work after that. And then it was a pity 
 the money should all have been placed in his hands ; he 
 always seemed to think he had a right to everything within 
 his reach. And then I suppose this opportunity — this 
 temptation — was too much for him, don't you see ! "^ 
 
 *' Well, you take it pretty quietly," said Scobell, al- 
 most with a touch of indignation, " seeing you must have 
 lost £60 or £70 through him." 
 
 " It wasn't altogether that I was thinking of," said Fitz- 
 gerald. "I liked him." 
 
 Mr. Scobell adhered to his determination to stop the 
 magazine ; but he sent Fitzgerald a solatium in the shape 
 a check for £25. Thus it was that Fitzgerald found him- 
 self with about four or five months' pretty hard work 
 thrown away, with much less money in his pocket than he 
 had come to London with, and without that friend on 
 Avhose occasional word of sympathy or advice he had 
 counted. But he was not much dismayed, after all. Other 
 ]»eople had come to London and fared worse. He saw 
 lots of things he thought he could do — driving a hansom, 
 if it came to that. If his literary adventures had so far 
 been unsuccessful, he had all the more material in his desk 
 for use when the opportunity arrived. He was free from 
 debt, for he had taken instant care to repay John Ross ; he 
 could live on little ; he had the hope and courage of three- 
 and-twenty ; and when he wanted relief from the cares 
 and troubles of the world, he had the faculty of entirely- 
 losing himself in a play or a poem, so that it was of little 
 
118 SHANDOM BELLS, 
 
 consequence to him whether the night was cold, or whetnei 
 there was supper in his room or not. Besides, was he not 
 the most fortunate of mortals in the possession of Kitty ! 
 How aould a man be unhappy who had one true heart con- 
 tinually thinking of him, and cheering him with messages 
 of trust and love and confidence ? 
 
 "My brave Boy" (Kitty wrote, on hearing of the 
 catastrophe), — "I'm very glad. It will open your eyes. 
 It's worth the money. Why, you'll never get on at all if 
 you believe in everybody like that ; and if you don't get 
 on, what's to become of me ? I saw through that whited 
 sepulchre of a wretch : if I had him here just now I'd let 
 him know what I've been thinking of him. And even now 
 you seem disposed to make excuses for him. Perhaps 
 when one person takes money — and cruelly and meanly 
 takes money — that belongs to another person, he isn't called 
 a thief among gentlemen. That wouldn't be refined, per- 
 haps ? Now, dear Willie, once for all, it won't do for you 
 to go on like that. All your geese are swans (including 
 me). You have too much poetry about you ; and you are 
 too willing to believe in people ; and you were made too 
 much of about Inislieen. If you keep all your poetry for 
 me, and make me wonderful and glorious, that's quite right, 
 for that is just tlie sort of person I am ; but you'll have to 
 give up painting fancy portraits of other people. I am 
 younger than you ; but I've seen a good lot. But do you 
 think I want my bonny Coulin to be hard-hearted? No, I 
 don't. I want him to keep all his poetry and imagination 
 for me ; and not to believe in anybody else — further than 
 he can see them ; and then when he has made his way in 
 the world, and fought people on their own terms, then he 
 can settle down and let liis children make a fool of him to 
 their hearts content. 
 
 " Willie, there's a man in Dublin bothering me with 
 his bouquets again ; but I don't allow them to be sent up, 
 even when he manages to get them left, and I haven't even 
 looked at his card. I go to Belfast on the 13th. My father 
 can't imagine why I don't go to England ; but must I not 
 remain faithful to my boy's wishes ? Dear Willie, I have 
 read the verses a hundred times over that you sent me with 
 the bracelet on my birthday but why are they so sad ? I 
 like particularly that one that ends, — 
 
 O aching heart, that sinks or swells 
 Wlieii'er at night you hear the sound 
 So far away of Shandon bells I " 
 
SHAA D ON BELLS. 119 
 
 But are you so very lonely, then, and only making believe 
 to be comfortable and happy when you write to me ? Really, 
 when I see the people who haven't an ounce or an atom ol 
 your genius driving past in their fine carriages, I have no 
 patience. And they come to the concert and sit in the stalls 
 with their diamonds and opera cloaks ; and the young men 
 so spick and span. Things are not right. Wliat can t}i€\j 
 do ? Can they do anything but drive in the Phoenix — the 
 Phaynix I suppose they'd call it. Yes, and I wonder how 
 long we may have to go on this way — everything unsettled, 
 and !t long distance between us. And now you have to be- 
 gin ail over again, thanks to your fine friend. But if you're 
 not afraid, no more am I ; and we'll snap our fingers at them 
 yet ; and when everything's quite fair and clear, and money 
 all right, then you'll publish a whole volume of poems tell- 
 ing the country all about me and ray wonderfulness ( I am 
 wonderfu], lean tell you ; when I think of the way I bear 
 up against your being so far away from me, I am lost in 
 admiration of myself ). That reminds me that I have made 
 a conundrum. This is it : TfAy should my CouUn be the 
 happiest tnan in England? ' Now you may twist this about 
 any way, and you may pull it to pieces, and put it together 
 again, and turn it upside down and round about half a dozen 
 times over, and yet you would never find out the answer. 
 I say you wouldn't ; anybody else in the world would see 
 it in a moment. It's Because Tm in love with him. I 
 think this is very good ; keep it a secret. 
 
 " Your obliged and humble servant, 
 
 " Kitty.' 
 London did not feel quite so lonely that evening. There 
 was to be an Irish-ballad concert in St. James's Hall at eight 
 o'clock, and this letter had put him into such a cheerful 
 frame of mind that he thought he would go away up there 
 and get some cheap place ; and then, sitting all by himself, 
 and not being obliged to talk to any one, he would be able 
 to hear if any of them could sing the Irish songs like Kitty, 
 
120 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A GO-BETWEEN. 
 
 Two days after the public annonnceraent had been mad« 
 til at there was to be no more of the Household Magazine^ 
 Fitzgerald was sitting in that solitary room of his, alone. 
 The morning was crisp and clear; there was a wintry feeb 
 mg in the air ; the sunlight falling into the little court yard 
 was cheerful enough, even if the small pla'ne-trees had lost 
 their leaves. But it was not of the Fulham Road he was 
 thinking, now that he had put away from him the sheet of 
 paper on the table. This first touch of the winter had 
 awakened dreams. Now the picture before his absent eyes 
 was Kenvane Head ; the blue sea all murmuring; the vast 
 caves silent and mysterious ; his only companion a saga- 
 cious, quick-eyed spaniel, lying with his nose between his 
 paws, and yet evidently not understanding why his master 
 should thus be content to sit and muse, instead of being up 
 and after the wild fowl. Again it was a wild moorland on 
 a bitter cold night ; Andy the Hopper and he each cramped 
 up in a barrel sunk into the bog; both breathlessly waiting 
 for the sudden whirr overhead of the duck. Or rather was 
 it not of that wonderful day when Miss Romayne first con- 
 descended to go out into the open light of the streets with 
 him ; his consciousness that all Cork was looking at and 
 admiring her ; the delight of recommending a particular 
 seat on board the steamer ; the sail past the golden autumn 
 woods, and the broad shallows of the river, out into the 
 great, shining, windy harbor, with its glancing waves, and 
 white yachts, and islands ; her admiration of a pretty bare- 
 headed lass at Aghada, whoso hair seemed to have been 
 bleached by the sea liir and the sunlight into different shades 
 of golden brown, and Kitty's timid remark that she thought 
 his hair was like that (followed by a quick blush, for their 
 acquaintanceship at thnt time did not quite justify personal 
 ciiticism); and then, finally, his faithful escort of her home 
 in the evening, Miss Patience most happily being confined 
 to her house with neuralg ia. Or was it of that other day 
 when, at a later period of their intimacy, he had inveigled 
 
S/7 AND ON BELLS, 121 
 
 her away into a boat with him ; the Atlantic calm and blue ; 
 Kitty getting her first lessons in rowing, and pulling away 
 so bravely that by and by it was discovered that her poor 
 little white hands had become quite rosy red inside ; then 
 fishing off the deep shelving rocks ; her shriek of deliglit 
 when she felt a tug ; her shriek of fear when he hauled in 
 for her a grasping and flopping gurnard ; their luncheon 
 on the beach, and the wonder of having Kitty wait on him 
 and offer him things ; then the long row home, Kitty lying 
 snugly in the stern, and chatting, or laughing, or singing, 
 as the mood overtook her, the while the Avestering sun sank 
 slowly toward the horizon, and the heavens became a blaze 
 of green and gold and crimson fire, and tlie clear star of 
 the lighthouse, high up there on the cliff, shone out to sea. 
 On this wintry morning his thoughts and dreams were far 
 away indeed from the Fulham Road. 
 
 There was a step on the stair outside. 
 
 " John Ross come back from Cookham," he thought. 
 
 But when, in answer to a sharp knock, he went and 
 opened the door, it was not the Scotch artist, but Mr. 
 Scobell, he found before him — Mr. Scobell, looking vory 
 smart indeed with his glazed boots, his dogskin gloves, and 
 cane. 
 
 " How are you, Fitzgerald ? " said he, and as he entered 
 the big bare room he looked curiously around, for this was 
 his first visit. " Hope you're not busy. Glad to find you 
 at home. So this is your bunk, is it ? Hum, you're not so 
 well lioused as Hilton Clarke was in the Albany. Perhaps 
 that is ])ecause you live on your own money, and not on 
 some one else's." 
 
 " I don't think there's any use in going back on that," 
 said Fitzgerald, uneasily. 
 
 *' Oh, you take it very easily — very easily. Quite riglit 
 to stick up for your friend, though, if you look at it in that 
 way. That's not quite how I see it." 
 
 He sat down, stretched out his legs, and tapped the tip 
 of his boot with his cane. 
 
 " The fact is," said he, calmly, " I have been trying tliese 
 last two or three days to find out how I came to be such a 
 fool as to go into anything that Hilton Clarke proposed. 
 But he is a dev lish plausible fellow — devilish plausible. 
 There's a sort of infernal superior air about him that imposes 
 on people ; you can't imagine he'd swindle you " 
 
122 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 " I don't think we need talk about it, for we sha'ii'* 
 agree about it," said Fitzgerald, bluntly. 
 
 " Well, he has made me dance to a pretty tune. Do 
 you know how much he has got out of me altogether?" 
 
 " You appear to forget," said Fitzgerald, somewhat 
 angrily, "that you went into that scheme entirely as a 
 business matter. It looked promising enough. You had 
 your eyes open. I suppose if it had been successful, if it 
 had made money, and been socially a success, there would 
 not have been any talk about swindling " 
 
 " Very well, very well," said Mr. Scobell, good- 
 naturedly, " we will not talk about it. I consider you have 
 more right to complain than I have. But I did not come 
 here to talk about Clarke. I came here to talk about 
 you." 
 
 He glanced round the apartment ; then at the small 
 table, with its bottle of ink and big sheets of paper. 
 
 *' I suppose, now," said he, with an abstracted, dreamy 
 air, as if he was talking of something a long way off — " I 
 suppose, now, it isn't very easy to get on in literature in 
 London ?" 
 
 " I find it difficult enough ; in fact, I can't get on at all," 
 said Fitzgerald ; and then he added, with a kind of rueful 
 smile : '' However, I have not quite despaired yet. I am 
 trying to find out whether it is my work that is bad, or 
 whether it is that the newspapers and magazines are over- 
 manned ; or there is this possibility — that my work may 
 not be so very bad, and yet just miss something that makes 
 it practicable and suitable. Well, I hope to find out in 
 time — and the sooner the better for rae.'^ 
 
 " Yes, no doubt," observed Mr. Scobell, again assuming 
 that contemplative air, " You have applied to the Times^ 
 I suppose ? " 
 
 " No ; I imagine every one applies to the Times^' Fitz- 
 gerald said, " And then there is a great drawback ; I don't 
 know shorthand " 
 
 *' You can learn " 
 
 *• I ought to have learned it long ago. It takes a ter- 
 rible time, and constant practice, they say, before ycu are 
 worth anything to a newspaper. I ought to have learned it 
 while I had a fixed situation in Cork. That was my chance. 
 Well, I lost my chance, partly, I suppose, because I had 
 ambitions beyond newspaper-work, and partly because 1 
 could get too easily down to my native place, where there 
 
SHANDON BELLS. I03 
 
 was always a gun or a rod. Now I am paying tlie penalty; 
 for tlie newspapers don't seem to want my fine literature, 
 and I can't offer them good reporting." 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Mr. Scobell, regarding him with 
 an air of the most magnificent patronage, " I am delighted 
 to hear you talk so sensibly — delighted ! You have com- 
 mon-sense. Sooner or later the public will listen to you. 
 They will discover that you can recognize facts. But iii 
 the mean time," added this artful diplomatist, with some» 
 what greater caution — " in the mean time, you see, you 
 must make the best of it " 
 
 "No doubt " 
 
 " But wait a moment. When I see you in such a reason- 
 able and sensible way of thinking, I don't think I can do 
 better than put before you a proposal — a suggestion — that 
 was made to me yesterday by Mrs. Chetw^ynd. Now she is 
 also a person of common-sense. She is practical, and she is 
 also sympathetic. When she saw the announcement that 
 our magazine had stopped, it occurred to her that you 
 might have a little more time on your hands ; and she sent 
 for me at once." 
 
 " Yes ? " said Fitzgerald ; though he did not quite see 
 what literary employment he could obtain from Mrs. Ghet- 
 wynd. 
 
 " To make a long story short — for we had a considerable 
 talk about you — the sum and substance of her suggestion is 
 this : that, if you had time to spare from your general lit- 
 erary work, it might be worth your while to accept some 
 additional occupation which, with no great trouble, might 
 « — ah — might, in fact, increase your income." 
 
 " I would gladly," said Fitzgerald, without hesitation. 
 ** But it sounds rather — rather vague, doesn't it ? " 
 
 " Oh no. She had a distinct proposal. If you will 
 read to her for an hour each day, she would give you a 
 certain salary — small, you know, but then, an addition, as 
 I suggested — in short, one hundred pounds a year." 
 
 "To read to her?" said Fitzgerald, with a sudden 
 flush on his fo-rehead. " Isn't that more like the occupa- 
 tion of a waiting-maid ? " 
 
 " Oh no, certainly not," said Mr. Scobell, with an eager- 
 ness which showed that he had been looking forward to 
 this objection. "Not at all, I assure you. That is just the 
 jnistake you make. What Mrs. Chetwynd must have, first 
 of all, is an intelligent and cultivated reader, who knows 
 
124 SIIANDON BELLS. 
 
 about politics and literature, and what's going on. Very 
 good people go to her house — the best, indeed ; and she 
 wants to know wliat is going on. Very well ; the poor old 
 lady is nearly blind; she can't read; what more natural 
 than that she should say to herself, ' Well, now, if I can find 
 an intelligent young literary man who could spare me an 
 hour or so, he could pick out just such things as are im- 
 j>ortant, and I should hare the advantage of his judgment 
 in literary matters, and it might be some little help to him.' 
 She is a very kindly and thoughtful old lady, let me tell 
 you, Fitzgerald ; and before rejecting her offer at once, you 
 ought to think over it " 
 
 " Oh, I am very much obliged to her, and to you also," 
 said Fitzgerald, who was obviously hesitating. "And any 
 sort of settled income I should be glad to have. But — but 
 if all this is needed, who has been reading to her 
 hitherto " 
 
 " Why, she told you, don't you remember ? " said Mr. 
 Scobell, who perceived that he was likely to be successful 
 in his commission. " Her niece. Bnt then Miss Chetwynd's 
 personal occupations seem to take up more and more of her 
 time. You have no idea what that girl has on her hands. 
 And so sharp she is — as sharp as a needle. By Jove, she 
 caught me yesterday afternoon as clean as ever you saw J 
 I said to her, ' Well, now. Miss Chetwynd, I hear a great 
 deal of this Society of yours, and of what you are doing ii\ 
 the East End.' ' Oh yes,' she says. ' people talk of what a 
 few of us are trying to do, and they think it heroic, and 
 interesting, and all that, whereas it is quite prosaic and 
 simple ; but what they won't do is to bother themselves to 
 give us the least help. Well, don't you know, Fitzgerald, 
 this was rather a poser ; so I said to her — there were some 
 very distinguished people in the room, mind you — Pro- 
 fessor , and Professor^ , and Canon , and a lot 
 
 more — and I said to her that I wasn't afraid to go down to 
 Shoreditch, or Shadwell, or whatever the blessed place wa-s, 
 and lend a helping hand now and again. I have plenty of 
 time ; I have a little spare cash now and then ; I thought 
 it was natural enough. No; she wouldn't hear of it ; I 
 knew nothing about the people ; indiscreet charity was the 
 worst enemy they had ; and so on. * Well,' I said to her, 
 like an ass as I was, ' you must be very confident, when you 
 refuse help in that way.' * Oh, but I don't,' she says, as 
 sharp as a needle. ' If you really wish to help us, you can 
 
SHANDON BELLS. \ 25 
 
 do so ; you can buy us three hundred filters ; we are very 
 badly in want of them.' Three hundred filters ! And then 
 
 Professor laughed, as if it was a great joke ; but I 
 
 can tell you I wasn't going to be jumped upon by a jackass- 
 headed old idiot like that, so I said, just as I might be talk- 
 ing to you, * Of course you shall have them. Miss Chetwynd.' 
 And now the mischief is, I haven't the slightest notion what 
 they'll cost — five shillings, half a sovereign, a couple of 
 griineas " 
 
 " Oh, they are not so dear as that," said Fitzgerald. 
 " That one over there is a very good little filter, and it only 
 cost me half a crown." 
 
 " Haifa crown. Thirty-seven pounds ten. Well, if it 
 had been a hundred and thirty-seven pounds ten, I declare 
 I'd have paid it to take the wind out of the sails of that 
 lantern-jawed old Behemoth. But about this matter of the 
 reading, Fitzgerald. I did not undertake that you would 
 accept ; but I said I would try to persuade you. A hundred 
 a year isn't much -" 
 
 " It is a great deal to me," said Fitzgerald, frankly. 
 
 "Very well. What is an hour's time a day? And 
 there's more than that. The very best people in London 
 go to that house, A young man ought to see sassiety. I 
 think it is a great chance " 
 
 " Oh, but I can't go at all if I am to see any one ! " ex- 
 claimed Fitzgerald, in great dismay. "I did not under- 
 stand that at all " 
 
 " Of course you won't see them while you're there on 
 duty — of course not. But surely you understand. This 
 old lady is interested in you. She is a country-woman of 
 yours. Something in your manner, or accent, or something 
 in your writing, reminds her of her nephew, who was just 
 the whole world to her. And of course you will be recog- 
 nized as a friendly visitor, not as a slave. You may meet 
 people ; it is a great chance for you. It is one of the very 
 best houses in London ; and it is not exclusive — cabinet 
 ministers, men of science, poets, painters, all sorts, as well 
 as the best-known members of the fashionable world. There 
 is no house in London more highly spoken of. My dear 
 fellow, you must be mad if you think twice. 
 
 "Well, I won't think twice." 
 
 " That's right. And I said if you accepted you would 
 call on her this evening at six ; all the visitors will have 
 gone by that time." 
 
126 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 Accordingly, that evening Fitzgerald called at the house 
 in Hyde Park Gardens, and was immediately admitted and 
 shown up to the drawing-room. Instead, however, of find- 
 ing Mrs. Chetwynd there, he found her niece, who was 
 seated at a table apparently engaged in painting, and who 
 rose as he entered. He was disturbed and vexed, lie knew 
 not why. He did not like meeting those clear and penetra- 
 ting eyes, though indeed they were pretty eyes, and liad 
 some touch of friendliness in them as she spoke to liim, and 
 said she would go and fetch her aunt. It seemed to him 
 that he was taking over a woman's work. While she her- 
 self Avas addressing herself to the harder outside realities 
 of the world. That Avas not a pleasant thought — especially 
 if it had also occurred to her. He was somewhat relieved 
 when the tall clear-eyed young lady, Avhose natural gracti 
 erf manner somewhat softened the serious simplicity and 
 dignity of her face and figure, left the room. Nay, he re- 
 joiced to think that he had caught her painting. That 
 was something pretty and feminine. As there was a com- 
 plete silence outside the door, he ventured to approach the 
 table where she had been seated, to get a glimpse of her 
 work. And then he found that instead of coloring Christ- 
 mas cards, or finishing up a little bit of imaginary land- 
 scape, she had been engaged in copying on to a magic- 
 lantern slide, from the scientific book lying open there, the 
 appearance of a magnified drop of impure water, with 
 the most ghastly creatures .squirming about within the 
 charmed circle. He had just time to retreat a step or two, 
 when aunt and niece entered. 
 
 The little old lady received him in the most gracious 
 way, and begged him to be seated, while her niece was 
 making her comfortable in an easy chair by the fire. That 
 accomplished. Miss Chetwynd took up her painting mate- 
 rials and disappeared. 
 
 " I hope I have not disturbed your niece," said Fitz- 
 gerald, anxiously, "by calling at this hour." 
 
 " Oh dear no ! " the old lady said, warming hw mit- 
 tened hands at the fire. " Oh dear no. I dare say she is 
 off to her magic lantern now. She means to frighten some 
 of her poor people into using filters ; and your friend Mr. 
 Scobell, by the way, is going to get her the filters. She is 
 a very good girl, is Mary; and very industrious; I only 
 hope she won't catch some dreadful fever in those places. 
 But don't talk to her, Mr. Fitzgerald, if you please, about 
 
S HAND ON BELLS. 127 
 
 her work. She says there is too much talk. Oli, bytlie 
 way, perhaps I am going too fast in assuming thf*t you are 
 going to take pity on a poor old blind woman, and let her 
 know what's going on ? " 
 
 "If I can," said he, "but I scarcely know " 
 
 " Oh, but you shall have absolute liberty," she said, 
 blithely. " You shall order any books or newspapers that 
 you like yourself ; and I am looking forward to such a 
 treat ; for I have had to lire so long on the dry bones of 
 science ! You know, Mr. Fitzgerald, Mary is the best of 
 girls; but she can't help thinking that I am interested in 
 what interests her ; and really, as you said so cleverly the 
 other day, one gets weary of the frog's foot, and would 
 prefer a little human nature. And Mary laughs at me for 
 a silly old woman when I have listened most patiently to 
 her Post-Office Savings-banks scheme, and her plan for ven- 
 tilating sick-rooms, and all about her hospital nurses, and 
 when I say to her, ' Mary dear, just to go in to dinner with 
 a pleasanter taste in the mouth, won't you read me a chap- 
 ter of Co/ist^e^o .^ And really it is wonderful what that 
 girl gets through in a day ; learning herself and teaching 
 other people ; and afraid of no amount of trouble or disap- 
 pointment. Oh yes, and I can see that her reading is not 
 thrown away ; for sometimes, when the scientifics, as I call 
 them, are here, though she does not say much, you can 
 hear that she has just hit the point in dispute; and they 
 are all very kind to her, I'm sure. Now, Mr. Fitzgerald, I 
 am so glad that this has been arranged ; and I hope we 
 shall try to make it not very irksome to you. What hour 
 would suit you best ? " 
 
 "But that is for you, Mrs. Chetwynd, to say," answered 
 the young man. "Any hour, indeed, would suit me ; fori 
 have no definite occupation at the moment, since the 
 Household Magazine was stopped." 
 
 ' A quarter to six in the evening would suit me very 
 well, then," said the old lady. " For at this time of the 
 year we keep open table — a quarter to seven table cVhote 
 in fact, without any ceremony, and anybody who likes can 
 drop in, and then be off to their lectures and what not. 
 That is very useful for Mary ; she sees everybody ; and 
 has not got to sacrifice the whole evening. Well, you soe, 
 Mr. Fitzgerald, if you could make it convenient to call at 
 a quarter to six, and spend an hour with the nf wspapers 
 or new books, I should go in to meet my friends quite 
 
128 SIIANDON BELLS. 
 
 coached up, and then I shouldn't have to ask them whether 
 Queen Anne was dead or not. And I know you'll have 
 pity on me, Mr. Fitzgerald, and not clioose books tliat are 
 too dreadfully learned. We will leare the bismutli in the 
 moon alone, even if you have to read me the broken-hearted 
 poems in the provincial newspapers." 
 
 And so, with a very pretty little laugli, and an appoint- 
 ment for the very next evening, tliis interview was conclu- 
 ded ; and Fitzgerald, as he walked away down through the 
 gaslit streets to Fulliam, was thinking that this time there 
 could be no mistake, that this time he could definitely as- 
 sure Kitty that he was in possession of a settled income, 
 however small. And there were other things that occurred 
 to him. He could not help regarding it as one of the od- 
 dest possible results of the conditions of modern society 
 that he, a man, should have been constituted, as it were, the 
 champion of sentiment as against science, and that his an- 
 tagonist, the champion of science, should prove to be a 
 young lady of very considerable personal attractions. Tlie 
 situation seemed to him novel; and he kept wondering what 
 Mary Chetwynd thought of it, if, indeed, she had time to 
 think of such trivial things at all. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 NEIGHBOKS. 
 
 To be a man of letters in London — how many young 
 people, in remote corners of the country, are at this present 
 moment thinking that there can be nothing finer than that, 
 and perhaps secretly wondering whether they might not 
 risk the venture and try to make such a career their own ! 
 When Fitzgerald resolved to quit the security of that pro- 
 vincial newspaper office and try his fortune in the great 
 capital, he was fairly equipped for the enterprise. His ed- 
 ucation, if not extensive, had been thorough as far as it 
 went; he was well read; he had taken immense pains in 
 mastering a certain simplicity of style ; he was familiar 
 with many subjects and ways of life th.at the ordinary 
 writer, mostly a dweller in towns, knows very little about ; 
 
S//A.VDOX BEf.LS. 120 
 
 }ie Iind youth, healtli, and a frank face; and bis heart was 
 fired with love, which was likely to add a little toucli of 
 poetical glamour to his productions. But his experiences 
 fell far short of his buoyant anticipations. His ignorance 
 of shorthand barred the familiar gateway of the r.ewpapers. 
 Then he found that those magazines which were the most 
 ready to accept his contributions were the least prompt in 
 paying for them. Moreover, he had sadly to confess to 
 himself that those contributions which he could get accepted 
 were not literature at all. They were mere manufacture — 
 compilations in the British Museum. At first he had aimed 
 at something higher. Disregarding Hilton Clarke's dispar- 
 agement of criticism, he had made some careful studies of one 
 or two of the pre-Shakspearean dramatists : no editor would 
 look at them. Then he tried essays on social and domestic 
 subjects; but every avenue seemed to be blocked. Occa- 
 sionally he had the satisfaction oi finding a bit of translation 
 from Catullus or Horace accepted ; though he rightly judged 
 tliat magazine editors looked on such things as handy for 
 filling up half a page. No, there was no lielp for it ; he 
 might cultivate the higher literature for his own satisfac- 
 tion, but if he wanted to supplement that one hundred 
 pounds a year he was now in receipt of, and so be able to 
 write hopeful letters to Kitty, what he had to sit down and 
 compose was a useful little paper on " The Successive Dis- 
 coveries of Kaolin," or '• The origin of the English Race- 
 Horse," or some such practical subject. It was not litera- 
 ture ; but it brought Kitty a little nearer. 
 
 John Ross was doing him a mischief. It was all very 
 well for the Scotch artist to take this young companion of his 
 about with him, and give him a new pair of eyes, and color up 
 the world for him; but unconsciously to himself Fitzgerald 
 was adopting in his own work Ross's way of looking 
 at things. Ross was purely and simply an impression- 
 ist ; a vivid suggestion was what he aimed at, careless 
 of subsequent detail or even precise accuracy of form. And 
 it wa.s so delightful to Fitzgerald to walk abroad with this 
 man, and see the commonest things in the world intensified 
 with a new interest, that he insensibly yielded to the fasci- 
 nation, and forgot that he was a writer and not a painter. 
 The objects of life became to him so many pieces of color ; 
 when lie looked at a long terrace of buildings shining clear 
 on a summer's day, it was not to guess at the rent of the 
 houses, or wonder whether they were well drained, or 
 
J :iO SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 whether there were any sick people there unable to corae 
 out into the sunlight, but to observe that the warm bri'liant 
 3uass of yellow made the blue above more intense. It the 
 life of a man of letters in London, so far as he had experi- 
 ence of it, was disappointing and prosaic, these occasional 
 walks with his artist companion brought back some poetry 
 into the world. "lo anche son pittore," he might have 
 said, so wonderfully did his faculty of observation develop 
 imdcr this rough-and-ready, quarrelsome, enthusiastic tute- 
 lage ; but he was much too wise to attempt anything with 
 the brush. 
 
 *' Man," said John Ross to him one day, as they were 
 walking out in the suburbs, " what a grand thing it must 
 be to be like you ! " 
 
 *' Oh, indeed," said Master Willie, whose fortunes did 
 not seem to himself to be so flourishing. 
 
 "Ay, just to be able to look at the things that nature 
 puts before ye, and never to have a thocht o' how ye're 
 going to make money out o' them. What would na I give 
 to be a laddie again, just for an hour, and lie down on a 
 warm bank in the sun, and watch the clear waters of the 
 burnie twirlin' round the stanes, and the speedwells on the 
 banks, and the red rowans on the trees, and everything like 
 that, and just to let your eyes drink it in without even 
 thinking of the infernal pent-box ? Man, it's a terrible 
 thing to have to go through the world just conteenually 
 warslin' wi' tubes o' colors. There's no two things that I 
 see thegither that I hav'na to take the balance of; it's a 
 disease — confound it! it's a disease. I'm a man: why 
 shouldna I be allowed to go through the world and look at 
 it like another man ? It's a pent-box that's the millstone 
 round my neck. Why should I care about they palings ? " 
 ho said, as they were passing a cabbage garden. " I'm not 
 going to pent them ! What is it to me what color they 
 are ! '» 
 
 " Well, that can't bother you anyway," says Fitzgerald, 
 with a laugh, " for they liaven't any color." 
 
 " Dinna be so sure about that, laddie," said the other, 
 *' Yq think they're gray, I suppose ? " 
 
 "Well, aren't they?' 
 
 " Oh, ay. No doubt, if ye took a bit o' the wood in 
 your hand, ye would find it gray and colorless enough. But 
 just you try to fix your eyes on the wooden palings, and on 
 
SHANDON BELLS 131 
 
 the violent greens o' the cabbages at the same time. Is the 
 wood quite so gray ? " 
 
 " No," Fitzgerald had to admit. '' Not quite so gray. 
 In fact, rather lilac, isn't it ? \x\ fact, it is quite a pinkish- 
 lilac, if you look at the two together." 
 
 '■'- Ay, and that's what ye've got to pent, ray laddie. But 
 if people '11 no buy my pictures of Cookham, they're no 
 likely to buy a picture of a cabbage garden in Chelsea." 
 
 " But, after all," Ross, said his companion, " writing peo- 
 ple are just as badly off as painting people, for they have 
 to keep watching and watching " 
 
 '• But they hav'na to warsle wi' the pigments, man," the 
 other said, impatiently. " When ye see a thing is yellow, ye 
 say it's yellow, and there's an end ; but the penter has got 
 to get that ])articular quality out o' an infernal tin tube, 
 and even then put it into all sorts o' relations with the 
 things round it. I wish to Heaven I had been brought 
 up a penter o' shop doors and shuttero, and I could have 
 had my own way wi' fine color, and naething stepping in 
 to spoil it." 
 
 " It's all nonsense your complaining like that," Fitzger- 
 ald said, finally. *' Instead of complaining, you ought to be 
 thankful. The difference between you and other people is 
 that you have trained yourself to see more. You see beau- 
 tiful things at every turn, where they see nothing. Is there 
 any advantage in being partially blind ? " 
 
 Had John Ross kept more closely to his studio in the 
 Fulham Road, no doubt Fitzgerald's life at this time would 
 have been a pleasanter one. But he was much away ; 
 especially when he had got a few pounds for a sketch ; 
 and his neighbor, up there in a solitary room, felt 
 the winter nights to be long and dark. The hour 
 spent in reading and talking to Mrs. Chetwynd was 
 the bright spot of the day ; when lie returned to his 
 lonely lodgings and this almost hopeless manufacture of 
 articles in which he took nothing but the most perfunctory 
 interest, sometimes the world seemed to weigh heavily on 
 him. But, curiously enough, it was always at such mo- 
 ments, when circumstances seemed to hem him in, when the 
 battle of life appeared to be going against him, when the 
 future seemed growing dark indeed, that his imagination 
 broke through these toils and carried him into a sphere of 
 creation where his work was a joy to him. No matter how 
 
1 32 SII i ND ON BELLS. 
 
 insignificant the result might be ; it was the expression ol 
 something within him that he liimself could not well under- 
 stand ; it was not of the slightest consequence to him what 
 editors might think of it. One night, for example, he was 
 laboring away at an article on " Some Particulars of the 
 Earthquake at Lisbon." He had been for two days at the 
 British Museum ; and he had copious notes before him. 
 He was trying to make the picture as graphic as he could ; 
 but it was distressing work ; and he did not even know 
 where to send it when he had it finished. Suddenly he 
 heard a slight hissing sound in the fire — like that produced 
 by rain falling down tiie short chimney. But he could hear 
 no sound of rain on the slates. lie went to the window ; 
 there was an absolute silence ; but there were dark streaks 
 crossing the orange glow of the lamp in the courtyard. 
 He opened the window and put out his hand : it was stung 
 by the sharp, moist touch of snow. And then what must 
 he needs do but hastily put on his cap and issue out mto 
 the dark to feel this soft thing blowing all about him — 
 touching his lips, his eyelaslies, his hands — this soft, silent 
 tiling that made a wonder of the lonely streets. He wan- 
 dered on and on in a sort of ecstasy ; voices seemed calling 
 1,0 him from the past; he knew not whether to laugh or to 
 ny. His blood tingled with joy at the presence of this 
 )evv strange thing; and yet tiiere was a kind of despair, as 
 f he yearned for some one far away ; and there was a doom 
 Dortending; an agony of love and terror and appeal, 
 riien a phrase here or there ; and it was a lover who spoke ; 
 ■ind the voice of the sea could be heard now in the awful 
 caves. Quite blindly, like one in a dream, and not heeding 
 the snow, he made his way back from the dark lanes to his 
 room, and almost mechanically he sat down to his writing- 
 table. He saw somethiiig before him not the least like 
 what he had seen outside. It was more like the sea, and 
 darkness, and the wild Irish coast. And with an impatient 
 cast here and there for a rhyme, and all trembling, and even 
 scarcely knowing the value of the phrases he was using, he 
 put down on paper what seemed to him the voice of some 
 one else, that he could hear far off in the night : — . 
 
 " The wild March winds are blowing;" 
 The trees are dark; the skies are gray 3 
 O love, let us be going — 
 The evening gathers: far the way. 
 
SHANDON BELLS. .; 133 
 
 " Oh, do you hear the thuuder 
 On Daramona's rocky isle — 
 The wild seas sweeping under 
 The ghostly cliffs of black Glengyle ?" 
 
 He rose, with a quick kind of sigh, pushed the paper 
 away, and began mechanically to knock the snow from his 
 sleeves and his coat. Then he went to the fire, and lit a 
 pipe, and stared into the red coals as if he expected to see 
 more pictures there. And then, after a time, he went; back 
 to the table, and took up the bit of paper, and calmly and 
 critically regarded what he had written. 
 
 " Yes," he said to himself. " That's it. That's true. I 
 will keep that for myself. There isn't an editor in London 
 would give me twopence for it anyway ; and the public 
 would ask where the story was; but it has got to stand just 
 as it is ; it is a bit of my personal property for Kitty to in- 
 herit when she becomes a widow." 
 
 Just as he was putting away the bit of paper into the 
 desk, Avhich co.itained a very considerable quantity of 
 similarly useless scraps, a noise was heard below ; and Fitz- 
 gerald's heart jumped up at the notion that perhaps John 
 lioss had come back from Sonning, where he had been for 
 a fortnight. There was a ready means of ascertaining. He 
 took the poker and knocked twice on the floor. In response 
 there were three knocks on the roof of the studio. Then 
 Fitzgerald made his way down the slippery steps, and 
 caught Ross as he was in the act of lighting his stove. 
 
 " No, no ; let that alone," he cried. " I've got a blaz- 
 ing fire in my bunk. Come along up. Man, I've got some 
 sheep's tongues that '11 make your mouth water, and a yard 
 of French bread ; only* you must bring some whiskey with 
 you. Come along ; I want to hear all about Sonning, and 
 I won't ask you to show me your sketches." 
 
 " Ye're in a cheerfu' frame of mind, laddie," said Ross, 
 looking up. " Have ye been drinkin' ? " 
 
 "No; what's worse, I've been neither eating nor drink- 
 ing, and I'm desperately hungry." 
 
 " And so am I. Have ye got any tobacco ? " 
 
 " Plenty." 
 
 " Wait a minute, then." 
 
 He went and got a cloth and dusted the snow off the 
 packages he had brought in ; and then he followed Fitz- 
 gerald up the staircase, and was soon engaged in helping 
 
131 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 him to lay the cloth of the supper table and open the bot- 
 tles, and what not. 
 
 " But I want to ken what lias put ye in such fine fettle, 
 man," he said at length, regarding his companion from 
 across the table. "Some young lass in Ireland, I suppose, 
 has been sending ye a true-love knot. Poor thing ! a lassie 
 should never let her sweetheart get so far away as this ; it's 
 no safe." 
 
 *' It isn't that, though. Fve written something I am 
 pleased with ; something I am going to keep for myself," 
 said Fitzgerald, frankly. 
 
 " I-et us see it, then." 
 
 *' Oh no. It wouldn't please any one else, I know." 
 
 " Then wdiat is the use of it ? " 
 
 " None." 
 
 " And ye are going on amusing yourself with capers 
 instead of getting money and furnishing a house for the 
 lass. Is that what ye mean ? " said the other, severely. 
 
 " What lass ? What are you talking about ? " 
 
 " I have my suspicions, my lad. But let's see what this 
 is." 
 
 " Oil, very well," said Fitzgerald, at once going and 
 fetching the sheet of scrawled paper. 
 
 John Ross bent his brows, and proceeded to read the 
 verses line by line, which was an exquisite piece of torture 
 for the writer of them. 
 
 " Where is Daramona ? " said he, abruptly. 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 When he had finished, he looked at it carefully again, 
 and said, in rather a peevish sort of way " Well, but have 
 ye nothing more to tell us ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " It's a ghastly picture enough ; oh, ay, I admit that ; 
 but — but what is it about ? " 
 
 " I told you you wouldn't be pleased with it," said 
 Fitzgerald, without any resentment. 
 
 " Ye might make some story 
 
 " Oh yes, I know quite well. I know what an editor 
 would want. There would have to be a third verse, w4th 
 two dead bodies washed up by the sea somewhere ; or some 
 definite thing like that. Well, I am going to keep it as it 
 is — of no use to any one but the owner." 
 
 John Ross was not satisfied. He looked at the verses 
 again, and then grumbled : 
 
S HAND ON BELLS. 135 
 
 "it's a good suggestion — it's a capital suggestion. But 
 why dinna ye follow it out ? " 
 
 '" Some people," said Master Willie, slyly ; " might hint 
 that about some of your sketches ; and yet you won't alter 
 thern." 
 
 "God bless me!" cried the other, staring at him. 
 " Has the laddie gone daft? Writin' is not pentin', man ! 
 Do ye think the public are going to take the trouble to 
 make a story for themselves ? " 
 
 " I don't mean to ask them," said Fitzgerald, simply. 
 "That is only a little bit for my own private satisfaction. 
 Won't you allow me as much as that ? I don't find that 
 eager competition among editors and publishers for my 
 work that I should like. I think the world could get on 
 without literary people— especially literary beginners." 
 
 But he himself seemed to detect some kind of false note 
 in this — some echo of what Hilton Clarke might have said. 
 So he added, frankly : — " 
 
 " No, I'm not going to give in yet. And I have got 
 hold of a subject that 1 think might do." 
 
 " What is't ? " said his companion, filling his pipe. 
 '' No too big, I hope. Something practical ? " 
 
 <'Well, you know, when you were up the Thames, my 
 suppers here were a little bit lonely," Fitzgerald proceeded 
 to say, as he also drew in a chair to the fire. " And I dis- 
 covered that you could get a plate of cold meat, or a bit of 
 fowl, and a glass of ale, at the Green Man, for sixpence. 
 That again entitled you to go into the parlor and have a 
 smoke. 1 went in, and made a discovery. There are 
 cronies who come there every evening and discuss the 
 affairs of the nation. My goodness! I have heard extra- 
 ordinary statements made in the smoking-rooms of inns, 
 but never anything quite so fine. And of course, as a 
 stranger, I had to sit quiet and listen; but what I was 
 thinking was that there must be a large population in this 
 country who get their ideas and information from sources 
 that the governing classes don't know anything about. 
 What are they, then ? Not the ordinary daily papers, for 
 I read them. And this isn't the only bar-parlor or smok- 
 ing-room I've been in ; and it seemed to me that a series 
 of articles on ])ublic-house politics might really be of use. 
 These men have votes." 
 
 "Ay, the sources of their information, did ye say?'* 
 eaid Ross, grimly. " Their own heads, maybe," 
 
J VS SFTANDON BELLS. 
 
 " But then," urged Fitzgerald, " when you hear a man 
 make the absurd est statement — about the Prime Min- 
 ister having written so-and-so to the Pope — and when 
 lie declares he saw the letter in print, and when everybody 
 accepts the statement, you begin to ask how such stories 
 can gain currency " 
 
 "The impudence o' the one man, and the ignorance o' 
 the ithers, I should tliink," said Ross. 
 
 " No; for these things are talked of as matters of com- 
 mon knowledge ; and yet the ordinary organs of public 
 opinion know nothing of them — indeed, they are quite pre- 
 posterous. You know, my father keeps an inn. I did not 
 go much into the smoking-room ; but I heard tilings from 
 time to time ; and you would't believe the stories that are 
 commonly accepted about the royal family, the members of 
 the government, the House of Lords, and so on •" 
 
 " You're right there," Ross said. " I would not believe 
 them." 
 
 " The old gentlemen who meet at the Green Man are 
 very loyal at all events," Fitzgerald continued. " Will 
 you cojne round to-morrow night and listen to them ? Oh 
 no; you'd better not; they don't talk over respectfully 
 about Scotchmen." 
 
 "I'll come round wi' ye, laddie, if ye like; but what I 
 want to know is how ye're yoing to get any bread and but- 
 tar out o' writing down the idiocy of a lot of bemuddled 
 ?»uld beer-drinkers." 
 
 "But they have votes," continued Fitzgerald. "And 
 there are thousands and thousands of them throughout the 
 country ; and their opinions spread ; and surely it is of im- 
 portance to knovr what they are saying. If it is absurd, if 
 it is ludicrous, so much the better for me. I don't see why 
 a solemn discussion on the only lit and proper way to gov- 
 ern Frenchmen, by these profound students of history, 
 should not be made amusing enough." 
 
 "Oh, that's it, is it? Ye go and get admitted into a 
 brotherhood o' philosophers, and ye watch and wait, and 
 then when they are warmed into friendship and confidence 
 wi their pipes and their ale, and when their poor wander- 
 ing old wits begin to dance and stagger 'about a bit, then 
 ye begin your thumb-nail sketches — you, sittin' in the 
 corner. Why, man, it's like making a fool o' your 
 fayther." 
 
 *'I think it's a very good thing," said Fitzgerald, with a 
 
SHAND ON BELLS. 137 
 
 laiigli, " that the one-half of the world should know what 
 the other half are saying." 
 
 "Get away wi' ye ! " said Ross, resentfully. "Do ye 
 mean to tell me ye will give a fair and honest report ? Do 
 ye mean to tell me there will be anything but jibs and 
 jeers and gross misrepresentations ? And you, a laddie 
 just out of school, to make fun o' men o' mature years, who 
 have pondered over the course of the world's way ; and 
 learned the lessons of life from A, B, C, to X, Y, Z ! That 
 is a nice work to undertake ! Father of families, with the 
 work o' the day over, and maybe glad to get away for an 
 hour from a scolding wife, and doing their best for their coun- 
 try in talking over public affairs, and enjoying a quiet glass 
 in warmth and security — and to have this Mephistopheles 
 there wi' liis note-book " 
 
 " If you were to come with me for anight or two," said 
 Fitzgerald, "you might make a few sketches. There are 
 some splendid heads — of the regular old Joitn Bull type, 
 with a churchwarden added. Then we could make a book 
 of the reprinted articles, with your sketches of the people." 
 
 His companion glanced at him. 
 
 " Your brain is quick, laddie, for new projects." 
 
 "But that's what they come to," said Master Willie, 
 indicating, somewiiat sadly, his open desk. "They are all 
 nicely tied up there, in wrappers, and addressed to myself." 
 
 " There's a mine o' wealtli in that desk, man," said Ross, 
 sharply. " Y/hen I am an Academeecian, and you are the 
 editor of a daily newspaper, we'll both find out the value o' 
 they sketches, in that desk there, and in my studio below 
 Have I no told ye that already until I'm tired ? Ye are 
 in too great a hurry, man. Some day ye'U be glad enough 
 to get hold o' these ideas that ye are flinging about the now." 
 
 "Some day?" echoed Fitzgerald. " But in the mean 
 time ? " 
 
 " In the mean time," said he, rising and putting on his 
 big cloak and his cap, " I'm going down below to my bed. 
 And in the mean time begin your Teniers sketches, and 
 good luck to ye ; and dinna fash yourself about what's be- 
 fore ye, so long as ye've meat, drink, and clothes ; and if 
 there's a j'onng lass in the case, as I jalouse, tell her no to 
 drive any man's cattle, but to wait and give the world it's 
 ain time to turn. Good-night, laddie," he said, as he opened 
 the door and looked out. I'm glad there's no moor to cross 
 on a nitxht like this." 
 
138 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 TWO LETTERS. 
 
 " To MY TRUSTY AND WELL-BELOVED COULIN, ThESE, 
 
 -—It is quite true, my dear Willie, that my letters to you 
 have been very short lately ; but you have no idea how I 
 have been bothered and worried in coming to terms about 
 that other tour in the South, and then I have had to try and 
 pacify papa. He has taken it into his head that he ouglit 
 to know more about you, and our ' prospects.' Isn't that 
 a horrid word ? It is like * matrimony,' or ' nuptial settle- 
 ments,' or something in a lawyer's office. I tell him that we 
 are not going to do anything rash ; that I for one am quite 
 content to be as I am ; and when he writes long letters 
 about the importance of being settled in life, and the possi- 
 bility of his not being long in the w^orld, what can I do but 
 gently remind him that I have earned my own living for a 
 good many years, and have no great fear of being unable to 
 do so? Poor dear papa, he is very kind, but he worries 
 dreadfully. And really I don't know what to say to him. 
 If you were still the sub-editor of that poor defunct maga- 
 zine, that would be something definite. Shall I tell him 
 you are private Secretary to a great lady? Of course I too 
 Avish you had something more settled ; but do not imagine, 
 d.ear Willie, that I am grumbling; for, after all, are we not 
 just as well off in every respect as we w^ere before we ever 
 eaw each other, and why should we not be quite content 
 with tilings as they are ? I hate w^riting like this. It is 
 like drawing out a marriage contract. If you were here 
 just for two minutes — I can imagine your coming in at the 
 door over there, and looking round to see that Miss Patience 
 was not in the room — we should understand each other at 
 once. And if you were at the open door now, do you think 
 I would be long at this table ? Don't you think I might 
 meet you half-way, even if the ink-bottle were to be sent 
 spinning across the floor ? And you to talk of the coldness 
 of my letters ! 
 
 " Beside all that worry I have been hard at w^ork with 
 Professor -; and fancy the difficulty of doing that by 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 139 
 
 correspondence ! He sets me the most terrible tasks ; and 
 as it is all science and no sound, it is not very lively. But 
 really when you look at some of the songs that are mos.t 
 popular now in drawing-rooms — the air some common 
 phrase, or perhaps borrowed, and of course changing to 
 minor in the second part, and the accompaniment a few 
 simple chords, only fit for children's practising — it seems 
 possible for one to do something a little better. And then 
 shouldn't I like to be able to set one of your songs to music 
 — I mean something like proper music ; I think I should 
 not jjrumble over studying the counterpoint of that accom- 
 paniment. Do you think I would charge my Coulin a heavy 
 royalty for singing that song ? There, now : wliy don't you 
 gentlemen of the press set to work and crush that royalty 
 system ? It is most mischievous ; and the very l)est singers 
 are giving in to it now, and of course the greater stupid the 
 composer is the more eager is he to make the royalty on 
 the sales big. Then the public are stupid, and don't remem- 
 ber that a good singer can make even the singing of scales 
 pathetic ; and any kind of song sounds as if it were fine if 
 a good singer takes trouble with it. But you are not inter- 
 ested. I can see you are very nearly throwing my poor let- 
 ter in the fire. But supposing that I put it this way, that A 
 (this sounds like the professor, but I'm not going to teach 
 you harmony), who can sing a little, marries B, who is very 
 fond of singing and music generally. Then they grow older ; 
 or A's voice gives out: is there to be no more music ? On 
 the contrary, A having been a good little girl, and having 
 devoted a fearful amount of time to the study of music and 
 to practising, can still play B to sleep after dinner. More 
 than that, if they get into trouble, can she not give music 
 lessons ? I believe this is a clear case of Q. E. D. . is it 
 not. Master Willie ? 
 
 " But everything in this letter is pure nonsense, and not 
 to be heeded, except the tremendous fact that in ten days 1 
 shall be in Cork again! think of it! — the very same rooms 
 too ; and thesame old piano ; and the same little iron gate out- 
 side, which used to give such a queer rusty growl and squeak 
 as a sort of friendly good-night to Master Willie, and a hint 
 to come early the next morning, if there were any bluebells 
 and campions to be looked for out in the woods. Alas ! tlwre 
 will be no bluebells or anything else now — mud, I suppo.se; 
 and I shall sit at the rainy window, and not stir out until 
 it is time to go away down into the smoky town. There 
 
140 SHAND ON BELLS. 
 
 will be nobody there now to make all the place wild and 
 romantic ; and to stuff people's heads full of dreams ; and 
 to make a poor girl think she never saw anything so lovely 
 as a street in Cork when it rt^as pouring wet — and the rain 
 from the umbrella all the time running down her left slioulder 
 and arm, because her companion was so careless. And 
 there won't be anybody to say nice things about her in the 
 Cork Chronicle; or to walk home with her up the steep 
 liill ; or to stop and talk just for a minute or a half-hour or 
 Ko at the little gate. And what is Inisheen like now ? — I 
 suppose the sea dashing all over the shore; the villas shut 
 up ; the town a puddle. Sure 'tis not to Inisheen that I'm 
 going. The only comfort would be that the ghosts and 
 ,pixies of the neighborhood would have gone. What do 
 the fairies do when it is wet ? It must be most uncomfort- 
 able up in that glen, with all the branches dripping, and no 
 leaves on the trees, and everything damp and cold and 
 miserable. I never heard of fairies in winter. 
 
 "But about Inisheen, dear Willie, seriously. I wish 
 you would let me know a little more clearly about that 
 promise you made me give you. I have heard that in 
 Scotland if two people only say before other people that 
 they are man and wife, that is enough, and they are mar- 
 ried. I have never been to Scotland, and I don't know ; 
 but I should think people might be too quick and then re- 
 pent. I want to know if the promise we made that night 
 (wasn't it a beautiful night, too?) is anything more than a 
 promise. I have been wondering whether it might be the 
 way young people used to get married when their parents 
 were against it, or the priests perhaps. Situated as we are, 
 sometimes I think it was scarcely wise to bind ourselves 
 like that; and then again I say, 'Bother these doubts and 
 
 troubles; it's all because Professor 's conundrums are 
 
 too difficult.' And I am not going to bother you with them, 
 dear Willie ; for you must have enough to think of ; and I 
 meant this to be the longest and kindest letter ever written, 
 after what you said about my not caring. I do care. You 
 have no right to say that I don't — and if you were here 1 
 xojidd prove it^ even to your satisfaction. There, now 1 
 So don't say another word about not caring; but write me 
 a long, nice, pleasant letter, professing yourself quite con- 
 tented with everything that Providence and I have done 
 for you, and telling me all the news of what you are doing, 
 and hovv you occupy your time, and whether you ever think 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 141 
 
 of poor banished me. You are very ungrateful ; ^ou have 
 not the slightest notion of how good I am to you — to be 
 sitting up writing to you like this, when every sensible 
 creature in Belfast is in bed. The lire has gone out ; and 
 the room is dreadfully cold ; yet here am I writing away 
 with stiff fingers, and the difficulty is to know how to stop. 
 For I do want you to believe that I did not mean my letters 
 to be cold. I think it was the weather that got into them ; 
 and if you wait till a thaw comes, and read them over again, 
 you will find them quite different. This is all at present 
 from your loving Kitty. 
 
 " P.S. — Miss Patience is very kind to me just now. She 
 wrote a letter (which she showed me) to the Northern 
 Whig here, the other day, about the numbers of beggars in 
 the streets ; and, as sure as ever was, the very next morn- 
 ing there was an article in the newspaper beginning : ' From 
 the number of letters which we receive complaining of the 
 prevalence of mendicity in this town,' etc. Oh, my ! At 
 first she was so lofty she would scarcely speak to me, for 
 Bhe considers me a frivolous kind of creature, but after- 
 ward she grew more gracious, and has been quite compas- 
 sionately kind to me ever since. Last night she made me 
 wear her gloves on the way home, for I had forgotten mine, 
 and it was cold. She even said that your verses in Cham- 
 bers's Journal^ which I showed her, were written with 
 much taste, though she added that she thought this was 
 scarcely a time for writing poetry, considering the serious 
 state of jDublic affairs. Never mind, Willie, there is one 
 person at least who knows better than that ; and you need 
 not be afraid that she does not appreciate your poetry, as 
 the world will some day. 
 
 ** Good-night, good-night. K." 
 
 Many and many a time did Master Willie read over this 
 letter, wondericg to which to attach the more importance 
 • — the obvious outward cheerfulness, or the curious half- 
 suggested little admissions of trouble and doubt. He was 
 Fo anxious that Kitty should not be anxious ! And it was 
 liard on Kitty to be away in those towns, practically alone 
 — for that fool of a creature who was supposed to be her 
 conpanion apparently lived only for the pestering of edi- 
 tors — and not hearing very definite news of lier lover's suc- 
 The space that separated them seemed great enough ; 
 
142 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 but it was the thought of the time that might separate 
 them that he was afraid would weigh on Kitty's spirits. 
 And so, in answering her, he resolved to take no notice of 
 these involuntary backslidings of hers, but to assume that 
 she still' had the hope and high courage that possessed her 
 when he and she parted at Inisheen. 
 
 My barling Kitty," he wrote, — *' You are all wrong 
 about Inisheen. It is far more beautiful now than in the 
 gummer ; this is the time it is worth living in — not when 
 idle and fashionable young ladies come down to the little 
 villas and show off their finery along the sands, neglecting 
 their music, and becoming impertinent to their companions. 
 You should see the real Inisheen when the frosty sun 
 shines red through the thin fog; and you get a touch of the 
 red on the shallow waters of the harbor ; and the heavy 
 craft are lying high and dry on the yellow mud. Just now, 
 my dear Kitty, you would find the sun setting behind the 
 sea, not away up behind the land, and the cliffs locking 
 splendid. Then at night — think of the moon on the frost- 
 hardened moor, with the ice ponds quite silvery here and 
 there ; that is the time for the duck, I can tell you. You 
 think the people are depressed now ? Why, this is the 
 sociable time of the year ; when you come home stiff with 
 cold to a blazing fire and a warm room ; and then you get 
 your dinner over, and people come in, and you have the 
 w^hiskey put on the table (that's for you, Miss Kitty, not 
 for me), and the kettle steaming on the fire, and then the 
 jokes and stories begin. Then you want to T^now where 
 the fairies go to in the winter? I can tell you all about 
 that. Mind you, the glen you speak of is quite lovely just 
 now, with red berries and dark green bramble stems and 
 lots of color you don't find at all in the monotonous sum- 
 mer green ; but that does not matter ; for I confess that 
 the fairies at this time do spend the most of their time feast- 
 ing and singing and dancing in the great halls within the 
 mountains, though they have scouts sent out from time to 
 time to see what is going on. There was a great banquet 
 given by Don Fierna on the night of Tuesday last in the 
 hall that comes nearest to the liillside above the well that 
 you know. It was a very splendid affair; the vast cavern 
 was all lit up by millions of glowworms placed along the 
 rocks : but besides that there were innumerable will-o'-the- 
 wisps moving through the air, so that you could see all the 
 
SIIANDON BELLS. 143 
 
 colors of the various costumes quite well, although most of 
 the light fell on the long banquet board, and that, again, 
 lit up the smiling faces of the ladies and their knights. At 
 the head of the long table Don Fierna sat in state ; a terri- 
 ble, huge person nearly two feet in height, with a prodi- 
 gious black mustache and heavy eyebrows ; he wore a 
 ►Spanish hat of black velvet, a scarlet cloak, and on his 
 breast hung his thick gold chain of office, all glittering with 
 precious stones. On his right sat the boy-king of the fair- 
 ies (who is his heir-apparent), but he was a very beautiful 
 little king, with large blue eyes and golden hair, and he 
 wore a cloak of purple velvet clasped at the neck with gold, 
 and also a crown of pure gold starred with sapphires. Oppo- 
 site him — that is, on Don Fierna's left — sat the boy-king's 
 bride ; she was more like a fairy than any of them, she was 
 so slight and fair and delicate ; and she wore a cloak of 
 cream-white velvet, which had a scarlet flower where 
 that was clasped, and her crown was not of gold, but of 
 pure silver,' with scarlet berries set into it. The other 
 knights and ladies were in all sorts of different costumes 
 and colors ; and so were the servitors, who were hurrying 
 this way and that with the materials of the feast. Oh, did 
 I tell you that in the distance you could hear nightingales. 
 For this is where the nightingales retire to in the winter ; 
 but they would be too noisy ; so they are shut up in an 
 adjoining cave, and you can only hear their singing like a 
 sort of continuous water fall. Well you know, Kitty, I 
 need not tell you all the things they had at the banquet ; 
 for the menu was rather long ; only this, that the wine they 
 drank was made of the honey that you get in the heads of 
 pink clover, and that whereas the lords and the ladies 
 drank out of acorn cups, Don Fierna's flagon consisted of 
 the shell of a plover's ^^2^ set in a handle of bog-oak. Well, 
 when they had got down to the end of the list, Don Fierna 
 rose ; and the moment they saw him rise, each lord and 
 lady struck a small silver gong in front of them, so that in- 
 stantly there was a sort of soft tinkling music rising from 
 the whole table and filling the cave ; and this immediately 
 hushed the servitors to silence. 
 
 " ' Your Majesties, my noble lords and gracious ladies,' 
 said Don Fierna, * before we proceed to the dance, I have 
 a question to ask. What is the name of the mortal who 
 was last at the Well of Vows ? ' 
 
 " All the eyes of the assemblage were now turned to tha 
 
144 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 loiver end of the cavern, where, near the immense gate, and 
 half hidden in the dusk, was a rather tall, soldier-looking 
 fairy, dressed entirely in blue, with a blue feather in his 
 cap, and a long silver sword by his side. 
 
 " * Catherine, my liege,' he said. (It's a curious fact, 
 Kitty, but the fairies always call mortals by their Christian 
 names. I don't know why it is ; perhaps it is in imitation 
 of the Church ; or perhaps they found that human beings 
 were always changing their surname.) 
 
 "'Say, where is this Catherine?' Don Fierna con- 
 tinued, and you could hear his voice through the whole 
 place, though he did not speak so loudly either. But every- 
 body was listening intently. 
 
 " ' In the North, my liege. It is understood she is com- 
 ing to your Highness's city of Cork.' 
 
 " ' She has been observed ? ' 
 
 " ' Assuredly, my liege.' 
 
 " ' She remains faithful to her vow ? ' 
 
 " At this all the ladies lowered their eyes^ and looked 
 at each other, wondering. 
 
 " ' She does, my liege.' 
 
 "The words were pronounced with emphasis; and no 
 sooner were they heard than the whole assemblage once 
 more struck the little silver gongs, and it was as if the hol- 
 lows of the cavern overhead were all filled with the singing 
 of birds. 
 
 "'Your Majesties, my lords and ladies,' said Don 
 Fierna, 'we may despatch this piece of business before the 
 revels begin. This faithful one must be rewarded. When 
 she comes to our royal city of Cork, you will assure to her 
 sweet sleep, sweet dreams. You will instruct your attend- 
 ants. You will banish from her idle fears ; you will guard 
 her from the phantoms of the night : the dark and sleep 
 shall be as sweet to her as the day.' 
 
 " With that all down the table there was a continuous 
 'Yes,' 'Yes,' 'Yes,' so that the sound was just like the 
 wind in summer stirring through the beech trees. Don 
 Fierna then gave his hand to the young queen in white 
 velvet ; and the king her sweetheart turned to the noble 
 dame who was next him ; and so the whole company went 
 away two and two down the great hall (but leaving enough 
 space between the cou^'les for the ladies' trains to be fairly 
 Reen). And then, wlien the lords and ladies had disappeared 
 into the ball-room, the servitors, in their green iackets and 
 
SUA ND OiV BELLS. 1 45 
 
 gray hose, forthwith jumped into the chairs of their masters 
 and mistresses ; and there was such a noise of Jau^iiiiigand 
 feasting that the very nightingales could no lunger make 
 tliemselves heard. 
 
 " And so you see, my dear Kitty, that so far from liav 
 ing anything to fear from Don Fierna and the fairies and 
 the elves of Inisheen, they really have you under their pro- 
 tection ; and it is not the least use your worrying about 
 "what you promised at the well, and imagining dark things, 
 for, indeed, promise or no promise, the result will be quite 
 the same. Only, it seems to me, it would be base in- 
 gratitude on our part for all the kindness of the invisible 
 world of Don Fierna if we were not to make that pilgrim- 
 age. And only once in seven years, too ! Dear Kitty, 
 think what a trip that will be ! Of course, in married life, 
 if what every one says is true, and if we should prove to 
 be only like other people, one's views of things must natur- 
 ally get changed ; and no doubt the romance of love may 
 get a little tempered down by familiarity and custom ; and 
 you can not have such a lot of things to talk over as two 
 people wlio only meet from time to time, and have all their 
 future to settle. But just think what a re-opening of the 
 past that will be to us two : how we shall seem to see our- 
 selves again standing there as we were seven years before ; 
 and if we have had our quarrels or misunderstandings, 
 surely that will be the place to make everything up. My 
 darling, don't look on your promise of that night as some- 
 thing terrible, something to haunt you, but rather as a bit 
 of romance added to the facts of your life — sometliing that 
 you can recall in after-days with a kind of smile, perhaps, 
 but yet with a tender smile, and something that will remind 
 you through possibly more prosaic .years of what you and I 
 were thinking of once. Is not that sensible. Sweet ejes? 
 
 " About your father : you must let him understand, my 
 darling, that I am quite as anxious as he can be that I 
 should have something definite and settled ; but Rome was 
 not built in a day ; and if you and I are content to wait for 
 a while, I suppose that is our own business. Do you know, 
 Kitty, that you are very profuse in your assurances that 
 you are content with things as they are ? I am not ; not at 
 all. I try to imagine what our life will be when we are 
 together ; and of course that makes me very impatient 
 when I find another stumbling-block in my w^ay. However, 
 tiiore is no reason for grumbling. Plenty of people have 
 
146 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 come to London to try to earn a living, and been worse 
 served than I have been. I have one hundred pounds a 
 year certain ; I have nearly all my time my own ; and I am 
 writing so much, and offering it in so many quarters, that I 
 must in time find out what the newspapers and magazines 
 would wish to have, or what it is they object to. Mind 
 you, I have my own ideals, and when the chance serves, I 
 work at them ; but in this absolute fight for life I have got 
 to make just such bricks as the builder will buy. Some day, 
 Kitty — when you and I can plan things together — after the 
 fight is over, and we have won the fortress, then I shall be 
 abJe to work in my own way, careless of everybody, and 
 who knows but that one might then * strike for lionest 
 fame ' ? I shall look in your eyes ; the old days at Inisheeu 
 will come back : that will be inspiration enough." 
 
 " In the meantime, dear Kitty, if I can't tell you of any- 
 thing definite and settled as regards my literary work, this 
 at least will please you. 1 have been thinking over a series 
 of papers describing the nonsense that is talked about 
 politics and political men in tavern parlors and the like — 
 some of it being exquisitely absurd, and I wrote one paper, 
 and sent it to tlie Hyde Park Journal, To my astonish- 
 ment (and a little bit of delight), it appears in this even- 
 ing's edition ; and I send you a copy, though it won't in- 
 terest you much Now the Hyde Park is a very good 
 paper, and if they will only continue the series, it will be an 
 excellent thing for me, for the varieties of human folly, 
 especially public-house-politics folly, are endless. So you 
 see things are not so bad ; and you are a good girl to be 
 working so hard — so good that I am not going to talk any 
 more to you about wretched newspapers and my scribbling, 
 and hopes and disappointments. Don't forget that I love 
 you. I shall be glad to hear of your being in Cork, for 
 then Don Fierna will have his little scouts looking after 
 you and protecting you. Do not forget that I love you." 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 147 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 A SYMPOSIUM.* 
 
 But if Fitzgerald's efforts to obtain a footing in litera- 
 ture had so far been productive mostly of disappointment, 
 he was very clearly succeeding in another direction. Mrs. 
 Chetwynd made no secret of her interest in, and wish to 
 befriend, this young man, who seemed to l]er to resemble 
 in many ways the nephew whom she had lost; and the 
 good old lady, with much tact and delicacy, hinted that he 
 himself might make the suggestion when any opportunity 
 offered. It is not improbable that if Fitzgerald had asked 
 her for funds wherewith to start another magazine, she 
 would have consented ; but he had had enough of such ex- 
 periments. 
 
 In the meantime he strove to make his duties as little 
 of a sinecure as was possible. To his own great delight he 
 had absolute carte blanche as regarded the ordering of new 
 books or reviews; and he diligently read the one, and 
 glanced over the other, so as to let his patroness know what 
 was going on. But when it actually came to the imparting 
 of this information, the chances were that the little old 
 lady would begin by asking him something about his own 
 affairs, and that not unfrequently led to a mere gossip 
 about the south of Ireland. Once or twice, indeed, she in- 
 advertently called him " Frank" ; and then apologized for the 
 mistake, with a quiet tear or two. On another occasion, 
 when he was about to leave, she happened to hear the rain 
 beating heavily against the window. 
 
 " Oh, but you must not go out in such a shower, Mr. 
 Fitzgerald," she said, "Or you might ask Saunders to 
 get you a waterproof." 
 
 Indeed, she herself rang, and — with a little hesitation, 
 which Fitzgerald understood perfectly — told the man 
 where be would find the coat. Fitzgerald thanked her, o£ 
 course ; and went out, and down into the hall. But some- 
 thing, he scarcely knew what, forbade his making use of 
 this waterproof. 
 
 " Whose is it?" he said to the footman who Irought it 
 to him J 
 
1 is SHANDON BELLS 
 
 " It was Mr. "Frank's, sir." 
 
 Pie liad guessed as much, 
 
 " Oh, tliank you," he said, rather absently. " I don*t 
 think I shall need it. I have not very far to go." 
 
 But if Fitzgerald was slow to avail himself, on his own 
 account, of those hinted offers which the kind old lady had 
 made him, it occurred to him that he might do something 
 for his friend John Ross. Mrs. Chetwynd had heard a 
 good deal about the Scotch artist in Fitzgerald's description 
 of theircon joint occupations and country walks ; and at 
 last she said she would like to see some of his work. 
 
 "I do not promise to buy any," said the old lady, with 
 her pleasant smile, " for there is scarcely any place we 
 could put them." 
 
 Indeed, the house was pretty well filled with the ordi- 
 jiary pictorial adornments of an English dwelling — little 
 pieces of Dutch genre in heavy old-fashioned frames; 
 gloomy landscapes a long way after Salvator Rosa ; one 
 or two imitations of Wilkie ; and a large number of his- 
 torical engravings, glorious in incident, but less satisfactory 
 in draughtsmanship. 
 
 *' Besides," added Mrs. Chetwynd, " Mary would ac- 
 cuse me of extravagance, so long as I disapprove of her 
 spending her money on a nine-and-a-half-inch telescope." 
 
 " A nine-and-a-half-inch telescope ? " said Fitzgerald, in 
 surprise — for he had understood that Miss Chetwynd was 
 a young lady of considerable fortune. *' Surely that can 
 not amount to much ? " 
 
 " So I thought," said the old lady, laughing, " when I 
 heard of it at first. But it appears that the nine and a half 
 inches refer to the diameter of the glass ; and I am told the 
 thing looks more like v\. thirty-two pounder. And then 
 she spends so much of her money on these poor people of 
 hers! Well, it is her own, poor thing. I think I must let 
 her have her way. She shall have the window in her room 
 altered, and she shall have her thirty-two pounder ; and 
 then I will buy some of your friend's pictures." 
 
 " Oh, but I could not have you buy them on my recom- 
 mendation," said Fitzgerald, in some alarm. " That would 
 never do. You must have some skilled advice — I don't 
 know enough about pictures- ' 
 
 " But, according to your account, they are just the very 
 paintings to suit a blind old woman," she saiu brightly, 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 149 
 
 " I shall see liotliing of them but their color, which you say 
 
 is so good " 
 
 " But — but I would ask you to have some one else's 
 judgment, Mrs Chetwynd," said he, earnestly. " Of course 
 I think them good I don't see how the work of a man who 
 studies as hard as he does, and who can talk so ably about it, 
 can De anything else. But if you will allow me, I will bring 
 up a few of his sketches ; and you might ask some one who 
 is a good judge " 
 
 " As for that, there will be no difficulty," she said, pro- 
 mptly. " We know sveral of the Academicians. It is not 
 unusual for one or other of them to drop in to dinner and 
 have a chat with the scientifics." 
 
 "Academicians?'"' said Fitzgerald, uneasily. " Not 
 very old ones ? " 
 
 She named one or two. 
 
 " Oh," said he, gladly, " any one of these would do. I 
 am not afraid of them." 
 
 But this conversation had results for himself as well 
 as for his friend. Fitzgerald was in the habit of leaving a 
 minute or two before a quarter to seven, which was the hour 
 for Mrs Chetvvynd's table d'hote, as she called it; and even 
 then he sometimes encountered in the hall a guest Avho had 
 strolled in before the proper time. But this talk about Ross's 
 pictures had made hina forgetful; and he was just about to 
 ask his patroness some further question as to what kind of 
 landscape she preferred, when a gong sounded below. 
 
 " Goodness gracious me ! " exclaimed the old lady. 
 ** There is dinner, and Mary has not come back from South 
 Kensington, Mr. Fitzgerald, will you kindly give me your 
 arm downstairs — I am so blind now ; and the people will be 
 coming in, and nobody to receive them ! " 
 
 But at this very moment Miss Chetwynd made her ap- 
 peararce — a trifle breathless, for she had run upstairs. 
 
 *' Come away, auntie," she said, cheerfully, as she has- 
 tily took off her bonnet and cloak, and threw them on a chair. 
 ** But why don't you ever persuade Mr. Fitzgerald to stay to 
 dinner? I know he dislikes scientific people " 
 
 It is needless to say that this invitation was warmly 
 seconded : and Fitzgerald who was quite aware of the that in- 
 formal nature of this nightly table d'hote, and v/ho, perhaps, 
 had somelittle curiosity to see in the flesh one or other of the 
 celebrated people that Mrs. Chetwynd talked so much about, 
 very gratefully and modestly accepted. He did not even 
 
150 'SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 make a pretence of refusing. M ary Chetwynd's proposal liad 
 been made so simply and frankly that he met it with equal 
 frankness. He walked into the dining-room after the two 
 ladies, with much calmness ; and this time he had nothing 
 to fear about evening dress. 
 
 Tliere were three gentleman in the room. One was 
 away in a corner, examining through a double eyeglass tlial 
 he held in his hand one of the engravings on the walls ; 
 the other two were standing on the hearthrug, their backs 
 to the fire. The taller of these was a long thin, cadaverous 
 man, who stooped a little ; he had piercing gray eyes under 
 shaggy eyebrows ; and very white teeth, which showed when 
 he laughed his prodigious laugh ; him Fitzgerald recognized 
 at once, having seen his photograph often enough, as a Dr. 
 Bude. The other he did not know ! but he thought it very 
 cool of both these gentlemen to take the entrance of the two 
 ladies with so much indifference. They finished what they 
 had been talking, or rather laughing, about ; then they came 
 forward and shook hands ; and then sat down as it pleased 
 them at the table. But this indifference was unintentional ; 
 for very soon, when some other guest had come in and every- 
 body had sat down, and dinner had begun, it was very clear 
 that Dr. Bude was amongst the foremost to amuse and en- 
 tertain his hostess. And it must beconfessed that there was 
 very little science talked amongst this nondescript gather- 
 ing of friendB and acquaintances. There was a good deal of 
 joking, it is true, when it became known that Mary Chet- 
 wynd was to be allowed to have her big telescope ; but for 
 the most part the talk was all about public characters, and 
 what So-and-so had said, and where So-and-so was staying. 
 These scientific gentlemen seemed to know a good deal 
 about the comparative merits of certain country houses as 
 places of temporary lodgment ; and their talk about fish- 
 ponds, and cooking and the advantages of having a well 
 heated hall in the middle of a house, was not so very much 
 raised,after all, above the level of Mr. Scobell. Master Willie 
 had more than once wondered what figure Mr. Scobell would 
 cut in this familiar little assemblage of greaj; people ; but in- 
 deed their conversation was not of an extremely serious 
 nature. 
 
 He sat next to Dr. Bude ; and as Dr. Bude was engaged 
 in descriV)ing, with tremendous laughter, to Mrs. Chetwynd, 
 a conveisation he had had with a gentleman whom he had 
 met at a City dinner, Fitzgerald had plenty of leisure ta 
 
SHAN DON BELLS. 15) 
 
 study the rest of the guests, and also his hostess's niece. He 
 had had no such opportunity before. He had scarcely ever 
 t^ecn Miss Chetwynd. She was mostly engaged in the east of 
 London ; when she was in the house, she was occupied in 
 her own room. And now it seemed to him that her expres- 
 sion was a little more gentle, less resolute and self-suffi- 
 cient, than he had fancied it was. The head was small and 
 beautifully shaped, and she wore her hair more tightly 
 brushed than was the fashion of the time, so that the sym- 
 metry of the head was clearly seen. Her features were 
 fine: her complexion somewhat pale; and now he saw that 
 her eyes, which hitherto he had considered to be some- 
 what cold in their clear, direct way of looking at one, were 
 really of a beautiful blue with dark lashes, and could be ex- 
 pressive enough, whether she seemed intrested in what her 
 neighbor was saying, or was joining iu some general merri- 
 ment. And when she had to submit to some raillery about 
 the forth-coming big telescope, she did it very prettily, 
 
 " You know," she said, " the time will come when people 
 will look back on Lord Rosse's telescope as a mere toy." 
 
 " Why, of course," said Dr. Bude, coming to her rescue. 
 *'You are quite right. Miss Chetwynd. The human race 
 n'\\\ be driven to invent not only immense telescopes, but 
 Also means of conveying themselves to some other planet, 
 ihat is, when this one grows too cold for human subsistence. 
 When the earth cools — and the process is going on now — 
 i5o that humanity must flit, you may depend on it, by that 
 iime science will have invented means for their removal to a 
 more generous climate. But there must be a beginning in 
 the way of experiment. I appeal to Professor Sims. The 
 Royal Society should do something." 
 
 Professor Sims, who \vas the shorter of the two strangers 
 whom Fitzgerald had found standing before the fire, and 
 who was a white-haired, rosy-faced old gentleman, with 
 gold spectacles, answered immediately, 
 
 ''No doubt, no doubt," said he. "The necessity must 
 arise. And if you look at what science has done within the 
 last ten years, who is to say what she may not have accom- 
 l^lished within the next — what shall I say ? " 
 
 '' ' An eternity or two,' was Alfred de Musset's phrase," 
 suggested Fitzgerald ; but it instantly occurred to him that 
 to mention even the name of a sentimentalist like Alfred de 
 Musset among these hard-headed people was absurd. How- 
 ever, it did not much matter ; for presently they were con. 
 
152 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 sidering whether, when the world had got chilled down to 
 the condition of the moon, the last traces of human occupa- 
 tion would be the Pyramids or the Colosseum. Some one 
 suggested the buried cities of Mexico j and so the matter 
 dropped. 
 
 The dinner was a plain one as compared with the ban- 
 quet which Hilton Clarke had given in the Albany ; and 
 Fitzgerald observed that the majority of the gentlemen 
 present drank no wine, or, at most, a little claret and water. 
 Indeed, the whole of the proceedings were somewhat 
 abnormal ; for, directly the frugal repast was over, coffee 
 and cigarettes were produced, and the ladies remained. Then 
 one or another of the guests would get up, and without any 
 formal apology, shake hands with Mrs. Chetwynd and her 
 niece, and say " Good-night," or " Au revoir," or perhaps 
 notliing at all, to the others, and be off. 
 
 " I must be off too directly," said Dr. Bude to Fitzgerald, 
 " I have some people coming to look at a few simple experi- 
 ments with the spectroscope; and I must go and see thai, 
 m.y battery is ready. Will you come ? I can show you 'A 
 nine-and-a-half-inch telescope, since that seems to interest 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, certainly ; I shall be delighted," said Fitzgearld, 
 with great eagerness. This Dr. Bude had been very kind 
 in one or two little things he has said during dinner. He 
 knew about the Household Magazine. He knew about Fitz- 
 gerald's present duties. He seemed a friendly sort of per- 
 son ; and the mere invitation Avas a compliment coming from 
 one so well known. 
 
 The only doubt in Fitzgerald's mind was as to the pro- 
 priety of his going away while any of the others remained. 
 He had no lecture to deliver, nor any learned society to at- 
 tend. Moreover, there did not seem much chance of his 
 explaining the circumstances to Mrs. Chetwynd ; for the 
 pretty old lady — who seemed so pleased that all these peo- 
 ple should drop in to chat with her for an hour — was listen- 
 ing intently to the gentleman on her left ; and he was de- 
 scribing the very remarkable high jinks he had observed in 
 a great person's house immediately after dmner — the ladies, 
 indeed, taking part in them ; and he was warmly defending 
 th^se on hygienic principles, although hoping that nothing 
 about then would get into the papers, through some unfor- 
 tunate accident happening. However, Dr. Bude got him 
 out of the dilemma ; for he rose and said : — 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 153 
 
 " Good-night, Mrs. Chetwynd. I must be off to get my 
 things ready ; and I am going to take Mr. Fitzgerafd with 
 me, to show him what a nine-and-a-half-inch ttlescope is 
 like." 
 
 lie went out of the room without saying good-by to 
 anybody else, Fitzgerald following; and the latter, \\\ a 
 minute or so, found himself, for the first time in his life, in 
 a private hansom — a vehicle which went so smoothly and so 
 rapidly that he seemed to be going through the air on 
 wings. 
 
 Dr. Bude'g house was in the Brompton Road — a rather 
 shabby-looking building outside, but spacious within. Fitz- 
 gerald followed his host up to the first floor, the back part 
 of which consisted of an apartment that seemed partly an 
 observatory, partly a library, and partly a laboratory. An 
 assistant was at the moment arranging some glass tubes and 
 tw^o spectroscopes on a table; and Dr. Bude, throwing off 
 his coat, though the dusky room was far from being over- 
 warm, proceeded to test the various vrires and other 
 apparatus, all of which were a profound mystery to his 
 guest. 
 
 "I suppose you see a great deal of Miss Chetwynd?" 
 he said ; and at the same moment the electric light flashed 
 into a tube, causing Fitzgerald's eyes to jump. 
 
 ♦* Oh, no, very little." 
 
 " She is a very remarkable woman," said the other, with 
 decision ; though indeed, he was now on his kness on the 
 floor, examining the battery. " She might do something, 
 that girl. She has a fine brain — acute and penetrating. 
 But she has had no training ; that is the mischief of it. 
 She should have been brought up on mathematics. But, 
 after all, the number of women who have done anything in 
 pure science is very small. I think she is throwing herself 
 away on this education of the poorest classes ; that is ves- 
 trymen's work ; though perhaps I should not say so, for I 
 don't know precisely what she is at." 
 
 Then he rose and clapped his hands together, to get rid 
 of the dust. 
 
 *' I was amused," he said, with a laugh. " She asked me 
 what would be the most effectual way of teaching these 
 ignorant people the perniciousness of breathing foul air. 
 You know how they huddle together for warmth, and cover 
 the children over with such bedclothes as they have got. I 
 
154 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 think she was going to deliver a lecture on * Fresh Air and 
 Pure Water ' somewhere or other " 
 
 " Yes, I know she has done that," said Fitzgerald, as 
 the tall lean man turned toward the table again and con- 
 tinued his preparations. 
 
 " Well, she very naturally concluded that tumbling 
 gases of different weights into jars, or extinguishing tapers, 
 would not be impressive enough ; so I told her to get a 
 sparrow, to tie its feet down to a bit of board, and to put 
 over it a bell-jar before these people, and ask them to watch 
 what will happen to the bird merely through its breathing 
 its own breath. Of course the little creature becomes 
 asphyxiated, staggers, and falls, and ultimately dies. Doubt- 
 less, I told her, the most effective way of exhibiting the 
 experiment would be to raise the bell-jar during the process 
 of asphyxiation, and show the reviving effect of the fresh 
 air ; then to close it again until death preached its moral. 
 She said she would do that. She was quite delighted. 
 What lesson could be more obvious ^" 
 
 But at this moment there was a sound of footsteps on the 
 stairs ; and the I>)ctor had to whip on his coat, and go and 
 receive two or three young people who now entered. Fitz- 
 gerald did not like that story about the sparrow. Miss 
 Chetwynd was no Lesbia, clearly. And although the 
 conscience of a wild-fowl shooter is apt to be hard, and al- 
 though he knew quite well that the asphyxiation of a spar- 
 row, or even twenty dozen of sparrows, was scarcely to be 
 considered if it induced a certain number of human beings 
 to treat their children more humanely — still — still 
 
 The Doctor came back. 
 
 "'I have a sort of class," he explained to Fitzgerald, 
 *' who come and practice a little, and ask questions, before 
 the vulgar world arrives to be amused. I hope it won't be 
 tedious for you. If you prefer it, my assistant will arrange 
 the telescope for you ; the night is beautifully clear " 
 
 " Oh no, not at all. Was Miss Chetwynd's experiment 
 successful ? " 
 
 " Why, I forgot to finish my story. She got the spar- 
 row, and the string, and the board, and the bell-jar, all com- 
 plete ; and she thought, to make sure, she would make her 
 first trial before her aunt in the drawing-room. And it was 
 all quite successful until the first stagger of the little crea- 
 ture ; then she hesitated ; then she shook her head. Off 
 came the bell-jar at once ; she opened the window, and cut 
 
SHANDOxY BELLS. 155 
 
 the string, and out went Jack Sparrow. Nothing would 
 induce her to repeat the experiment." 
 
 " I should not have thought she was so sentimental," 
 said Fitzgerald. 
 
 "Ah, that's just it," said the Doctor, as he heated a bit 
 of copper wire at a gas jet. " A woman never ceases to be 
 a woman, whatever she is at. Her reason fails her when 
 she is confronted by suffering; her heart overmasters her 
 head. But in pure science that girl might have done some- 
 thing if she had had proper training. She has a fine quality 
 of brain. I can tell how much people know by their ques- 
 tions. Her questions are always sharp and to the point. 
 When she comes here she knows precisely what she 
 
 wants " 
 
 The good Doctor seemed to like talking about Mary 
 Chetwynd ; but on this occasion he was checked by the 
 appearance of the young lady herself, who arrived quite 
 alone. She seemed surprised to find Fitzgerald there, 
 though she said nothing beyond an ordinary greeting. She 
 at once went forward to the table ; and the Doctor was 
 particular in finding her a chair, though the others who 
 were now arriving were allowed to stand about anyhow. 
 
 What followed was quite unintelligible to Fitzgerald, 
 for at that time the theory of spectroscopy was much less 
 familiar to the public that it is nowadays, when every 
 second schoolgirl has a spectroscope in her pocket. But 
 if the meaning of the experiments was dark to him, the 
 manners of the students were interesting enough ; and he 
 could readily distinguish between the serious ones, who 
 wore mostly silent, or only asking a question now and 
 again, and the flippant ones, who exclaimed with terror at 
 the ghastly appearances of each other's faces when a little 
 common salt was ignited at a Bunsen burner, and who 
 cried, " Oh, how sweetly lovely ! " when a trifle of chloride 
 of lithium spread abroad a rose-red flame. But perhaps it 
 was the demeanor of Mary Chetwynd that most engaged 
 his attention ; and he could see that her questions were the 
 most promptly answered, and that to her most of the ex- 
 planations were addressed. Fitzgerald, standing apart by 
 the mantelpiece, and observing, out of that motley group 
 only these two — the long, lean, pale-faced teacher, and the 
 young lady student who sat in a chair there following his 
 words with a serious attention — began to dream dreams. 
 Why should not these two cold intelligences go through the 
 
156 • SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 world together, like twin stars sailing through the night ? 
 He was considerably her elder, to be sure ; but the girl who 
 was sitting there, with the fine, serious, thoughtful face, was 
 more likely to think of his high reputation than of his 
 years. What a strange love-making it would be ! Moon- 
 lit walks with disquisitions on the spectrum of Sirus. Th« 
 Bunsen burner looked ghostly enough ; but he knew that 
 Don Fierna and the elves would fly away from it. He 
 eould scarcely help laughing when he thought of these two 
 tall persons standing on each of the little stream, and hold- 
 ing each other's hand. What would the phrase be ? "Over 
 HO"^ in rapid motion ? " And then he thought of Kitty. 
 Kitty did not know, probably, that water consisted of 
 hydrogen and oxygen ; but Kitty knew how to make love. 
 He sent her a kiss in imagination. By this time of the 
 night she would be at home — away up there on the hill, 
 opposite Shandon Bells. 
 
 These speculations about the possible future of Dr. Bude 
 and Miss Mary Chetwynd were somewhat rudely dispelled 
 by the entrance of a stout and comely dame in rustling 
 black silk, who cheerfully greeted the various pupils, and 
 kissed Miss Chetwynd very affectionately, and then, 
 addressing the lecturer as " My dear," asked him for cer- 
 tain keys. The next minute Fitzgerald was introduced to 
 this buxom and good-humored-looking lady, who turned 
 out to be Mrs. Bude ; so that he had to bid good-by to 
 that horoscope of the scientific lovers. Mrs. Bude did not 
 remain long; she was evidently in a hurry; Fitzgerald re- 
 turned to the contemplative study of the heads before him, 
 as these were illumined from time to time by the various 
 colors of different metals. 
 
 Something else was going forward, however, on this 
 first floor. The drawing-room, with which this observatory 
 was connected, had been brilliantly lit up ; and now steps 
 could be heard on the stairs outside, and the names of 
 guests being announced as they reached the door. Then 
 some of these began to stroll from the drawing-room into 
 the observatory; and very soon the Doctor was busy 
 enougli, with greeting these new-comers, and with trj'ing 
 to sliow them something they could understand. His 
 patience and good-humor seemed to Fitzgerald admirable. 
 " Oh, what a lovely green I " " Oh, how sweetly pretty ! " 
 "Must I shut one eye to look through?" " Doctor, why 
 should one line be so much clearer than the other?* 
 
SHANDON BELLS. Vm 
 
 ** Anrl so you know that all these things are in the sun ? " 
 *' Do show my husband that pretty green color again ! " The 
 good doctor appeared to be talking to all these ladies and 
 gentlemen at once ; sometimes frankly laughing at their 
 questions ; and not at all displeased that he should be 
 addressed as if he were the conductor of a show. Fitz- 
 gerald could perceive that Miss Chetwynd was calmly 
 regarding the new-comers ; once or twice he caught her 
 smiling to herself. 
 
 Amid the crowd of people who kept strolling in from 
 the large and well-lit drawing-room to the small and dusty 
 laboratory, and strolling back again, there was one lady 
 who very much interested him, partly because she was re^ 
 markably pretty, and partly because of a chance exclama- 
 tion of hers that he overheard. The Doctor was explain- 
 ing to a little group of people the source of color in objects 
 — the absorption or reflection of the different rays of liglit, 
 and so forth; and in illustration he brought a little bunch 
 of scarlet geraniums in a glass, turned off the liglit, then 
 ignited some common salt at the Bunsen burner, producing 
 a powerful yellow flame. Of course the geraniums became 
 of a ghastly gray; and this pretty lady, perhaps not quite 
 understanding that nothing had happened to them, ex- 
 claimed to herself, " Poor things!" Fitzgerald liked her 
 for that. She seemed to recognize some principle of life in 
 the flowers, as though they were associated with humanity 
 somehow ; and although there might have been no profound 
 intention in her remark, and although, when the gas was 
 lit again, the geraniums were found to be quite as scarlet 
 as ever, nevertheless Fitzgerald was convinced that she 
 must be a nice sort of woman. Imagine, then, his surprise 
 when, later in the evening, the experiments being all over, 
 and he himself, doubtful whether he ought to remain, and 
 yet anxious to send some account of so brilliant an assem- 
 blage to Kitty, rather keeping himself in the background, 
 he found himself dragged from his obscurity by the diligent 
 Doctor, and forthwith introduced to this very lady, and 
 directed to take her dow^nstairs to supper. Not only tliat, 
 but the name she bore was also that of a distinguished 
 Academician. Was it possible, he asked himself, as he 
 conducted her downstairs, that she should be the wife of 
 the great painter ? He determined to And out ; here, 
 indeed, would be something to talk over with John lioss. 
 
158 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 Well, he got her a place at the long table, and timidly 
 asked her what she would take — a sandwich, perhaps? 
 
 " I'm not so yonng as I look," said this pretty, English- 
 looking woman, with the large girlish gray eyes. " I am 
 the mother of three children, and at ray time of life I know 
 better than to destroy myself with sandwiches. No — any- 
 thing else yon can get ! " 
 
 She was an amazingly frank person, and very pleasant 
 m her speech and her laugh. When he had got her some 
 cold turkey, and some bread, and a glass of claret, he ven- 
 tured to ask her, after some vague reference to something 
 on the walls, whether she was very fond of pictures. 
 
 " I admire my husband's, of course," she said. 
 
 Then he knew he was right. 
 
 "Oh, of course," said he, with greater confidence. 
 " Every one does that. I suppose, now," he added, rather 
 hesitatingly, "your husband has become so accustomed to 
 his distinguished position — I mean so familiar with his 
 place in the Academy — that he couldn't quite realize the 
 anxiety of the outside men, of those who are not well 
 known, about the fate of their pictures? That would not 
 interest him much, would it ? I mean it would not be pos- 
 sible to induce him to interest himself in — in helping, for ex- 
 ample — an artist who was not known " 
 
 This was not at all satisfactory, especially as she seemed 
 to imagine he was pleading for himself. 
 
 " Are you an artist ? " she asked at length, with a frank 
 look. 
 
 " Oh no." 
 
 '* Well, then, to tell you the truth," said she, " I don't 
 know what anxiety the outsiders may feel, but it isn't half 
 of the anxiety they cause me. I know when my husband is 
 on the Hanging Committee it thoroughly breaks him down 
 for three weeks after. It is by far the hardest work of the 
 year for him. And then the thanks ! — to be abused by the 
 public, and accused of envy by the outsiders. Envy, in- 
 deed? I wonder who it is that my husband needs envy?" 
 
 " Why, not any one," said Fitzgerald, warmly ; for he 
 liked the human nature, the frank sincerity, of this woman. 
 
 " I wish they'd let the outsiders come in and hang their 
 own pictures for themselves," she said, with a laugh. " I 
 suppose they'd all quite agree. I wish they would paint 
 better, and grumble less. ' 
 
 " Oh, but the outsider I was thinking of is not like 
 
S 11 AND ON BELLS. 1 59 
 
 tliat," said Fitzgerald, pleasantly, for he was not in the 
 least offended by her humorous petulance. " He paints 
 very well, and does not grumble at all. He is quite con- 
 tent. Only, I thought if your husband would be so kind as 
 merely to remember his name, and look at his work when 
 
 it is sent in " 
 
 " But my husband was on the Council last year ; so he 
 won't be again for some time — thank goodness ! " 
 
 " So there is no use in my asking you to intercede ? " 
 " No, not even if you offer to bribe me with sandwiches. 
 But," she added, looking up at him for a moment, " what 
 is your friend's name ? " 
 "John Ross." 
 
 " That is not a difficult name to remember. John Ross, 
 Why are you interested in him — you are not Scotch? " 
 
 " He is a neighbor of mine ; and — and he does good 
 work, I think, and ought to be better known." 
 " Landscape or figures? " 
 " Landscape." 
 
 " I guessed as much. The Scotchmen take to landscape 
 because they can't draw. Now take me back, please, for I 
 must fetch my husband and get home; and I shan't forget 
 your friend's name, for I never had sandwiches offered me 
 as a bribe before." 
 
 He escorted her upstairs again, and then seized the 
 first oppoi'tunity of slipping away. In the hall he found he 
 had been preceded by Miss Chetwynd, who, quite alone, 
 was tying something round her neck, the night being cold. 
 He hesitated for a second, not quite knowing what was 
 proper for him to do ; and then, at a venture, he went for- 
 ward, and said, 
 
 " Miss Chetwynd, can I get your carriage for you ? " 
 " No, thank you," she said, as he thought, a trifle un- 
 graciously and stiffl[y.* '* My cab is outside. I know the 
 man." 
 
 The servant opened the hall door, and she passed out, 
 Fitzgerald lingering for a moment, under pretence of but- 
 toning his coat. Her refusal to allow him to be of this 
 slight service had been, as he considered, somewhat too ex- 
 plicit. What had he done ? Or was she unaware that her 
 manner was at times a little too decided and cold and 
 repellent?" 
 
 It mattered not to him. He walked away through the 
 chill dark night to the vacant courtyard and the empty 
 
IGO SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 room, tliinking wliat a memorable and wonderful evening 
 that had been for him. Perliaps never such another would 
 ' 'ippen to him; for when again was he likely to meet a 
 dat man of science to carry him off, on the friendly in- 
 piration of the moment, and introduce him to such a 
 gathering? And indeed the spectacle had moved him to 
 neither emulation or regret. It was not the way of life he 
 would choose if it were open to him. He had his own 
 dreams and ambitions, his own notions of what w^as beauti- 
 ful and worth having in the world ; and if Mary Chet- 
 wynd had any vague fancy that he wished to gain an en- 
 trance into distinguished or fashionable society, either 
 through a scientific doorway or through any other, she was 
 quite mistaken. But more j^robably she had not even 
 given a thought to the matter ; and he was content. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A MORNING WALK AND OTHER MATTERS. 
 
 [N". B. — This chapter may very conveniently be 
 passed over by those who wish to get on with " the story " ; 
 for it contains little beyond a description of one or two in- 
 fluences which were at this time in a measure forming the 
 character of this young man, and so far shaping the work 
 of liis after life.] 
 
 Next morning Fitzgerald had promised to go for a 
 walk with his Scotch neighbor, w^o had a theory that 
 neither could he paint nor his companion write properly 
 unless they went forth from time to time to see what the 
 outside world was looking like. Moreover, these periodical 
 excursions were undertaken without any regard to the 
 weather. John Ross used to say .that anybody could ad- 
 mire the chromolithograph aspects of nature, but that it 
 wanted training and affectionate care and watchfulness to 
 observe the beautifulness of gray days and wet roads and 
 wintry skies. Fitzgerald, of course, was nothing loath. 
 He had brought his shooting boots and gaiters with hijii 
 from Ireland, and he had a serviceable waterproof; he 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 161 
 
 was just as ready as Ross to go splashing away through tho 
 mud to Kew, to see what the wilderness part of the Gar- 
 dens (a favorite haunt of theirs, and but little known to the 
 public) was like in driving rain, or in feathery snow, or in 
 clear hard frost when the red berries shone among the 
 green. It was wonderful how interesting the world had 
 become to him. He no longer confined his attention, when 
 out walking, to the animals and birds he might observe 
 (with rapid calculations as to whether they were within 
 shot or without) ; now, if there was nothing else to be seen, 
 the gradation of light on the puddles of a rainy road he 
 found to be quite worth looking at. Nothing had been 
 taken away from the world, but a great deal added. It 
 was of itself something that he had learned not even to de- 
 spise the commonplace gray days that in the -winter so fre- 
 quently hung over Chelsea. 
 
 But he had an added interest in these various perambu- 
 lations of which his companion knew nothing : he was con- 
 tinually on the outlook for some pretty little cottage, some 
 quaint river-side house, that would meet with the approval 
 of Kitty's black eyes when the great time came. This im- 
 aginary nest-building was a most fascinating kind of occu- 
 pation. Sometimes he would go away by himself and 
 ramble through all sorts of strange suburban places, in the 
 hope of meeting with something so very quaint and pictur- 
 esque and secluded that even Kitty — who rather avoided 
 that subject, and would not express any preference for 
 town or country — might have her curiosity aroused. So 
 far the most engaging place he had seen was a small odd- 
 looking house in Grosvenor E-oad, fronting the river. It 
 appeared to have been an old-fashioned tavern at one time ; 
 but now it was a little private dwelling, with odd inequali- 
 ties about the windows and gables, and very prettily painted 
 in white and green. Were not these the very windows for 
 Kitty to adorn with trailing plants and llower-boxes ? 
 Again and again, at a convenient distance, he stood and 
 watched the house, and tried to imagine Kitty actually 
 there, reaching up her arras to put a branch so, or so ; per- 
 haps singing the while, perhaps whistling to the blackbird 
 in the cage. There was the slight drawback, it is true, 
 that the house was not to be let ; but then he and Kitty 
 had still a*long time of waiting before them, and who knew 
 what might not happen in that interval? Besides, where 
 there was one little habitation that seemed so charming, 
 
162 SIIANDON BELLS, 
 
 there might be others ; and so, whatever subject John Ross 
 might be descanting on, in his fiery-headed fashion, and 
 however attentively Fitzgerald might be listening, there was 
 nothing to prevent the eyes of the latter from wandering 
 from cottage to cottage, from villa to villa, from garden to 
 garden, in a sort of vague mechanical quest for a pretty 
 resting-place for Kitty. 
 
 But this particular morning was clear and cold and fine 
 — an excellent morning for walking ; and of course Fitz- 
 gerald had a great deal to tell about his experiences of the 
 previous night, and his proposal to take up some of his 
 companion's pictures to show to Mrs. Chetwynd. 
 
 " You see, if she were to take two or three of them, it 
 might be a great advantage to you," observed Fitzgerald. 
 
 " It would-be a very distinct and solid advantage," said 
 the red-bearded gentleman, with a laugh. 
 
 "Oh, but I mean apart from the money. Mrs. Chet- 
 wynd knows some of the Academicians ; and if your pic- 
 tures were seen by them at her house, don't you sec? it 
 might do you good. Oh, tliat reminds me. Imet the wife 
 of an Academician last night. I sha'n'ttell you her name, 
 for she said something about Scotch artists that you won't 
 like." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 " She said they took to landscape because they couldn't 
 draw." 
 
 Ko doubt Fitzgerald repeated this wuth the malicious 
 intention of making his companion angry; and indeed for 
 a moment John Ross stood stock-still ; but then again he 
 laughed good-naturedly, and continued his walking. 
 
 " Ay, I'm thinking her husband maun be one o' the 
 story-tellers." 
 
 " Story-tellers ? " 
 
 " There's plenty of them among the English artists — 
 men who ought to belong to your business, no' to mine. 
 Pent is what they know least about ; but they can tell a 
 pretty story — out o' a book. That is something, after all. 
 If they know little about color, at least they can help the 
 ignorant public to a bit of sentiment or the like. But 
 there's one thing the Scotch have done, my lad ; and that 
 again and again ; they have had to bring both English 
 liteiature and art back to nature. It was wh*en people 
 were given over to the wretched artifeecialities of the 
 Pope school that Allan Ramsay's ' Gentle Shepherd ' and 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 163 
 
 Thomson's * Seasons' got them back out o' that hot-house 
 to look at real nature and human nature — — " 
 
 "Pope? Is that what you think of Pope?" said his 
 companion, eagerly ; for he had his own grudge on that 
 score. 
 
 " Pope ? " repeated John Ross. " I consider " 
 
 But, as it turned out, there was to be no conjoint danc- 
 ing on a dead man's grave, for at t)ns moment Ross's at 
 tention was drawn to two young ladies who Avere crossing 
 the Hammersmith Road in front of them. 
 
 " Heaven save us ! " he exclaimed. " Did ever ye see 
 the like o' that?" 
 
 " Their waists, do you mean ? " his companion said ; for, 
 indeed, the two young ladies, probably sisters, for they 
 were dressed precisely alike, had waists of such small di- 
 mensions that more than one person had turned and stared 
 at them. 
 
 " The ignorant craytures," said John Ross, half angrily, 
 *' to think that men admire a spectacle like that ! Have 
 they no common-sense ? " 
 
 " They must have pretty good muscles, at all events, to 
 have pulled themselves in like that," his companion said. 
 
 " But bless me, common-sense should tell a young lass 
 that it's the foolishest thing in the world for her to remind 
 people that she has an internal economy at all. She ought 
 to have none, in your imagination. She ought to be all 
 S})irit and poetry; just an amiable young life looking out 
 on the world with sweetness and innocence and a wish to 
 be friendly. But when you see a waist like that, confound 
 it, ye're made to ask yourself where the mischief she has put 
 her liver ! " 
 
 John Ross seemed to resent the appearance of these 
 young ladies as if he had sustained some personal injury. 
 
 " I say that anything that suggests that a young lass 
 has a spine, or a liver, or anything of the kind, is a most 
 intolerable nuisance," said Ross, angrily. " And to deform 
 one of the most beautiful things in the world, too — that is, 
 the figure of a young woman from the shoulders to the 
 waist. Look at that ; do you know what that is ?" 
 
 He took out his sketch-book, and made a few rapid 
 lines on one of the blank pages. 
 
 " A vase, I suppose." 
 
 " That is the Canopian vase ; that has always been un- 
 derstood to have been imitated from the female figure 
 
164 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 15ut look what it would be if the base were to be narrowed 
 like the waist of one of those girls ! Look ; where is your 
 proportion now? What kind of a vase is that ? " 
 
 " Well, if you are only drew the lines down a little bit 
 farther, it would be like one of the Pompeiian earthen 
 
 jars " 
 
 " Ah, the jars they stuck into the ground. Poor cray 
 tures, that's just what they lasses there are working for. 1 
 wonder if they havena got a mother to skelp them. 
 
 However, the disappearance of the young ladies round 
 a corner removed the cause of his grumbling ; and very 
 soon he had quite recovered his equanimity, for now the 
 air was growing clearer, the roads wider, the gardens be- 
 tween the houses Avere larger, and the sunlight was 
 making the wintry trees and bushes look quite cheerful. 
 
 '*Look at that, now," Ross said, coming to a sudden 
 halt before some tall maples, the branches of which, reach- 
 ing away into the blue, were of the most brilliant gold 
 where the bark had peeled off. " Can you get anything 
 stronger in color than that in the middle of summer ? 
 Look how fine the blue is above ! " 
 
 " Yes, but it would look top-heavy in a picture, wouldn't 
 it?" 
 
 *' ^N'o, no, my lad ; there you're mistaken. Sunlight always 
 comes out ; no fear of yellow not holding its own. If you 
 were painting that, you would find the blue go as far back 
 as ever ye wanted it. I think if I were a king, that's what 
 I would have in my dining-chamber — solid gold up to 
 about the height of your head ; and then above that all a 
 pale blue, and the roof a pale blue, so that you could let 
 your eyes go away a great distance when you lifted them 
 from the table. And then, in case the solid gold of the 
 wall would make you feel as if you were in a metal case, I 
 would have a procession of figures, all in pure scarlet, per- 
 haps mediaeval figures, with trellis- work, or better still, a 
 Greek procession " 
 
 "You would have plenty of color, then," said Fitz- 
 gerald, laughing. " Gold, scarlet, and pale blue." 
 
 " The three primaries ; why not ? " 
 
 But as there was not much apparent chance of either of 
 these two having to study this matter practically, it was 
 abandoned ; and very soon they found themselves in the 
 wilderness lying between the formal part of Kew Gardens 
 and tlie river. Here it was a great delight to Fitzgerald 
 
SHAN DON BELLS, 165 
 
 to find liimself so completely removed from all the sur- 
 roundings of town life — watching the squirrels, and the 
 birds, and what not, while his companion now and again 
 took jottings of what he called the anatomy of the different 
 kinds of trees. The sunlight was quite clear here, and 
 tliere was plenty of rich color among the dark green firs and 
 the browns and reds of withered leaves, and the glowing 
 scarlet of the berries that still remained on the bushes. 
 Then they walked back to the bridge ; and for the first 
 time since he had left Inisheen Fitzgerald got into a boat, 
 and enjoyed the new sensation of managing a pair of sculls, 
 while Koss sat in the stern, and seemed pleased that the 
 pull against the heavy current was just about as much as 
 Master Willie wanted. And then they had a snack of 
 luncheon at the nearest hotel ; and then tliey set out to 
 walk back to London, with the chill gray dusk of the after- 
 noon slowdy settling down. 
 
 But when they did get back to the big hollow-sounding 
 studio, Fitzgerald discovored that he had a very difficult 
 task before him. Whether it was that John Ross was 
 overfond of these children of his brain and skill, and dis- 
 liked parting with them, or whether it was that he detested 
 the pecuniary side of his profession altogether, Fitzgerald 
 found that he could get no help from him in the selection 
 of the pictures or sketches he wished to take to Mrs. 
 Chetwynd. 
 
 " HoAV can I tell what any one's fancy may be ? " said 
 he, almost surlily. "Most likely she Avould rather have a 
 picture of a white lap-dog with a bit of pink ribbon round 
 his neck." 
 
 " Well, we wnll see," remarked Fitzgerald, who had at 
 length chosen out half a dozen canvases, and was tying 
 them together. "And now I must have a cab — for the 
 first time since I came to London ; but I expect you to 
 pay that, Ross, if I sell any of your pictures. That will be 
 my commission." 
 
 Moreover, he was himself a little anxious. As the han- 
 som (which was not quite so smooth-going as that of 
 Dr. Bude) carried him up to Hyde Park Gardens, he 
 began to suspect that some of Ross's disinclination had 
 probably arisen from the fear that his w^ork might be mis- 
 understood, and subjected to the ignominy of refusal. That 
 was bad enough at the Academy ; but in the case of the 
 Academy there was also the consoling possibility that it 
 
1G6 SHAN DO A- BELLS 
 
 was want of space which was the practical cause of rejec- 
 tion. Mr. Ross was a ])roud man in his way, li4>tle as he 
 was disposed to overrate the value of his work. A»d Fitz- 
 gerald, when he was actually carrying theses canvases up- 
 stairs, began to think that he had assumed a very serioua 
 responsibility. 
 
 There is no doubt that this kind old lady, who examined 
 these landscapes as well as she could with the aid of a large 
 m^agnifying-glass, would at once, in her good-humored way, 
 have purchased some of them, or perhaps even the whole 
 of them ; but this he would not hear of. It was not alto- 
 gether as a favor to an unknown artist that he wished to 
 dispose of them, he gently reminded her ; perhaps if one or 
 two of her friends saw these studies they would be very 
 glad to get them. In any case he would rather have her 
 wait for their opinion. 
 
 " Oh, very well," said she, good-naturedly. " And the 
 price ? " 
 
 Fitzgerald flushed uneasily. 
 
 " I could not get my friend to say exactly. Perhaps — 
 
 perhaps if you were to ask Mr. to value them — Being 
 
 an Academician, he ought to know." 
 
 " Oh, but that would never do. So much depends on 
 circumstances. So much depends on your friend's own 
 valuation. Have you no guess ? " 
 
 " Well," said Fitzgerald, desperately, " I may as well 
 make a guess ; for Mr. Ross won't help me! I think they 
 are worth more — but he is not known, of course — and I 
 don't think £20 each would be too much " 
 
 " Would it be too little ? " said the little old lady, witL 
 a charming frankness. " For who knows what fancy some 
 of our friends may take for them ?" 
 
 " If you would not mind asking Mr. " he again 
 
 suggested. 
 
 *' Well, I will," she said. " On that basis, that if we 
 take them at £20 each, your friend won't be greatly dis- 
 satisfied." 
 
 " I think he will be very much pleased. Only," he ad- 
 ded, with some hesitation, " if I might ask another favor, it 
 
 would be that supposing Mr. does not come here this 
 
 evening, or very soon, indeed, you might not be too long in 
 arriving at some decision. The fact is, I would not like 
 Mr. Ross to be thinking that his studies were waiting out 
 on approval, as it were " 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 167 
 
 " I understand perfectly," said the good old lady, " and 
 there will be no delay, I promise you." 
 
 That night Fitzgerald was in Ross's studio. Both were 
 smoking and talking ; but Ross had his sketch-book on his 
 knee, and also handy a box of water-colors. He was illus- 
 trating a favorite theory of his that after such a walk as 
 they had had that morning, the memory recalls most clearly, 
 if not exclusively, such objects as were lit up by the sun- 
 light ; and he was jotting down memoranda of things he 
 could remember — the brass knob on a house door, the zinc 
 roof of a conservatory, a red cart-wheel against a gray wall, 
 and so forth, and so forth — in an aimless sort of way, and 
 mainly for amusement. 
 
 " There's somebody going up your stairs," he said. 
 
 Fitzgerald went out and called, " Who's there ? " 
 
 *' A letter for Mr. Fitzgerald," said a voice from above. 
 
 " All right. Bring it here. Do you want an answer ? " 
 
 " No, sir," said the lad, " I believe not, sir. Good-night, 
 sir." 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 Fitzgerald hesitated. He knew the letter was from 
 Mrs. Chetwynd, for the address was in Miss Chetwynd's 
 handwriting ; and he would gladly, for the sake of prep- 
 aration, have opened it in his own room. But here was 
 Ross calling from within to know what was the matter, and 
 so he boldly resolved to enter and open the letter before 
 him, whatever the decision might be. 
 
 "Dear Me. Fitzgerald" (this was what Miss Chet- 
 wynd's clear, beautiful, precise handwriting said), — "My 
 aunt says you seemed anxious to know as soon as possible 
 the fate of your friend's sketches, and desires me to send 
 you this note to-night. They have been mucli admired, I 
 
 believe. Mr. took one. Dr. Bude another, and my 
 
 aunt keeps the remaining four; and I am asked to enclose 
 this check for £120, as she thinks that was about what you 
 suggested. 
 
 " Yours faithfully, 
 
 "Mary Chetwynd." 
 
 " Now isn't that a kind old lady ? " said Fitzgerald 
 " Fancy her taking the trouble to send a message at this 
 time of night ! Weil, what do you say, Ross ? Is it enough ? 
 You know I had nothing to guide me. Is it enough ? " 
 
168 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 John Ross was holding the letter in his hand, and star* 
 ing at it absently. 
 
 " I wonder which one he took ? I would give anything 
 just to find that out," said he, apparently to himself. 
 
 Fitzgerald took the letter from him, and glanced at it 
 again. 
 
 " Why, of course," said he. " I did not notice it. That 
 was the Academician himself who took one. I shall find 
 out to-morrow which one he bought. But I want to know 
 wliether the money is sufficient." 
 
 " Plenty — plenty. Enough and to spare." 
 
 " Then I will trouble you for eighteenpence, that I paid 
 for that cab." 
 
 " We'll make a better job of it than that, my lad," said 
 said he, coming to the money question at last, and shoving 
 the check across the small table. " Ye'll just take a clear 
 half o' that ; and ye'll take a holiday ; and go away over to 
 Ireland and see the young lass that ye're aye thinking about, 
 though ye will not say so ; and cheer lier up. That's sen- 
 sible." 
 
 Fitzgerald gave a slight backward touch to the check. 
 
 " No, thank you," said he (his face a little red). " I am 
 not in want of money, thank you all the same. What I 
 am in want of," he added, after a second, and with his eyes 
 grown distant, " is some more certain employment. Then 
 I would go back to Ireland gladly enough for a day or two. 
 But this literary business is so difficult." 
 
 " Is it worse than pentin ? " the other demanded. " When 
 liave I had as much money as that at one time ? Never in 
 all my life ! And sooner or later ye'll just drop on your 
 feet like that ; and rfot a mere chance, such as that is, but 
 a settled thing, a permanency ; and then I know fine what 
 will happen. ' Whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad !' and 
 it's a' smiles, and white satin, and nervousness, and the 
 laughing and joking of your friends ; and if ye havena a 
 jar o' good Scotch whiskey for that day, then my name's 
 not John Ross ! " 
 
 " In the meantime," said Fitzgerald looking a bit more 
 cheerful, " I propose '* 
 
 " In the meantime, are you going to take the money ? " 
 said Ross, in his downright way. " Why not ? I could 
 not have got as much for them myself. And I liave plenty 
 to ^o on with." 
 
 " Ko," says Fitzgerald, hastily ; « but I'll tell what you 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 1G9 
 
 can do, if you like. Next Saturday Mrs. Chetwynd is go- 
 ing down to Hastings until the Monday. Now on tlie Sat- 
 urday we shall have a grand holiday, and you shall pay for 
 everything, from the rising of the sun till the going down 
 of the same — in fact, until we get back here." 
 
 " Most certainly — most certainly ; but where are ye go- 
 ing this time ? " 
 
 '' Down the Thames — all about the docks and wharves. 
 I have not smelt tar, or stumbled over a rope, or had a chat 
 with a captain, since I left the south of Ireland. And won't 
 you see color there, if the day is fine — the river, the barges, 
 the ruddy sails " 
 
 " It's done with ye," said Ross, decisively. " It's done 
 with you. And we'll get our dinner somewhere — if possible 
 in a place overlooking the river. We will find out some 
 old-fashioned tavern — propped up on piles, maybe — with a 
 buxom landlady in the bar, among the Schiedam bottles 
 and the silver, and the landlord a-coming in to us with a 
 bottle o' Madeira forty years old, and sitting down, of 
 course, and having a crack w4' us. And then — but can ye 
 keep a secret ? " 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 ''Then, I'm thinking, my lad, when that bottle's opened, 
 and mum's the word except for guesses — I'm thinking, with- 
 out any breach of secrecy on your part, and without any 
 impudence on mine : what do ye say, then, if, when that 
 bottle was opened, we Avere to drink a glass ' To the lass 
 that^s over the water' f " 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 AN APPARITION^. 
 
 But it was not fated that Fitzgerald should go to the 
 docks ; the docks, or a least a representative of them, came 
 to him. The following day, early in the afternoon, he was 
 working away as industriously as usual — as industriously as 
 if he had had no experience of the coyness or indifference of 
 London publishers and editors. He was deeply intent on 
 what he was about ; and so, when he heard outside the pre- 
 
170 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 liminary tinkling of a banjo, and made sure lie was about 
 to be serenaded by a nigger-minstrel, he rose with much 
 angry impatience and went to the door, not quite sure 
 whether the b^st way to get rid of the man was to throw 
 something to lim or to throw something at him. 
 
 When, however, he went outside, a most extraordinary 
 scene was presented to him in the courtyard below. It 
 was raining hard to begin with. The nigger- minstrel 
 seemed to be very drunk and very merry ; and lie was not 
 alone ; for backing from him, apparently in abject terror, 
 was a singular-looking creature, whose face Fitzgerald could 
 not see, but who wore a pilot-jacket much too big for him, 
 and sou'wester, and carried a large bundle slung over his 
 shoulder by means of a stick. The fiirther that this little 
 man in the big sou'wester retreated — his gestures indicating 
 a cowering fear — the nearer came this capering soot-faced 
 idiot in tlie dress-coat, white breeches, and vast pink collar, 
 singing snatches of doggerel, or begging for money with a 
 sort of drunken facetiousness. 
 
 " Now, Paddy, a sixpence won't hurt* ye. Not a six 
 pence for the poor musician ? A drop o' dog's-nose, Paddy 
 — twopennorth o' gin, then, old man." 
 
 Then he twanged his banjo again, and capered and 
 skipped, clearly enjoying the obvious fright of his victim. 
 
 '* Where's your shillalagh, Paddy ? Och, but ye're the 
 broth of a boy. Not twopennorth o' gin for the poor musi- 
 cian, Paddy ? '' 
 
 But the little man had retreated until he had reached 
 the foot of the stairs, and could back no further. In his 
 desperation he shouted : — 
 
 " Away wid ye ! Away wid ye ! " and Fitzgerald sud- 
 denly fancied that the voice was familiar to him. 
 
 The nigger minstrel was not to be balked of his drunken 
 fun. He skipped and danced round his victim, poking at 
 his face with his banjo. Then something desperate hap- 
 pened all at once. The little man dropped his bundle, and, 
 with the stick that had supported it in his hand, seemed to 
 jump at his enemy like a wildcat. 
 
 " Blood alive, but I'll bate your head in ! " he yelled ; 
 and the next moment there wae a battering of blows, that 
 seemed all the more terrible because most of them fell on 
 the banjo, with which the nigger was vainly defending 
 him^self. Fitzgerald thought it was high time to interfere, 
 
SHANDON BELLS, gf'r^ %m , , 171 
 
 " Here, you ! " he called from the to^^^^J^^e stairs. 
 " What are you doing there ? " 
 
 The scrimmage ceased for a second as the Itttle man 
 looked up ; then he uttered a slight cry. In three bounds 
 he was up the stairs. 
 
 " Oh, Masther Willie, 'tis yoursilf at last ! " he criea 
 *' Glory be to God ! Glory be to God ! 'Tis yoursilf at 
 last Masther Willie " 
 
 But in his agitation Andy the Hopper could not get rid 
 of his alarm ; and a frightened glance told him that his 
 enemy was also coming up the stairs. • 
 
 " Away wid ye ! Away wid ye, ye bligard ! Oh, Mas- 
 ther Willie, what kind of a man is that ? Sure I thought 
 he was the divil ! " 
 
 "Did you never see a nigger-minstrel before?" said 
 Fitzgerald, laughing, but keeping an eye on the musician. 
 "Well, if he isn't the divil, An3y, you'll have the divil to 
 pay ; for you've broken his banjo." 
 
 " And sarve the bligard right — the dhirty bligard ! " 
 said Andy, who was much braver now, with Master Willie 
 in front of him. " Sure I tould him I'd bate him, and I 
 did-the bligard!" 
 
 But the minstrel was no longer facetious ; nor was he 
 irate either. He was morose. He contemplated the 
 smashed strings of the banjo with a gloomy air. Then he 
 tried to get Fitzgerald to believe that this savage Paddy 
 had attacked him ; and when Fitzgerald remarked that he 
 had seen the affair from the beginning, the complaint 
 dwindled down into a lachrymose petition for some com- 
 pensation. Would the gentleman look at what had been 
 done to his hat and wig ? Would the kind gentleman give 
 a poor man a drop o' something to drink, to keep out the 
 rheumatics ! At last he went away, pacified with a shil- 
 ling ; but after Fitzgerald and his new companion had gone 
 inside and shut the door, they heard an extraordinary burst 
 of shrill laughter in the courtyard below, as if ^ the depart- 
 ing minstrel had just remembered again the joke he had 
 played off on the frightened Faddy. 
 
 " Well, Andy, sit down and tell me what has brought 
 you to London." 
 
 But Andy was quite bewildered. His delight at seeing 
 the young master again ; the fright of his encounter with 
 the black creature j the strangeness of this big, bare apart 
 
1 ;2 S HAND ON BELLS, 
 
 incnt — tliese seemed to deprive liiin of speech. And then 
 he uttered an exclamation : — 
 
 " Oil, mother o^ Moses, if the blisjard hasn't taken my 
 bag!" 
 
 "What bag, Andy?" 
 
 " Tlie bag wid the snipes, and the tale and the hares. 
 Sure the sight of your face, Masther Willie, has dhrew 
 away my sinses " 
 
 " You must have left it down below — go and see." 
 
 Andy quickly moved to the door, and then as suddenly 
 paused. • 
 
 " Sure, Masther Willie, axin' your pardon, would you 
 come too ? " 
 
 Fitzgerald burst out laughing, but he went to the top 
 of the stairs. 
 
 " The fellow's gone, Andy ; you need not be afraid. 
 And so is your bag, I imagine." 
 
 But, to Andy's great delight, he found the bag, which 
 had been kicked past the corner of the building during the 
 scuffle, and so had escaped observation when they were re- 
 tiring from the scene of the tight. And a very heavy bag 
 it was — this waterproof sack which Andy the Hopper hav- 
 ing removed his sou'wester and his big pilot-jacket, pro- 
 ceeded to open. There were snipe, and teal, and golden 
 plover, and what not, and there were three splendid plump 
 brown hares. It seemed quite natural to see this little red- 
 haired leprechaun-looking Andy on his knees sorting out 
 the game. 
 
 *' And where did all these come from, Andy ? " 
 
 *' Sure, some from the bog, and some from the moun 
 tain," answered Andy, imperturbably. 
 
 "And who shot them?" 
 
 " Is it who shot them ? Who would be afther shooting 
 them but mesilf, your honor ? " 
 
 " And who gave you leave to shoot the mountain ?" 
 
 "Lave?" said Andy, looking up with a quite honest 
 stare of the small clear blue eyes. " There is no one 'd be 
 axing for lave to shoot a shnipe or a hare for yer honor. 
 Yerra, who'd be axing for lave *' " 
 
 *' Oh, Andy, Andy ! " said Fitzgerald. '* What have you 
 been after?" 
 
 For now, indeed, as Andy with a little hesitation, drew 
 out a brace of fine-plumaged pheasants, and stroked their 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 173 
 
 feathers down, and smoothed out their long tails, even Andy 
 seemed a little bit self-conscious. 
 
 " Oh, Andy , Andy what have you been up to ? " 
 
 " Thrue for you, sir," said Andy, looking very matter-of 
 fact : " it isn't often thim kind o' birds comes about the 
 mountain " 
 
 " The mountain*! Do you mean to say you shot these 
 ])heasants up the mountain ? " 
 
 " It isn't often thim kind o' birds comes about the moun- 
 tain," said Andy, vaguely. 
 
 " You stole them out of Lord Kinsale's coverts — I know 
 you did," 
 
 " Auh ! To hear the like o' that, now ! Slitalin ' ! Was 
 I ever afther shtalin' whin I was out wid you, Masther 
 Willie, on both bog and mountain, many's and many's the 
 time? They're a foine brace o' birds, yer honor." 
 
 There was no denying that, at all events ; and Andy 
 avoided further discussion o4" confession by proceeding to 
 carry the game to the adjacent table, where he laid out the 
 beautifully plumaged birds brace by brace, just as he used 
 to do on the kitchen dresser at Inisheen, after Master Willie 
 and he had come back from the mountain. And then he 
 was invited to come and sit by the fire and light his pipe, 
 the while the young master went and got a pint bottle of 
 ale and a tumbler for him. It was not the first time that 
 these two had had a chat together. 
 
 It appeared, then, from Andy's narrative, that a gentle- 
 man of the name of Tim Sullivan, who had married Andy's 
 cousin Bridget, had laid under some obligation the captain 
 of a trading smack called the Molly Bavon^ who had offered 
 in return to Mr. Sullivan a free passage to London — or at 
 least to Limehouse — whenever he chose to make the trip. 
 This Mr. Sullivan seemed to be a person of wide and am- 
 bitious views, for though he could not avail himself of this 
 offer to see the world — owing to his wife being ill, and he 
 having to look after the pigs — he did not wish to have it 
 thrown away ; and so he had come to Andy the Hopper 
 and put the chance before him. 
 
 " He says to me, ' Andy, would ye like to see London, 
 now ? ' * Divil a bit,' says I ; 'but it's Masther Willie I'd 
 like to see. ' Sure,' says he, ' 'tis the great chance for ye. 
 For what can a gintleman do in London without a sarvint ? ' 
 says he. ' Baithershin,' says I ; ' whose sarvint ? ' ' Whose ?' 
 Bays he ; * who but Mr. Fitzgerald ? ' ' Begor,' says I, ' but 
 
174 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 'tis the divil's own cleverness ye've got, Tim Sullivan ; for 
 who'd have thoj.'ght of that, now ?' " 
 
 " But you don't mean to say you've come all the way 
 from Inisheen, Andy, to try your luck in London as a man 
 servant ? " 
 
 " Well, Masther Willie," said Andy, scratching his red 
 hair with much perplexity, *'not in a gifieral kind of way , 
 but if it was yoursilf, sorr " 
 
 Fitzgerald glanced round the apartment. 
 
 "Does this look as if I needed a man-servant Andy? " 
 
 Now there is very little doubt that Andy the Hopper 
 had been possessed with the conviction that Master Willie, 
 having gone away to make his fortune, would be living in 
 grand style ; but his notions of grandeur were vague. 
 And in any case, was this all of the house that belonged to 
 the young master? Fitzgerald had gently to explain to 
 him that these visions that Mr. Sullivan had awakened were 
 not practical ; and he was very much pleased to hear that 
 Andy could get a free passage back in about ten days' time, 
 and that also one of the hands on board the smack had got 
 him a lodgment at Limehouse. Nor was Andy so greatly 
 disappointed. He had always been accustomed to take 
 Master Willie's advice as something that there was no con- 
 testing ; and he quickly fell in with the notion that, now he 
 was here, the best thing he could do was to see as much of 
 London as he could, that he might be a great person when 
 he got back to Inisheen. 
 
 " How you ever got here I don't understand," Fitzger- 
 ald said. 
 
 "Sure, thin, your honor, 'twas one of the boys that tould 
 me the river went all the way through the town, from ind 
 to ind, and says he, ' Kape to the shtrame, and ask the 
 people from toime to toime.' 'Tis iver since the morning I've 
 been at it ; but glory be to God, I found ye at last, Masther 
 Willie ; and that's the best part av the story they'll be want- 
 ing to hear about when I get back to Inisheen." 
 
 " Well, now, Andy, begin and tell me all the news. 
 Were there many cock about this winter ? Was my father 
 out shooting any time ? " 
 
 Thus invited, the little impish-looking red-haired man, 
 sucking away at a short clay pipe the while, began to tell 
 all that had happened since Master Willie had left Inisheen ; 
 and very far and wide did these rambling reminiscences 
 extend. It is impossible to say how interesting these were 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 17b 
 
 to Fitzgerald ; and yet on one point, the most interesting 
 of all, Andy had nothing to say, and he dared not ask. 
 What, indeed, could Andy know ? Miss Roinayne had not 
 been back to Inisheen since she had left it shortly after his 
 own leaving ; and Andy's visits to Cork were the rarest 
 things in his life — otherwise it is quite possible he might 
 there have made himself familiar with the appearance of a 
 nigger-minstrel. How could he know anything about 
 Kitty? And yet the charm of all this news to Master 
 Willie was that it spoke to him of the neighborhood where 
 he and Kitty had been together. 
 
 At last this became too tantalizing. 
 
 *' Andy," says he, " do you remember the young lady 
 that came down to Inisheen, and stayed in AVidow Flanar 
 gan'3 house for a time? " 
 
 " Faix I do," said Andy, with a facetious grin. " Sure 
 I remimber well enough the poor gyurl your honor, made 
 a fool of." 
 
 He flushed resentfully. But how could he complain of 
 this familiarity ? He had brought it on himself by his in- 
 judicious questioning. And then, no doubt, Andy con- 
 sidered this a little bit of astute flattery to regard the young 
 master as a gay Lothario. 
 
 " She did not break her heart though ye did lave her, 
 Masther Willie, and that's thrue," he added, with another 
 pull at the pipe. 
 
 "How do you know? How do you know anything 
 about her ? " said Fitzgerald, angrily. 
 
 " 'Twas Corney Malone," continued Andy, with the 
 composure of indifference — for he doubtless thought this 
 was but as another of his items of news — "was up at Cork, 
 to see his daughter Biddy and the two boys — that's Path- 
 rick with the squint eye and young Corney — he was afther 
 seeing them away to Americay — and sure, your honor, that's 
 the way wid 'em all now, and soon there'll be nobody left 
 in the counthry but the gossoons and the ould women — and 
 when he came back to Inisheen he was in the kitchen at the 
 Impayrial, and says he, * Sure the foine young lady that 
 Masther Willie was sportin' about wid hasn't broken her 
 heart for his laving of her.' ' What d'ye mane, Corney ? * 
 says I, for I was in the kitchen too — if it was not for a 
 shnipe or two, or a mallard mebbe, how could a poor man 
 earn his living, your honor ? — and says I, ' Corney what 
 
176 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 d'y«3 mane ? * * Faix,' says he, ' 'tis another one now she's 
 sportin' about wid — a young spark from Dublin.' " 
 
 For a moment to Fitzgerald the world seemed to whirl 
 round ; a kind of blackness came before his eyes ; life was 
 slipping away from him, But the next instant there was a 
 backward rush — of contempt and indignation. 
 
 " Who the devil told you to bring your kitchen gabble 
 here ? " he said, in a tone that made Andy drop his pipe. 
 
 Then he was deeply mortified with himself. As if it 
 was the slightest consequence what reports might be going 
 about Kitty in Inisheen or elsewhere ! And was it not 
 shameful that he should have allowed himself to be star- 
 tled ? He instantly assumed a forcedly tranquil air ; and 
 said, quite good-naturedly : — 
 
 "Well, Andy, I suppose there isn't much doing just 
 now in Inisheen : no doubt the people about the Imperial 
 are glad to have things to talk about, however foolish they 
 
 may be " 
 
 " Thrue for you, sorr," said Andy, contentedly ; he 
 seemed quite unaware of having caused any quick pang of 
 dismay. 
 
 " Mr, Corney Malone has been putting a lot of nonsense 
 in your head," said Fitzgerald, presently. " I suppose he 
 is vexed because the young lady did not buy any ribbons or 
 pocket-handkerchiefs at his shop — things that he buys in 
 Cork and sells to you Inisheen people at double the price." 
 " The divil swape him ! " said Andy, with lieartfelt sat- 
 isfaction ; it was enough for liim that Master Willie had 
 declared against Corney Malone. 
 
 He invited Andy to continue his gossip but that was 
 less interesting now. He scarcely listened. He was think- 
 ing of Kitty's letters — the very breathings of her soul. 
 Could any one who had read these charming, inconsequent, 
 affectionate prattlings doubt the honesty of her who had 
 written them ? It was at himself he was wondering. Why 
 should he have felt, for even a second, this blackness of 
 death grip his heart ? It was for this, then, that she had 
 given him the great treasure of her love — that, at the first 
 idle tale, he should imagine it possible for her to be a com 
 mon flirt ? What Hilton Clarke had said, then, was true ? 
 She should not have been left alone ? Perhaps she also had 
 the " unappeasable heart " ? Perhaps he was ready to be- 
 lieve that the little shoots of tenderness had already gone 
 out to cling to somebody else ? Thus it was that while 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 177 
 
 Ancly the Hopper was giving a religiously accurate account 
 of the sayings and doings of everybody in Inisheen, Mas- 
 ter Willie — fighting for poor Kitty, who was so far away, 
 was proving to himself that he had never deserved to have 
 her love, or he would not have allowed that foolish rumor 
 to have dealt hira such a blow. 
 
 Still he wished to get out into the open air. 
 
 " Andy," said he, looking at his watch, " I have an en- 
 gagement now, but I shall be back by a quarter past seven. 
 You can't go away down to Limehouse to-night; you 
 would never get there. I will see if the landlady here can 
 get you a bed for the night somewhere ; and you'll want 
 some supper. Wait here till I come back." 
 
 " A word wid ye, your honor," said Andy, anxiously. 
 " May I make so bould as to bolt the door when your honor's 
 gone ? " 
 
 "Oh yes, certainly. But there is no chance of the 
 black orentleman cominj^ back." 
 
 It was still raining, out here in the dark night, and he 
 put up his umbrella unconsciously; but there were not 
 many objects he passed during his rapid walk up to Hyde 
 Park Gardens that he noticed or could have remembered. 
 His thoughts were far away. Why should poor Kitty 
 have been made the subject of idle rumors like these? 
 What could Corney Malone know of her ? Corney Malone 
 was a small shopkeeper in Inisheen ; apparently he had 
 been unable to keep his family or to procure work for them 
 in the old country ; so he had been drafting them off to 
 America. And it was likely that, during that short visit 
 to Cork, he should get to know anything of Miss Romayne ! 
 Even if he saw her walking with any one — which was ab- 
 surd — how could he tell that the person was from Dublin ? 
 What would Kitty say when he should tell her — as he cer- 
 tainly should — that this bit of tittle-tattle, coming unex- 
 pectedly, had very nearly parted soul and body ? He re- 
 called that sensation with a sort of shudder. It seemed as 
 if the world 'were falling away from around him, and that 
 he was blind ; and all because Corney Malone, in the b£.ck 
 kitchen of the Imperial, had been chattering spiteful non- 
 sense to the idlers about. Perhaps it was well for the 
 symmetry of Mr. Malone's features — which was not much 
 to boast of at the best — that he was not anywhere about 
 Fitzgerald's neighborhood just at this present moment. 
 
 He reached Hyde Park Gardens, and set to work to 
 
178 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 get through the hour mechanically. Fortunately that was 
 easy ; for he had brought with him a newly published 
 volume of Arctic travel, which was exceedingly interesting, 
 und was making much stir ; and he had had time to mark 
 the salient passages. How strange it was to read of that 
 far white land ; and to see behind it all the time the harbor 
 and the hills of Inisheen ! It was Inisheen he was thinking 
 of, not Cork. He did not like to think of the streets of 
 Cork. And then, all of a sudden, there sprang into his rec' 
 ollection a phrase in one of Kitty's letters, written long 
 ago when she was in Dublin — " Willie, there's a man bother- 
 ing me with bouquets." His face grew red. He stumbled 
 on with his reading. But the redness of his face was 
 caused by anger with himself that this recollection could 
 annoy him. Pie had no time to argue the matter with him- 
 self ; he was reading about the Arctic zone. Sometimes 
 Mrs. Chetwynd said, " Poor fellows, how they must have 
 enjoyed that Christmas feast ! '* or, " Dear me, that was a 
 narrow escape ! " and he had to read on and on, with the 
 streets of Cork, instead of Inisheen, thrusting themselves 
 in as a background to all his hurried, staccato, agonized 
 thinking. 
 
 So glad he was when that hour of unimaginable torture 
 was over, and he could rush out into the night to wrestle 
 with the demons that were seeking to devour him. He 
 would not face them, for he would not acknowledge their 
 existence. He would not admit to himself that he could 
 have any doubts of Kitty's love, her faith, and honor. He 
 hurried on his way, persuading himself that he was soiry 
 fo»- Andy's waiting there alone. It was kind of Dr. Bude 
 to have interested himself in John Ross, and to have got 
 eome friend to offer to take two more sketches. Ross must 
 see Andy the Hopper, and make a drawing of him. Ross 
 might make a little copy of it, and he would send that to 
 Kitty to amuse her — to Kitty who was so lonely away up 
 there on ' the hill. " Just tell them there's a poor girl 
 in Ireland who is breaking her heart for your sake " — 
 thau was what she had written. As for any one send- 
 ing her bouquets, why not ? What more natural ? The^ 
 threw them to her on the concert stage ; why not send 
 them ? She had not even seen the man. How could 
 they know that Kitty was married already ; that her 
 vow had been registered in the unseen world ; that her 
 faithfulness had been celebrated in the great hall where 
 
ShAND ON BELLS. \ 79 
 
 the little people sounded their silver gongs, and the 
 car 3 of "Catherine" was given over to them? He knew 
 and she knew ; that was enough ; the outside woi-ld might 
 go its way. " Let ^his be a love night," Kitty had said, 
 down by the running water. She could scarcely be got to 
 repeat the curse ; she knew there never would be any occa- 
 sion for that. And to speak of j^oor Kitty as having been 
 jilted! Well, no matter. He and she knew; the little 
 ringlets round her ears had heard their secrets, the outside 
 world might go its way. 
 
 . t'rom these dreams, that seemed to grow brighter and 
 brighter the faster he walked, he was awakened by his ar- 
 rival at his lodging, and the necessity of supplying Andy 
 with some supper and a bed in the neighborhood. There 
 was no difficulty about either. At supper (John Koss could 
 not be found, or he would have bee*n invited to join) Andy 
 insisted on observing the etiquette of the luncheons on the 
 mountain. That is to say, he would wait about until the 
 young master had finished — helping now and again to hand 
 things as well as he knew. Then, when he had followed, 
 and disposed of a hasty meal, he had no objection to light 
 a pipe and chat on ordinary familiar terms. 
 
 But all the fascination had gone from Andy the Hop- 
 per's gossip. He found the young master sorely dis- 
 traught ; more than that, he* seemed to become impatient 
 from time to time, as though he could not bear having his 
 thoughts disturbed. 
 
 " Sure, Masther Willie," said Andy at length, " there 
 was nothing to vex ye in the shtory that Corney Malone 
 brought back from Cork — bad luck to the omadhaun ! — " 
 
 " Oh, hold your tongue, Andy ? " said Fitzgerald, rising 
 and going to the window. " It is still raining. See here 
 now. Will you be able to make your way back to Lime- 
 house to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Yerra, your honor, as I came here, I can go back." 
 
 " If there's any sun, you can make straight south till 
 ou meet the river. If there isn't, ask the nearest way. 
 hen you'll find yourself near Chelsea pier ; and the boat 
 will take you down. Can you remember that, now? " 
 
 " Snire well shpake of it in the marnm, your honor," 
 said Andy, who was very comfortable now by the fire. 
 
 " I shan't see you in the morning," said Fitzgerald, 
 briefly. " I am going away from London for a day or 
 two " 
 
 T 
 
 T 
 
180 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 " The Lord be marciful to us, Masther Willie ; but is ill 
 bad news ye've got ? " 
 
 " No, no. I am coming back in a day or two — long 
 before the Molly Bawn can get in her cargo. I'll find you 
 out at Limehouse, and bring you back here. I'll have your 
 portrait painted, Andy. But where's the jacket with the 
 red sleeves?" 
 
 " Sure I thought if your honor wanted a sarvint, 'twasn't 
 the ould jacket you'd be afther wishing to have about the 
 liouse. But that was the jacket that tased the bull into the 
 bog — d'ye mind that, Masther Willie ? " 
 
 " Don't I ! " 
 
 This resolution of liis once taken — that, come what 
 might, he would start by the Irish mail in tlio morning, and 
 take the long journey to Cork, and seek out Kitty, just for 
 a moment of holding her two shoulders and gazing into tlie 
 beautiful, soft eyes — Andy's gossip seemed far more bear- 
 able. What was not bearable was that, amid all the vague 
 thoughts conjured up by this aimless talking, now and 
 again his heart should stop short suddenly, as if tliere was 
 something he dared not face. He could not banisli from 
 him the consciousness that, however he might argue him- 
 self out of foolish doubt in the daytime, in the night dark 
 things would occupy his mind. And Kitty's eyes were 
 80 loving they would have no reproach in them, if he went 
 to her and asked her to help him to banish forever this 
 ghastly nightmare. Just to take her hand for a moment — 
 that would be enough. Was it not the hand he had held 
 over the little stream running down to the Blackwater and 
 the sea ? 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 STORM AND CALM. 
 
 This was a strange setting out to go and see Kitty. 
 Where was the gladness of it ? Why should there be fear, 
 and a touch of shame, and a" hundred horrible distractions 
 and suggestions, instead of the simple joyousness of the 
 thought that soon he would have Kitty's lovelit eyes r^- 
 
SIIANDON BELLS. 181 
 
 garding him ? He had not slept much that niglit. Long 
 before th^re was any need he had dressed and gone out, 
 making his way to the station through the dark emptj 
 streets. In the cold railway carriage he sat distraught ; 
 the spectacle of the 'gray dawn disclosing itself over the 
 sleeping landscape had no interest for hfm. He was as one 
 in a dream. 
 
 And then sometimes he would ask himself sharp and 
 angry questions. Supposing this rumor to be true, had he 
 not himself to blame ? Why had he ever left Cork ? What 
 had the wretched ambition to play a part in literature to 
 do with the happiness of his life ? Why had he been con- 
 tent to live in a fool's paradise in London, when he ought 
 to have been by Kitty's side ? Was it not liis place ? But 
 he must needs go and leave her alone — she young and ten- 
 der-eyed, and wandering from one town to another. How 
 could that fool of a woman be a proper guardian for her ? 
 And what more natural that here or there some one should 
 wish to pay Kitty some attention, she was so quick in sym- 
 pathy, so gentle-hearted, with her " young eyes still wound- 
 ing where they looked " ? 
 
 And then again he reproached himself for entertaining for 
 a moment tlie monstrous supposition that his faithful Kitty, 
 who had sworn her love to him over the brook on that won- 
 derful moonlit night, should encourage the attentions of 
 any one. And how was he going to reproach her ? How 
 make an excuse for appearing in Audley Place ? Should 
 he play the spy, then ? This was a strange setting out to 
 go and see Kitty. 
 
 But when he got near to Holyhead the first glimpse of 
 the sea made his heart leap up. Had not these gloomy 
 fancies and forbodings been the product of a town life? 
 The cold sea air seemed to drive them away. Of course 
 he should meet Kitty as of old ; and they would talk about 
 Inisheen ; and if the winter roads were rather too muddy 
 for country walks, they would be quite content with the 
 wide pavements of the town, and would be happy enough 
 in the South Mall, or in St. Patrick Street, or the Mandyke 
 Parade. Kitty's warm little hand would be on his arm. 
 They would talk about their future life together. Would 
 she look up trustingly, or look down shyly, when he told 
 her of the quaint little house by the river with its wood- 
 work of white and green ? 
 
 He grew so hopeful that he had even time to think of 
 
182 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 John Ross, and to wish that he also were on board thig 
 great steamer. Would not these wonders be sufficient for 
 hira ? For at one moment they were slowly steaming 
 through a fog that was suffused with a yellow sunlight, 
 the foghorn booming and answering similar warnings from 
 ships that were invisible — and then again they would 
 emerge suddenly into perfectly clear space, the sea quite 
 smooth and glassy and blue, perhaps some massive brig or 
 heavy schooner lying motionless on the mirror-like surface 
 with all its idle sails accurately reflected. It was a tedious 
 crossing on the whole. Sometimes they stole out from one 
 of these encircling fogs to find another steamer, or motion- 
 less sailing vessel, most dangerously near. But before they 
 reached Kingstown they had left the fogs completely be- 
 hind them, and the sun was shining pleasantly on the har- 
 bor and shipping and houses, as if his native country were 
 giving him a friendly and smiling welcome. 
 
 Ill the long journey, moreover, away to the south he 
 had distraction in the society of a middle-aged priest, a 
 person of meagre aspect and of sallow complexion, who 
 had gray eyes with black eyebrows and eyelashes. Fitz- 
 gerald very soon found that tliese gray eyes were capable 
 of expressing a good deal of passionate feeling — especially 
 anger. The priest was a perfervid politician, and his lan- 
 guage was far from temperate. Now Fitzgerald was 
 scarcely a politician at all. The Cork Chronicle had not 
 seen fit to take the affairs of the Empire under its care. 
 At Inisheen, again, he had generally preferred to the Tim 
 or Pat who skulked out of the town for midnight drill 
 (frightening the wild fowl besides) the Tim or Pat who 
 worked contentedly at his little farm, and had a pleasant 
 *' good-morrow " for the passer-by, and knew whereabouts 
 a hare was to be found. He had his doubts about the won- 
 derful magic to be wrought by " Repeal," and had a vague 
 sort ©f belief that, even under the present system, an Irish- 
 man, if he condescended to work, had just as good a chance 
 of getting on as a Scotchman or an Englishman. It will 
 be seen that these were not very definite convictions ; and 
 this good father got himself into white heat in showing 
 Fitzgerald how shameful it was of an Irishman to be so in- 
 different. Fitzgerald took no shame to himself. Politics 
 had not been much in his way. A young man who has to 
 earn his own living must think of that first before proceed- 
 ing to look after the affairs of the country (unless, indeed, 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 183 
 
 he is the younger son of a nobleman, when he may have 
 an opportunity of accomplishing the former at the expense 
 of the latter), and though Fitzgerald was quite willing to 
 listen to this impassioned clerical — and rather glad, perhaps 
 to have the tedium of the long railway journey so relieved 
 — it was not to be expected that he should suddenly acquire 
 an intense interest in party strife. Indeed, it may ailord 
 an illustration of certain influences that had been at work 
 on him to say that while the priest was denouncing the ac- 
 tion of the government as having been the direct and 
 obvious cause of Irish disaffection, Fitzgerald, regarding 
 the gray eyes, was wondering whether any color or any ar- 
 tistic skill could convey to canvas the curious light that 
 glowed there. 
 
 But as they drew nearer and nearer to Cork — it was 
 now the middle of the night — neither political discussion 
 nor artistic contemplation was sufficient to distract his 
 mind. He scarcely heard what the good man said. He 
 assented to anything. He was thinking of his meeting 
 with Kitty in the morning, and his heart was heavy with 
 fear — fear of he scarcely knew what. It was so strange 
 that he should be afraid of meeting Kitty ! Would she 
 believe that ? Would she see it ? What explanation could 
 he make? 
 
 Then he thought of her recent letters. It is true that, 
 once or twice, she had seemed to grow despondent, and 
 perhaps even a little bit tired of waiting ; but for the most 
 part she had written as cheerfully and kindly as ever. 
 What reason, then, could he give for this sudden visit ? 
 Could he confess to her that he had formed suspicions of her, 
 and that on the authority of a rumor brought by such a mes- 
 senger as Andy the Hopper? 
 
 " You don't believe my letters, then ! " would she not 
 say? " You consider I have been playing the hypocrite? 
 My affection for you was a pretence. You can not trust 
 what I say ; you have to come over and see for yourself ; 
 it is thus you recognize the sacredness of tlie vow that we 
 swore in the glen ? That is the importance you yourself 
 attacn to it; that it is so slight a tie it can have melted 
 away already ; you come over to see who it is that has so 
 soon come between us two! " 
 
 How could he withstand the reproachful look of Kitty^s 
 eyes ? How could he show to her how weak had been his 
 faith in her ? If it were so easily snapped on so slight a 
 
184 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 strain, liow could it withstand the rougher usage, the long 
 wear and tear of the world ? 
 
 But then Kitty was so honest and so kind. If he were 
 quite frank with her, and told her that his better reason 
 knew how groundless those fears were, and that only to 
 show himself how absurd they were had he taken this long 
 journey ; if he were to throw himself on her mercy ; if he 
 were to say, " Kitty, laugh at me as you like, but lonely 
 living in London has weakened my nerves, and I can't hear 
 anything about you but my heart jumps, so here I am, just 
 to have a look at you, and to laugh at myself, if you like, 
 for my idle fright " — would Kitty laugh? Not she. She 
 was too kind for that. Her warm and gentle heart had no 
 malice in it at all. She would say : " Then look at me, 
 Look down into my eyes. Can you find anything but love, 
 and truth, and constancy ? " 
 
 On arriving at Cork he went to the Imperial Hotel ; it 
 was between two and three in the morning. He was very 
 tired, and he slept well. On awakening, he could not un- 
 derstand where he was — for a second ; the next second 
 his heart almost stood still : he had to face Kitty. 
 
 Then, if so, the sooner the better. When he went out 
 into the wide thoroughfares on this quiet Sunday morning, 
 they were shining just as cheerfully in the sunlight as on 
 that former Sunday morning when his life seemed to be 
 rejoicing within him at the thought of his climbing the 
 steep little thoroughfare at the top of which Kitty lodged. 
 Now he kept his eyes about him, as if people might be 
 watching him. Would they know what had brought him 
 to Cork ? There might be a friend of Kitty's somewhere 
 
 about, who would wonder to see him. Perhaps But no ; 
 
 he could not consider that possible. 
 
 And yet it was wonderful to him that perhaps so late 
 as even yesterday Kitty had been looking at these very 
 quays and boats, and had crossed this bridge, and had been 
 opposite yonder house. That was the interest of the scene 
 to him. John Ross's teaching was forgotten ; he was not 
 thinking of the color of tlie sea, or of the gi-eens and grays 
 and whites of this steep little thoroughfare. He had 
 scarcely a look for Shandon tower when he had climbed 
 the hill ; he did not notice the hoar-frost on the ground 
 where the sun had not reached it, nor the extent of wintry 
 landscape, with its leafless trees and hedges. He only 
 knew that not a soul was visible along the little terrace, 
 
SHANDON B ELI'S, 185 
 
 and that he dared not go near the house. He must see 
 Kitty alone, and here. 
 
 He waited and waited, walking this way and that, but 
 not passing the house. The clock in Shandon tower over 
 there struck half past ten ; but still she did not come. 
 "Why should she ? No country walks were possible now ; 
 no doubt the wet weather had left the lanes full of raud. 
 And if she were not to stir forth at all — bright as tlie 
 morning happened to be ? 
 
 Then the whole aspect of the world changed ; Kitty 
 was there. The day seemed fuller and richer ; delight 
 took possession of him ; he lost fear. Kitty did not see 
 him at first ; she looked abroad over the country as she 
 came down to the little iron gate ; and as she came along 
 he noticed that she carried a prayer-book in her hand. 
 
 '^ Kitty ! " 
 
 She looked up — with something of fear, as he thought, 
 in her startled glance. 
 
 He seized her hands and kissed her. 
 
 " You are not glad to see me, then ? " he said, cheer- 
 fully. 
 
 " Well, but — but — " she said. '' But nothing has 
 haj^pened ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said he. " I have come to see vou, that 
 is all.-' 
 
 " You have given me a great fright," said she, and she 
 was still a little pale. "Why did you not write to me? " 
 W^hat is the meaning of it ? " 
 
 He was so delighted with regai-ding her — the pretty 
 outline of her cheek and chin, the soft, timid blackness of 
 her eyes, the bits of curls that were around her small ears 
 — that he scarcely heard what she said. 
 
 " You have not altered a bit, Kitty," said he in his 
 gladness " You are just as much my Kitty as ever — and 
 ever so much nicer to look at than your portrait. It hasn't 
 been satisfactory, Kitty, trying to get that portrait to speak 
 to me jifc ian evening when I was quite alone. It looked at 
 me, JSJire not as you look now. But still — why do you 
 look so — so — so — Kitty, are you not glad to see me ? " 
 
 " Well, of course," said she, but not with the greatest 
 cordiality. "You need not have frightened me. It is a 
 Jack-in-the-box kind of way of coming to see one. Why 
 dkj you not write? " 
 '^^* Well, the surprise " He could not tell her the trutl) 
 
186 SHAND ON BELLS. 
 
 nay, there was happily no need for him to tell her. He 
 had looked in her eyes ; that was enough. 
 
 " And the cost, too, I suppose," said she. "Do you 
 think it is very wise, Willie to throw away money like 
 that ? I did not understand you were getting on so very 
 well." 
 
 He stared at her in astonishment ; not hurt or vexed, 
 but simply wondering. 
 
 " Kitty, you talk as if you really were not glad that I 
 have come to see you. You don't talk like my Kitty 
 at all." 
 
 '* Of course I am glad," she said. "But people can't 
 always have what they like. I really don't see that it is 
 wise to go throwing away money on these constant trips — • 
 especially in the case of people whose future doesn't look 
 over bright." 
 
 " Constant trips, Kitty ! This is the second since I 
 went to London ; and the first was eight or nine months 
 ago " 
 
 " But what is the use of it ? " 
 
 " There is no use in it — there is no use in it, Kitty," 
 said he, rather bewildered. " And if I thought that this 
 was to be my reception " 
 
 " Oh, but we are not going to quarrel," said she, with 
 something more of her ordmary kindness in her manner. 
 " If you have been extravagant, we must make the best of 
 it. I am going to church ; I suppose you will come with 
 
 me 
 
 9" 
 
 She put her hand in his arm, in the old familiar way; 
 he could not but take it and pat it. 
 
 " I will go to church with you if you like, Kitty ; but 
 might we not have a walk and a chat instead! There 
 must be a lot to say after such a long separation.' 
 
 " We can not walk about," she said ; "the roads are too 
 wet. Besides, I told Miss Patience I was going to church. 
 And besides," she added, with a little laugh, " we have not 
 been quite idle in letter-writing, Willie : there caa not be 
 so very much to say." 
 
 " Oh, very well, Kitty. I will go to church with you ; 
 I don't care much where we go, so long as I am by your 
 side. And when you have been to church, Kitty, you will 
 be a little more gentle and civil in your manner." 
 
 " But I am gentleness and civility itself," she remon- 
 strated. " It is you who are reckless and wild. You don't 
 
SHANDON BELLS. \ 87 
 
 care what any freak costs you. I believe I was mad when 
 I engaged myself to yon." 
 
 '* No use saying that now, Kitty, it is past praying for.** 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 They were on much more friendly terms now. Perhaps 
 Kitty had only resented herhavingbeen frightened. It was 
 quite like old times for them to be walking arm in arm ; 
 and the bell in Shandon tower w^as tolling, and the people 
 were coming along the various thoroughfares to the church. 
 
 " By thp way," said he, " we have never settled in what 
 church we shall be married Kitty." 
 
 " That's beingrather too particular. That's looking 
 rather too far forward, isn't it ? " 
 
 " I am not so sure about that," said he. 
 
 " You have discovered the gold mine, then ? Is that 
 what you came to tell me about, Willie ? " she said, with 
 an odd kind of smile. 
 
 But they were entering the church porch, and there was 
 no possibility for further speech. Sitting there beside her, 
 indeed, he did not complain of the enforced silence. To be 
 near her was enough ; to have tight hold of her hand ; to 
 hear the sweet voice join in the singing. Perhaps he did 
 not listen too attentively to the service or the sermon. 
 Dreams of whrat the world might hold for him and her to- 
 gether would come in from time to time. The imaginations 
 and ambitions of youth are stimulated rather than retarded 
 by the hushed and mysterious repose of a sacred building; 
 the vague dim background is convenient for the painting 
 of wonderful pictures. And it seemed to him that that 
 beautiful future, which he could adorn and color at will, 
 had once more and suddenly been presented to him. These 
 horrible doubts had been left behind. They vanished Avhen 
 he took Kitty's hand m his. There was no need for explan- 
 ation or confession; Kitty and he were together again; 
 life had grown full again of joy and hope. And London, 
 Avith its struggles and mortifications and disappointments, 
 was also forgotten. Shandon church, with Kitty's hand in 
 his, left him no memories of the Fulham Road. It was as 
 if it had only been the other night that he and she pledgc^l 
 their vows to each other over the running stream. 
 
 When they came out again she said : — 
 
 "Now you will come and have some dinner witli n;^ 
 Willie ; and you must try and be civil to Miss Patience." 
 
188 ■ sir AND ON BELLS, 
 
 " 1 would rather go for a walk, Kitty," said he " We 
 have said nothing to each other yet." 
 
 *' What is there to say that we have not said before ? " 
 she answered, somewhat saucily, " or that we can't say in 
 letters?" 
 
 " Your letters are very nice, Kitty, but they don't sp«ak 
 as well as your eyes." 
 
 '* Oh, 1 assure you," she said gravely, " I am going to 
 take my eyes with me wherever I go. Don't be afraid. 1 
 shall have my eyes as much with me when we are sitting 
 down at the table as if we were wandering through these 
 muddy lanes." 
 
 No, she would not be persuaded. She thought there 
 would not even be time for a stroll down to the river-side 
 and ba<5k. It was too cold for walking. She was rather 
 tired. 
 
 " Tired ! " said he, in amazement ; " What can have tired 
 you?" 
 
 " You are so pertinacious ! " she said, with a touch of 
 impatience. "You want to argue. You want explanations. 
 When I tell you I am tired, isn't that enough ! " 
 
 " Well, yes, it is enough," said he, gently. " And I 
 think you must be tired." 
 
 The subtlety of this reproof reached her. She colored 
 a little. 
 
 " I want to be kind to you, but you're always quarrel- 
 ling ! " she said. 
 
 And then she laughed, and looked so pretty and con- 
 fused and merry all at once that he could have kissed her 
 there and then, though all Cork might stare. 
 
 '' I declare it's enough to put anybody out of temper," 
 sai i she, with all h-er ordinary frankness and audacity. 
 " Here am I supposed to be cultivating the greatest admira- 
 tion for somebody who is away in London, working hard 
 on my account. It is so self-denying, don't you see ; and 
 you ought to remember the absent ; and all the rest of it. 
 And all at once he turns up on a holiday trip — frightening 
 you, to begin with ; and not a word of excuse or reason." 
 
 " I have quite sufficient reason, Kitty," said he. " The 
 delight of listening to your impertinence is quite enough." 
 
 "I am not impertinent at all; lam talking common- 
 sense — and that's a thing you don't know much about, 
 Master Willie. The fact is, these people at Inisheen spoiled 
 
S HAND ON BELLS, 1S9 
 
 you. You tliink you should have everything you want. 
 Now that isn't quite possible in this fine world." 
 
 " Kitty, you have been studying the Poor Mail's An- 
 nual^ or whatever the book is. You are fearfully wise this 
 morning. This is the second time you have informed me 
 that people can't get everytliing they want; and the truth 
 of the aphorism is more remarkable than its noveily " 
 
 " Oh, dear me, is that the way we talk in London ? " 
 said she. 
 
 " There's only one thing I want," said he, not heeding 
 lier ; " and I've got it, hard and fast." 
 
 " But you need not break my fingers with your arm. 
 I sha'n't be able to practise to-morrow. What is that in 
 your breast pocket that hurts so ? " 
 
 '' That? " said he. " It would be odd if that could hurt 
 anvbody. It's your portrait, Kitty. I had a case made 
 for it." 
 
 " Let me see it." 
 
 He took out the case and showed it her. She only 
 looked at the outside. 
 
 " Well, I do declare ! The extravagance ! And this is 
 the way we are supposed to be saving money in London — 
 buying anything that touches our fancy, or rattling away 
 on a holiday? That is just like you Irish people. I see 
 more and more of it everyday. You can deny yourselves 
 nothing. You must always spend more than you've got, 
 and then expect the government to keep you •' 
 
 *' Who has been giving you lessons in political economy, 
 Kitty?" he said, as he took the case from her and put it 
 in another pocket. " You have become fearfully practi- 
 cal " 
 
 " That's what you will never be," she said, with a little 
 srgh — real or affected. 
 
 " I did not think you would consider that much of an 
 extravagance," said he, " getting a nice cover for your pho- 
 tograph." 
 
 " But coming away over here " 
 
 " That seems quite to distress you " 
 
 " Oh dear no," she said — they were now going up to the 
 door of the house, and she spoke in a more matter-of-fact 
 way. " Perhaps I ought to be glad. It shows you can 
 afford it." 
 
 As he entered the little passage he caught a glimpse of 
 a female figure flying upstairs ; then Kittv asked him to t?o 
 
1 m SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 into the adjacent parlor and wait till she had put off her 
 things ; then he was left alone. 
 
 This meeting with Kitty had not been like that othei 
 meeting that he so clearly remembered. Then she had 
 clung to liim, crying; she had begged of him never to leave 
 her again ; she had offered to live on nothing rather than 
 that he should go away from her. Now she had grown sc 
 practical ; she seemed to wish him back in London ; it wag 
 the cost of his visit, not the surprise and delight of it, that 
 seemed to occupy her mind. But still, here he was in the 
 little chamber that was so familiar ; there was Kitty's piano, 
 and the dishevelled mass of music that she never would 
 keep in order; there were the books he had sent her (lie 
 knew better than to look whether the edges were cut ; dis- 
 appointments come easily enough without people hunting 
 after them) ; there was the crystal paper-weight in which 
 Kitty had put his photograph, saying the while : " Well, 
 80 long as that is before me while I am writing, I guess I 
 shall look sharp after my grammar. I can see the scowl 
 beginning already. ' None of your impertinence^ miss. 
 CanH you spell the English language yetf You think 
 that is clever^ do youf^ So there's a place for you, Mr. 
 Schoolmaster Killjoy; and when I want a scolding I'll 
 come for it." 
 
 The little maid-servant came in and laid the cloth ; and 
 then Miss Patience appeared. 
 
 Miss Patience received him with much placid civility. 
 She seemed more mysterious and hawk-like than ever, and 
 seemed to take it for granted that he, having been so much 
 longer in London, should know proportionately more of 
 the secret things going on in politics. Fitzgerald had to 
 explain to her that he had had but little to do with politics ; 
 even the one editor he had met in London he had not seen 
 since last he had visited Cork. 
 
 " I heard you were not succeeding," remarked Miss Pa- 
 tience, calmly. 
 
 " Succeeding ! " he exclaimed, with a sort of start (for 
 he had not looked at his struggles in London in that way). 
 " Well, I have been trying many things, and it is impossible 
 to say whether this or that may succeed. I cannot expect 
 everything at once. There are many openings in literary 
 and newspaper work ; of course one must wait. I can't 
 say I have either succeeded, or not succeeded." 
 
 " Ah," said Miss Patience, complacently. " That is all 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 191 
 
 SO unlike commerce. Commerce is secure. Just think 
 of sending a telegram to Odessa — a^ few words; you get a 
 re}>ly back the same day ; you walk down to the Exchange 
 and buy something; and you have earned £2000. Two 
 thousand pounds ! — with so little trouble " 
 
 But here Kitty came in ; and she had dressed so prettily 
 and neatly ! He could not help regarding her with admiring 
 looks ; and Miss Kitty w^as a little bit shy and conscious ; 
 and so they sat down to this middle-day dinner — London, 
 black phantoms, and disappointments all shut out and for- 
 gotten. 
 
 " It seems to me, Kitty," said he, lightly, " that a com- 
 mercial spirit has come over this neighborhood since I was 
 here last. You have been lecturing on political economy 
 all the morning and now Miss Patience tells me how easy it 
 is to make £2000 by merely sending a telegram to Odessa. 
 It appears to me that it might be just as easy to lose £2000 
 by the use of the same machinery." 
 
 Kitty glanced at Miss Patience with a sort of apprehen- 
 sive look he could not understand. 
 
 " I was observing to Mr. Fitzgerald that I was sorry he 
 had not been successful in London," answered that lady 
 calmly. 
 
 "And I was saying that I had neither been successful 
 nor non-successful," said Fitzgerald cheerfully. " Of course 
 there are a great many things to be tried " 
 
 " Oh, of course," of course," said Kitty, hastily, and 
 with a touch of color in her face. "Ot" course Miss Pa- 
 tience meant so far only — only so far. We know that it is 
 difficult to — to — to succeed in literature — of course Miss 
 Patience quite understands " 
 
 If Miss Patience understood, Fitzgerald did not. Why 
 this embarrassment, and this talk about the advantages of 
 commerce, and this assumption that he had tried literature 
 m London as means of livelihood and failed ? 
 
 Miss Patience said, with a gentle smile : — 
 
 " But when once you have that commercial machinery 
 of which you speak, Mr. Fitzgerald, how nice that must 
 be ! It goes on making money for you ; you can go away 
 and see the world ; your agents are enough. That must be 
 very nice, that independence and security. The literary 
 ffian, even the most successful, is in so precarious a posi- 
 uon. A tile frotn a roof knocks him senseless ; h'is means 
 >f livelihood vanish. No one else can do his work for him ; 
 
192 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 it is like an artist becoming blind ; there is no macliine 
 that can cfo on independently of him to make money for his 
 wife and children. Ah 'there is nothing so safe as that. 
 Commerce in a commercial country is a natural occupation. 
 And it is so safe." 
 
 But was it so safe ? argued Fitzgerald, somewhat hotly 
 — though he scarcely knew why, for certainly commerce 
 had never done him any harm. If it were so safe and 
 natural and easy to make £2000 by telegraphing to Odessa, 
 wouldn't everybody be at it? Then look at the common 
 failures. Look at the multitude of commercial men who 
 were living on the very edge of bankruptcy. It was all 
 very well to have such a piece of machinery as that that had 
 been mentioned, but what if it happened to work the wrong 
 Avay ? What if it came back and burst you ? No doubt it 
 was a good thing if the commercial man could layby a 
 provision for his wife and children ; but could not the suc- 
 cessful man of letters do that too ? And as for the tile 
 from the roof, where would the commercial man be if that 
 hit him ! Accidents were always possible. What was not 
 possible was that life should be based on the idle calcula- 
 tions. And success or no success, machinery or no ma- 
 chinery, as for himself, he said proudly, he would rather 
 earn the plainest living by literature than revel in all the 
 riches that could be procured from Odessa or anywhere 
 else. 
 
 Kilty was the peacemaker. 
 
 *' Oh, yes, no doubt," said she (though she seemed 
 anxious to get away from the subject altogether). " One 
 would like to be what you say — I mean, it must be a great 
 thing to be a great man of letters ; but there are so few, 
 and it must be so difficult. I am sure that all Miss Patience 
 meant was that it must be nice to have a business going on 
 that leaves you free and gives you no anxiety " 
 
 " I should say there were very few of those," said he 
 *' ]jeave a business, and it leaves you — the proverb is com- 
 mon among business men themselves. You wake up some 
 fine morning and find yourself a bankrupt." 
 
 " Ah, ver}^ well," said Kitty, with a sigli, " those at 
 least are very well off who begin life with a fortune ready 
 made for them, and have no anxiety about it." 
 
 " I don't know that," said he ; " the enjoyment of life 
 is work. I don't see that people who are secui-ely rich are 
 any the happier for it. And I should not think much of 
 
SHA ND ON BEL LS. \ 9 3 
 
 the woman wliose views of life were colored by tlie pres 
 ence or absence of money." 
 
 Tliis was getting more serious. Kitty said, with a 
 pleasant laugh : — 
 
 " There is not much use in our talking about it any- 
 way ; for all the money that you and I have, Willie, or are 
 likely to have, won't make nations fight about us. I want 
 you to tell Miss Patience about all the people you have 
 seen in London. And is that old lady really so nice as you 
 say ? And what part of Bantry Bay is the house you told 
 me of, that her nephew had ? I looked in a map for Boat 
 of Garry, but could see nothing of it. I suppose it is a 
 small place." 
 
 So there was nothing further said about the advantages 
 of commerce over literature, or the reverse; and presently 
 Fitzgerald found himself being drawn by the humor of the 
 situation into giving Miss Patience such dark hints about 
 the ways and manners of the great politicians then in 
 power as would no doubt have astonished those much-can- 
 vassed persons. Kitty seemed greatly relieved; she lis- 
 tened pleasantly; content reigned over the modest ban- 
 quet. And as for Fitzgerald, it was of little account to 
 him what nonsense he talked or listened to, so long as 
 Kitty was in the room. Miss Patience was treated with 
 the gravest respect. From time to time he could steal a 
 glance at Kitty's eyes. 
 
 The middie-day dinner was long over, and they had 
 gathered round the fire, when a step was heard on the lit- 
 tle pathway outside, and then a loud knock at the door 
 Kitty started, and looked apprehensively at Miss Patience. 
 There was an absolute silence ; then some sounds in the 
 passage, and presently the maid-servant appeared. 
 " Mr. Cobbs, miss." 
 
 Fitzgerald was fairly stupefied when he saw tliis young 
 man come into the room with the air of one who was per- 
 fectly acquainted with both Kitty and Miss Patience. He 
 had never heard a word of hira. Who could he be ? The 
 next moment he found himself being introduced to the 
 stranger; and these two regarded each other with scrutiny, 
 though the new-comer had the advantage in calmness. He 
 took a chair, put his hat and cane on the table, and asked 
 Kitty if she had been to church that morning. 
 
 He was apparently about twenty or one-and-twenty ; 
 stout, rather; of middle height; with a fair complexion 
 
:*01 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 and close-cropped yellow hair; he was dressed in the ex- 
 treme of fashion, and his liands and feet were small. Any- 
 body else would have said he was an oi-dinary-looking, 
 good-looking, well-dressed young man, with perliaps too 
 obvious a taste for jewelry. What Fitzgerald thought ol 
 him and of the circumstances need not be put down here. 
 
 In truth, he was too bewildered to have any clear no- 
 tion of what he was thinking. But he knew tliat, wliatever 
 the truth of the matter, lie could not openly insult Kitty 
 by presuming that anything Avas wrong. He resolved to 
 be quite courteous to this stranger. Wliy should not an 
 idle young gentleman pay an afternoon call? He resolved 
 to be quite courteous, and clinched his hand behind his 
 back to keep him in remembrance. 
 
 Kitty, who appeared to have lost lier usual self-con- 
 fident, half-satirical manner, seemed extraordinarily eager 
 to get these two to talk together. Mr. Fitzgerald had just 
 come over from London : had Mr. Cobbs been in London 
 recently? Both seemed inclined to talk to her or to Miss 
 Patience, but not to each other; and the embarrassment 
 of the situation was obviously increasing, when P^itzgerald 
 determined to end it. He saw his poor little sweetheart 
 frightened and troubled, and he could not have that. With 
 much frankness he began to speak to this new-comer ; and 
 as men find politics their common ground of conversation, 
 he asked Mr. Cobbs if he had noticed any symptoms of 
 disaffection since his stay in the country. Xovv this was a 
 friendly overture, but the young man with the fat fair face 
 and the blank gray eyes chose to be rather uncivil. He 
 began to say things about Ireland and the Irish, which was 
 not quite fair, seeing that there were three English peo|)le 
 to one Irishman. Moreover, he talked the ordinary non- 
 sense that is talked by the well-fed, heavy-pursed English- 
 men, who lays down economical laws about Ireland with- 
 out any knowledge whatever of the j)eople or of the agri- 
 cultural conditions of the country. And he was a con- 
 ceited creature ; he liked to hear himself talk ; his plati- 
 tudes were dictatorial in tone.* 
 
 Fitzgerald was getting wilder and wilder, but he kept 
 his hands tightly clinched. And he would not answer this 
 fellow at all. He spoke to these other two. He told them 
 what he knew, what he liad seen. He discribed the hag 
 gard denizens of the bugland, living amid ague and starva- 
 tion ; he described the poor devils on the hillsides, trying 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 195 
 
 to scrape a living off rocky soil not fit to support rabbits; 
 and then, when the bit of sour bogland had been slowly re- 
 claimed, or the potatoes beginning to do a little better in 
 the stone wall enclosure, the agents stepping in to demand 
 impossible rents, and the landlord, in London, or Venice or 
 Monaco, knowing nothing about it, and caring less ; and 
 then the eviction of whole families — the shivering wretches 
 without a bit of firewood, let alone a bit of bread. And this 
 was the system under which you hope to get a loyal and 
 contented peasantry ! With the masses of the people be- 
 lieving that the landlords were leagued against them; that 
 the law was against them ; that the soldiers and the police 
 were against them 
 
 But indeed this is no place for full exposition of the 
 picture that Fitzgerald drew ; it is enough to say that a 
 few minutes had been sufficent to turn the Gallio whom the 
 priest had remonstrated with into a politician as violent as 
 the priest himself. Moreover, his vehement declarations 
 were now addressed to Kitty, and Kitty timidly assented. 
 She was staring into the fire, not at all in a contemplative 
 mood. 
 
 *' But why don't they go away ? " said Miss Patience. 
 
 " God help them, they are going away," said he. " in 
 thousands, though there's many a breaking heart leaving 
 Queenstown Harbor. And it's the young ones that are 
 going ; and the old ones, who can do nothing, are left at 
 home to starve." 
 
 " Well, if they can't earn a living, they must suffer," 
 said the young Englishman. *' If you can't live, you must 
 die ; it's the law of nature. All 'l know of them is that 
 they're a set of mean, snivelling wretches, who will fawn 
 upon you if you give them charity, and shoot you from be- 
 hind a hedge the minute after." 
 
 "Only after you have given them charity? Then I 
 should say you were pretty safe," was the somewhat too 
 fierce reply. 
 
 Clearly the air was becoming surcharged, and Miss 
 Patience prudently left the room. What astounded Fitz- 
 gerald, however, most of all was that this young stranger 
 seemed so much at home — so familiar with the apartment 
 and its contents, and so familiar in his manner with Kitty. 
 He sat down to the piano and opened it as if he had been 
 quite accustomed to do that. He overhauled the music as 
 
196 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 if it were his own. And at last he said, as he carelessly 
 ran his fingers up and down the keys : — 
 
 "Won't you sing something, Miss Romayne, and let 
 me play the accompaniment ? Oh, I know what will tempt 
 you." 
 
 He rose and went to the other end of the room and 
 fetched a book of music back to the piano. He opened it ; 
 played a few bars and then turned round. 
 "" Won't that tempt you ? " 
 
 "I would rather not sing," said Kitty, without looking 
 up. 
 
 " Really ? Oh yes, come along." 
 
 " I would i-ather not sing," said Kitty, again. 
 
 He turned to Fitzgerald, his fingers still wandering 
 lightly over the keys. 
 
 '* Do you play ? " said he. 
 
 The question was innocent enough, but Fitzgerald con- 
 sidered it impertinent. 
 
 " No I don't," said he. " I don't consider it man's 
 work." 
 
 " That is because you^can't do it, I suppose," said the 
 other. • 
 
 Now there was just a trifle too much of a sneer in this 
 little speech. Fitzgerald rose, and passed him on the pre- 
 tence of going to look out. As he passed he said, in a low 
 and clear voice : — 
 
 " I can't play the piano, but I can throw puppies out of 
 the window." 
 
 Now whether this was meant exclusively for the young 
 gentleman's ear or not can not be said, but at all events, as 
 he happened to cease playing for a moment, it sounded so 
 distinctly that Kitty must have overheard it. Fitzgerald 
 walked on to the window, shoved his hands in his pockets, 
 and stared out. The young gentleman, after a second or 
 two of silence, rose from the piano, took his hat and cane, 
 and said to Kitty, with much formal politeness : — 
 
 " Good-afternoon, Miss Romayne. I shall do myself the 
 pleasure of calling some other time, when you are not occu- 
 pied with visitors." 
 
 He left. 
 
 " Who is that fellow ? " said Fitzgerald, turning angrily 
 from the window. 
 
 " What fellow ? " said Miss Romayne, with quite as 
 much temper. " He is a gentleman. You have no right to 
 
SITAND ON BEL LS. 107 
 
 insult him. He is as much entitled to civility in this house 
 as you are. You have no right to insult him. A pretty 
 opinion lie will have taken away of you ! " 
 
 '* T don't care about his opinion. I want to know what 
 he is loing liere." 
 
 " lie called, like yourself," said she stubbornly. 
 
 " Called ? Yes. And his calling has made your name 
 a ])yword." 
 
 Her eyes flashed. 
 
 "Kow I see. You have heard some miserable talking, 
 and that is why you have oorae over so suddenly. Well, I 
 am ready to be cross-examined. I will tell you what you 
 want to know, if that is your purpose." 
 
 He looked at lier, and knew her mood. It was not the 
 first of their quarrels. 
 
 " We will take it that way," said he coldly. " Who is 
 the young gentleman, if one may be permitted to ask ? " 
 
 " You have heard his name. He belongs to a firm of 
 mercliants in Liverpool." 
 
 *'0h, I perceive," exclaimed Fitzgerald, alight breaking 
 in on him. " Tliat accounts for the hymns of praise in favor 
 of commerce " 
 
 " I did not say a word about it," she said, hotly. " If 
 you want to insult Miss Patience also, call her in. We 
 ought all of us to have share of your politeness." 
 
 " Bat he is not looking after the machinery that turns 
 out two thousand pounds in a few hours. He is not tele- 
 grapliing to Odessa from Cork, is he?" 
 
 " How can I tell ? " 
 
 "Do you know what he is doing in Cork?" 
 
 " He is travelling. He is on his way to Killarney." 
 
 •'Killarney! Killarney at this time of year! And 
 how long has he been in Cork on his way to Killarney ? " 
 
 "How can I tell?" 
 
 " Some time, however ? " 
 
 "Yes. Some time." 
 
 " And he has called here several times ? " 
 
 " Yes he has ; what harm is there in that?" 
 
 " Oh, I did not say there was any harm " 
 
 "But why are you talking to me like that?" said she, 
 and she threw the book she was holding on to the table. 
 " I will not be spoken to like that. I have done nothing 
 wrong. I will not be spoken to as if I were a child. It is 
 
198 SUA KDON BELLS. 
 
 you who ought to apologize. You have insulted a friend 
 of mine under my own roof " 
 
 " A friend ? " said he, in the same cold way. *' Have we 
 come to that, then ? But I thought you were willing to have 
 a few questions asked, that was all." 
 
 '* Yes, I am," said she, though rather sullenly. "You 
 can find out what you like ; and then see whether you have 
 any right to come here with your insulting suspicions." 
 
 *' Have I mentioned any suspicions ? " 
 
 " You would not be here if you did not suspect me." 
 
 "I would like to know a little more about this young 
 gentleman, Kitty." 
 
 " Very well.' 
 
 " Where were you introduced to him — or w^ere you in- 
 troduced to him at all ? " 
 
 " I was introduced to him," she said quickly, and with 
 her cheeks burning. " I was introduced to him in Dublin." 
 
 *' * In Dublin ' And so he has followed you all the way 
 from Dublin?" 
 
 " How dare you say such a thing ? He can travel where 
 he pleases ; he is well off. He may be here on busi- 
 ness for anj^thing I know." 
 
 " Oh no, Kitty, not on business ; he is going to Killar- 
 ney in the middle of winter ! And isn't it strange that, 
 since you've known him all the time since you were in 
 Dublin, you never thought of mentioning his name in any 
 of your letters to me ? " 
 
 " I don't see anything strange in it," she said, pertly. " I 
 could not mention every trifle. I wrote of the things that 
 were of real interest to you and me." 
 
 That phrase " you and me " rather softened him. His 
 anger and indignation were fast oozing away. It was so 
 pitiable to see Kitty standing before him there, with eyes 
 cast down like a culprit. 
 
 " I should have thought," said he, in a more gentle way 
 — " I should have thought that anything that affected your 
 good name would be of interest to you and me." 
 
 " If — if anybody," she said, with her lips becoming 
 tremulous, "has been saying anything — anything against 
 my good name, I did not expect it — it — it would be you, 
 Willie." 
 
 And here she broke into a passion of tears, and threw 
 herself sobbing into his arms, and clung to him. 
 
 " Willie, there's nothinoj wrong ; I can not bear to have 
 
SllANDOA' BELLS. 199 
 
 you S]ieak like tliat to me. You break my heart. I would 
 ratlier die than have you augry with me. There was noth- 
 ing wrong, VVilUe — there is no harm in anything I have 
 done — he — he is only a boy — and he was so good and kind 
 when — when they gave me a benefit — and everybody spoke 
 so well of him " 
 
 *■* But why didn't you tell me all this before?" said ho» 
 
 " It would only have worried you," she sobbed. "Yon 
 were so far away. You could not understand. But now 1 
 hate him for coming between you and me. Why should lie 
 have caused such trouble? N^obody asked him to como 
 liere " 
 
 "Well, Kitty,*' said he, taking her small head in his 
 hands in the old way and kissing her, " I think no harm 
 lias been done ; but you have been so imprudent " 
 
 " Oh I will confess anything, if only you speak to me 
 like that," said she, gladly, as she looked up through her 
 tears. 
 
 " There would have been no trouble if only you had let 
 me know. Of course what I said about their taking away 
 your good name was perhaps too serious. They have been 
 talking, though ; and I should not have heeded one moment 
 what they said if only I had knoAvn beforehand " 
 
 " I am sure don't care what they say," said she, taking 
 liis hand and kissing it, " so long as you don't quarrel with 
 me, Willie. And 1 ought to have known. Miss Patience 
 told me something like this would happen. * But,' I said 
 to her, 'surely he can't object to any one paying us an after- 
 noon call ; there's no harm in that.' And if you only knew 
 liow lonesome it is for us two, Willie, sometimes, you would 
 understand how glad we were to have an occasional visitor. 
 Then he was very kind about the benefit ; he took £20 worth 
 of tickets — that was from me, not from the agents, so we 
 did not lose the commission ; and I have saved so much this 
 winter that if it were only summer weather now, I'd treat 
 jou and me and Miss Patience to a trip to Killarney." 
 
 "Kitty," he said sharply, " that fellow is humbugging 
 you. He is not thinking of Killarney at all. He is dawd- 
 ling after you, and peo])le have noticed it. Now for 
 your own sake, and for mine, and for the sake of what has 
 been between us in bygone days, you will have to be a little 
 more — more circumspect, Kitty." 
 
 "Oh," said she, cheerfully, " I am willing to take any 
 amount of scolding — that way. If only you hold me in 
 
2Ci) SfTA ND ON BEL LS, 
 
 your arms, you can scold away. Aud I believe it all then. 
 1 believe I am very bad. Of course I don't believe it when 
 you provoke me, and make me feel hurt and injured ; then 
 it's you who are in the wron^. And now you know how 
 to make me do just as you like." 
 
 Making up a quarrel with Kitty was very nice ; and it 
 p,'ene rally lasted a good long time between these two. 
 Tiiere was a tap at the door. 
 
 " Come in," says Kitty, quickly putting a considerable 
 distance between them. 
 
 *' Please, miss. Miss Patience wants to know when ye'd 
 be for having your tay." 
 
 "Oh, now, at once, tell her." And then she turned to 
 Fitzgerald : "And now. Master Willie, will you help me to 
 light the gas ? And we A'ill have the blind down ; then tea ; 
 then you shall read to us ' The Battle of Ivry,' and it will 
 be all like old times again. How odd it is," she proceeded, 
 as she laid the cloth, " that we are always glad to have some- 
 thing like something that has happened to us before ! I 
 suppose in a year or two we shall be sayhig, ' Come along, 
 now, and let us have tea snugly, like the old times, like the 
 Sunday after the quarrel. And it will be better than if we 
 had nothing to look back to." 
 
 " And where will that tea take place, Kitty ? " said he 
 
 " Where, indeed ? " said she, cheerfully. " Who can 
 tell ? I suppose in London." 
 
 Miss Patience came in, looking rather frightened. But 
 she was greatly relieved to find that her two companions 
 were on excellent terms; indeed, when they all sat down to 
 the tea table, she had to rebuke Kitty for facetiously refer- 
 ring to Mr. Cobbs as the " fat boy." 
 
 " He is in an important position," said she, with some 
 dignity. " Ho has it in his power to do a great deal of good. 
 He can afford to be charitable. He has not to think of 
 himself." 
 
 " That is fortunate, at least," said Fitzgerald, ungener- 
 ously, " for he would have little to think of, and little to 
 do the thinking with. Now it seemed to me that he thought 
 a great deal of himself." 
 
 "He is a very elegant-mannered young man," said Misa 
 Patience, with precision. " He is in an enviable situation — 
 free from care, and able to attend to others. The country 
 needs such persons; not adventurers who make money out 
 of their politics, but gentlemen — educated gentlemen — wh-/ 
 
SIIANDON BELLS. 201 
 
 are above bril)es, and can help to govern the country disin- 
 terestedly. He belongs to the class of men to whom we 
 have to look for i)roper government " 
 
 " God lielp us, then ! " said Fitzgerald, inadvertently. 
 
 " And I am glad' to say that his opinions on public 
 affairs " 
 
 ''His what?" 
 
 *' His opinions," repeated Miss Patience, with dignity. 
 
 " Well, to call the ignorant prejudices of \ conceited 
 young donkey like that opinions is, at all events, courteous. 
 But no harm is done by the existence of such creatures. 
 They go circling about the world, aimless, placeless, with 
 no more influence, on real politics than the pointers and 
 setters of the United Kingdom. I dare say these young 
 gentlemen encourage the importation of third-rate cigars 
 from Havana; and they add greatly to the profits of the 
 producers of bad champagne; and so there is a kind of 
 reason fur their existence." 
 
 " He is a very nice boy, and I won't have such things 
 said about him," interposed Kitty; but she was laughing, 
 for Miss Patience looked offended. 
 
 " One thing you can't help admiring about him," con- 
 tinued Fitzgerald, talking with familiar contempt about Mr, 
 Cobbs, as if he were some insect before them, " is his for- 
 bearance. Just fancy ! Most men who could make £2000 
 in twenty-five minutes by remaining in Liverpool would 
 think twice before coming away over to Cork and doing 
 nothing. Look at that forbearance ! He might affect the 
 currency by draining such masses of gold from Odessa and 
 elsewhere into England. Or is it his imagination that is 
 most to be admired ? " 
 
 " Willie ! " Kitty said, reproachfully. "- You seem to 
 liave caught up the London Avay of believing in nothing." 
 
 " Oh no," said he ; " I am pursuing a philosophical in- 
 vestigation. I want to know which part of his character 
 to admire the most. I think it must be imagination — or 
 prudence ? — he departed quickly." 
 
 "I thought he behaved very w^ell, and you abominably," 
 said Kitty, with her accustomed frankness. " And you have 
 never yet apologized to me for your rudeness." 
 
 "Well, I do now, Kitty. I shall never be so rude again 
 before you." 
 
 She touched his hand beneath the table. 
 
202 SHANDOM BELLS, 
 
 " You shall never have occasion again," said she, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 It was a long afternoon and evening ; but no afternoon 
 and evening was half long enough when he and Kitty were 
 together. And Miss Patience was kind ; she went away 
 occasionally — perhaps to her politics — leaving them to- 
 gether in the hushed warm little parlor, all thoughts of the 
 dark world of London shut out, and only present to them 
 the memories of summer rambles and of moonlight walks 
 along the coast of Inisheen. Kitty was as pleased and 
 pretty and fascinating as ever ; you would not have thought 
 that, but a few hours before, she had been standing opposite 
 him with her eyes flashing and her cheeks pale with anger. 
 She was now so gentle, so winning ; the touch of her warm 
 little hand was soft as velvet. 
 
 **And must you really go away again to-morrow, 
 Willie?" she said. She was seated on the hearthrug be- 
 fore the fire, her head just touching his knee. 
 
 "I must indeed. I wrote to Mrs. Chetwynd, begging 
 her to let me off to-morrow night ; and to-morrow night I 
 shall be neither there nor here, but on the wide sea that 
 separates us, Kitty." 
 
 " It, is such a long journey to take for merely a little 
 talk like this." 
 
 "For more than that, Kitty." 
 
 She blushed somewhat, but said nothing. 
 
 " I am coming to the station to see you olf to-morrow,'* 
 said she at length. 
 
 " Would you ? " said he, with great delight. " Would 
 you take the trouble ? " 
 
 " The trouble ! " she exclaimed. " And I am going to do 
 more than that, if you will let me. I want to get a proper 
 kind of luncheon for you in a little basket, because — 
 because it is a woman's place to provide such things," said 
 Kitty, with a trifle of self-conscious pride. " And I know 
 what you men do : you stuff a lot of sandwiches into a 
 piece of paper, and take them out and eat them when they 
 are like leather." 
 
 " Not I," said he. " I have had a warning. An Acade- 
 mician's wife told me that sandwiches were most per- 
 nicious." 
 
 " An Academician's wife ! " said Kitty. " And yet you 
 deny you go out among those great ladies in London ! 
 Why don't you make haste, and make me a great lady, and 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 203 
 
 take nie about with you, instead of gallivanting about by 
 yourself? " 
 
 " Am I not making haste, Kitty?" 
 
 " Yes, sitting by a fire in Audley Place, and letting mo 
 stroke your hand, while you ought to be fighting tooth and 
 nnil in London, with all your armor on, careering every 
 thing down before you." 
 
 " If it was that kind of fighting, Kitty, perha])s it would 
 bo easier," said he, absently; for he was thinking of the 
 loncily room to which he was returning, wdth no Kitty to 
 sit by him on the hearthrug, and stir the fire when it was 
 getting low. 
 
 N(»xt morning he thought she had forgotten her prom- 
 ise, for it was near the time of starting, and yet no Kitty 
 liad put in an appearance. Then he saw her come quickly 
 along, alone; and she was breathless \vhen she reached 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, Willie, I thought I was too late ; but here is the 
 basket, and if the pie is a Utile warm still, it will be cold 
 by the time you want it. I made it myself," she said, with 
 a laugh and a blush, " last night after you were gone " 
 
 " Last night ! " he said. " After twelve ? " 
 
 "What was that, compared to your comfort?" said 
 she, boldly. " And I thought you would like to know that 
 mv hands could do something^ besides — besides kissinsj a 
 good-by to you. And I was up this morning by six to get 
 it in the oven. Oh, Willie, I have had so little time," she 
 added, breathlessly ; " I could not quite get all the sawdust 
 oH the grapes, so be a little careful " 
 
 " Oh, never mind these things," said he, for the guard 
 was impatient. " But it is so kind of you Kitty. You are 
 always kind. And now 1 am going away again — who 
 knows for how long ? " 
 
 " That depends on you," she said, with a smile ; and 
 she kissed him, and slie kept waving her handkerchief until 
 the train was quite out of sight. 
 
 lie was alone in the carriage ; and he was gazing out of 
 the window, seeing nothing. His whole visit this time had 
 been so rapid and so strange. And he was so glad to take 
 aw\ay with him the renewed assurance of Kitty's faith and 
 constancy and love that he could scarcely admit to himself 
 the presence of a consciousness that it was now become 
 more urgent than ever that he should seek to whi his way 
 in London. 
 
20-1 SIIANDON BELLS. 
 
 Tlio (lay wore on with these imaginings, until at last cne 
 base claims of hunger reminded him that he had been so 
 nngi'ateful as to forget aF about Kitty's parting gift. You 
 may imagine the interest and delight with which he opened 
 the pretty little basket, and bethought him how Kitty's 
 own fingers had placed such and such things there for him. 
 Indeed, a woman's hand was visible everywhere in the 
 neatness with which everything was wrapped \\\> and ar- 
 ranged. There w^as a small table napkin, as white as snow. 
 The knife and fork and spoon were all brilliant ; and there 
 was a tiny tumbler along with the half-bottle of claret. 
 There was the })ie that she had waited up in the night-time 
 to make for him; and liad she dressed the salad, too? He 
 could see no sawdust at all on the bunch of grapes. And 
 then his eyes and thoughts wandered away altogether from 
 the materials of the little banquet ; and he thought what a 
 ])retty housewife Kitty would make, filling the rooms with 
 light, and singing and hurrying up everybody in her fearless, 
 independent way. And the rooms through which he saw 
 lier moving were the rooms of the little green and white 
 house at Chelsea. 
 
 He had a beautiful night for crossing. The stars were 
 extraordinarily brilliant. As the huge ship ploughed her 
 way through the black waves, all the interest of the night 
 was centred in the clear dome above, where the myriad eyes 
 throbbed or gazed steadily. There was the resplendent 
 Jupiter, not far from the misty Pleiades ; Mars was unua- 
 ally high in the heavens; Orion's jewels flashed; the great 
 world above was lit with a million fires, while the one below 
 was but a mournful sound of unseen water. And perhaps 
 this young fellow sitting there on deck in the cold night 
 (with his heart very warm with love) may lune laughed to 
 himself when he imagined what the scientific folk who came 
 to Hyde Park Gardens would think of his way of looking 
 at the stars. He had no anxiety to know whether there 
 was any chloride of sodium in them. When he regarded 
 their brilliancy he thought of Kitty's eyes ; their patient re- 
 appearance night after night, year after year, only reminded 
 liim of Kitty's faithfulness ; and the far-reacliing and lumin- 
 ous heavens themselves seemed really to belong to Inisheen, 
 and to him, and to her, and to their secret walks along the 
 shores in the nights gone by. 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 205 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A TKOSPECT. 
 
 The first thing that Fitzgerald did on returning to Lon- 
 don was to hunt up Andy the Hopper, and transfer him 
 from Limeliouse to the Fulham Road ; and during these 
 next few days, while Andy Iiung about and acted as gen- 
 eral servant as well as lie could, and while Jolin Ross and 
 his neighbor made successive experiments with the wild 
 fowl and game that had come from the south of Ireland, 
 things went cheerfully enough. The woodcock were 
 Inisheen woodcock, and he was proud that Ross approved 
 of them highly. Then he took Andy to see one or two of 
 the sights of London ; but Andy was somewhat of a failure. 
 He merely gaped. Fitzgerald (so desperate was his need) 
 thought he might induce some editor to accept a paper 
 descri])tive of a wild Irishman's lirst impressions of the 
 great city ; but he could not make much out of the staring 
 eyes, the open mouth, and the occasional muttered exclama- 
 tion which were the only evidences of Andy's amazement." 
 
 At last, when Andy was going away, Fitzgerald said 
 to him. 
 
 " Look here, Andy, I have a word for you." 
 
 " Av ye plase, sir." 
 
 "You may as well know that I am going to marry the 
 young lady Avho was at Inisheen that time you remember." 
 
 "Baithershins, Masther Willie ! " exclahned Andy, with 
 a vast and capacious grin. "'Twas the divil's own diver- 
 sion for ye to go sporting about with the gyud, and thin 
 to go and lave her like that " 
 
 "Hold your tongue or I'll pitch you down the stair," 
 said Fitzgerald, angrily ; and Andy's face changed instantly, 
 for he perceived that this was no joke at all. 
 
 " Is it thrue, Masther Willie ? " said he, with great con- 
 cern. 
 
 "It is true. She is going to be my wife; now you 
 know." 
 
 " 'Tis the proud gyurl she'll be, thin ! " snid And}/^. 
 *' Oh, didn't I suspect that same now, for all the jokin' ? 
 * Sure,' I said, ' Masther Willie wouldn't be afther takiu 
 
206 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 the tbroub'io to walk abcnit wid the English young lady if 
 'twasn't a coortin*?' Oh, the beautiful young crayture, 
 how! Sure a purtier young lady ye wouldn't find betwixt 
 the Blackwater and the Shannon. She's the flower o' fay- 
 males, and that's thrue." 
 
 " The what ? " 
 
 Andy glanced at the young master anxiously 
 
 " 'Tis what they say in poethry," said he, with some 
 hesitation. 
 
 " Well, attend to me, Andy. There has been some gos- 
 siping going on in Inisheen, I gather. Well, now, attend 
 to this : the first that you hear say anything about that 
 young lady, you take your hopping-pole and lay it over his 
 head. Do you understand that, now ? " 
 
 "Faix, it might be my own head I'd have to break, 
 thin," said Andy. " For wasn't it mesilf that brought the 
 story of what Corney Malone — the divil swape him ! — was 
 saying ? But sure, Masther Willie, when they know you're 
 going to marry the young lady — the beautiful crayture she 
 is! — do ye think they'd be afther saying anything more?" 
 Then Andy, after a second, added, valiantly : " No matther, 
 Masther Willie ; if the laping pole will do, 'tis at your sar- 
 vice ; and divil the man or boy in Inisheen has a head so 
 thick that it won't break — glory be to God ! " 
 
 But Fitzgerald also knew that there would be no more 
 gossiping after this authoritative announcement ; and why 
 should it not be known that he was going to marry 
 Kitty ? 
 
 So Andy went away back to Ireland; and the days 
 passed ; and spring came in mild and humid weather to 
 Chelsea; and the old hard fight was continued, now with 
 illusive hopes, now with keen disappointments, always with 
 a terrible anxiety. For that was what he had definitely 
 brought away with him from Cork — a haunting conscious- 
 ness tliat it was necessary he should get on at once. And 
 liow could he bring editors to understand that ? They 
 knew nothing about Inisheen. They would keep his MSS. 
 for indefinite periods ; sometimes return them after the sub- 
 ject of \vhich they treated had passed from the public 
 mind. For Fitzgerald, having brought his burlesque of pot- 
 house politics to an end, had begun to try his hand at real 
 politics ; but the difficulty was to get an opening for these 
 carefully prepared articles of his. More than once the con- 
 ductor of a journal took the trouble to write to him in re- 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 207 
 
 turning one of these, to explain that he approved of it, and 
 might have used it in his paper but that all such subjects 
 were treated by the regular members of his staff, which at 
 the moment was full. Fitzgerald found most encourage- 
 ment from the projectors of new magazines, who were pre- 
 pared to put him on their staff at once ; but as his payment 
 in most cases was to be contingent on some future share of 
 profits the arrangement did not seem satisfactory. By some' 
 extraordinary chance, which he himself could scarcely under 
 stand, he got one article inserted in the monthly magazine 
 which at that time was far and away ahead of all its fel- 
 lows ; and as his name was attached, he had at least the 
 j)ride of sending it to Kitty. But his subsequent efforts in 
 that direction only resulted in heartrending delay and dis- 
 appointment. In short, he had to learn, as many an unfor- 
 tunate wretch has had to learn, and will have to learn, that 
 fugitive writing of this kind is valueless as a means of liv- 
 
 " Ye are trying too much, laddie,'* said John Ross to 
 him one evening when they were having a smoke together 
 in the hollow-sounding studio. " Ye are writing about 
 everything in the universe. Is it politics or leeterature 
 ye're after?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Fitzgerakl. "What I do know 
 is that I ought to have been learning shorthand when I 
 was shooting snipe. Then I could have got on in news- 
 paper work by the usual stages. Now I can't get my foot on 
 the first rung of the ladder — unless it's the treadmill; 
 that's the only occupation in this country that you can get 
 hold of without any introduction or training. Oh, of 
 course, what I should like would be literature," he added, 
 remembering the dreams with which he had set out for 
 London. " But I don't see any permanent work in that. 
 What they seem to like best is my verses ; and these you 
 can't manufacture at will. I have once or twice tried 
 writing a novel. That is no use : I found myself imitating 
 somebody else in spite of myself. No, the only constant 
 occupation for a writing man I see is newspaper work, and 
 all the newspaper offices are full. Never mind," said he, 
 cheerfully, as he struck another match, " I can live. I can 
 always earn my living as a gamekeeper. Perhaps it was 
 too cheeky of me to come away from Cork and attempt to 
 fight my way, single-handed, in London literature. I had 
 no introductions, no influence. 1 got some help at the 
 
208 SIIAND ON BELLS. 
 
 beginning; but I had to pay for that pretty heavily. 
 Well, I hare not quite given in yet. I mean still to try 
 
 for a time. And then, if I am beaten well, I shall have 
 
 had the experience ; that is something." 
 
 He had been talking very contentedly and even cheer- 
 fully ; but now a slight shadow seemed to come over the 
 square forehead and the clear and thoughtful eyes. 
 
 " Life would be a simple matter — it would be easy 
 enough," said he, " if one had only one's self to consider. 
 But it is different when you have to ask some one else for 
 tlie sacrifice of expectations." 
 
 Ross glanced at him. 
 
 " That depends on the young lass herself," said he ; " that 
 depends on what 8he is like." 
 
 Fitzgerald was too deeuly occupied to resent the imputa- 
 tation or inference. 
 
 " Ross," said he, eagerly, " you've never told me what 
 you think about Avomen. You've talked about everything 
 else in the world, I believe, except that." 
 
 The other laughed. 
 
 " What I think about women ?" said he. " The laddie's 
 cracked. What chance has any man o' forming a judgment 
 on the half o' the human race? Ye may get to know two 
 w^omen, or three women, or maybe even half a dozen wo- 
 men, in the whole course of your life; and ye're well off if 
 they hai^pen to be decent sort o' creatures, for its from them 
 ye are likely to form your opeenion o' the whole lot." 
 
 " You remember me telling you about Hilton Clarke?" 
 
 " I remember the meeserable wretch," said Ross, plainly. 
 
 " Oh, but I bear him no grudge," said Fitzgerald. " At 
 least, not for the money part of the business. I don't be- 
 lieve he meant to swindle anybody. It was merely that he 
 was lacking in a kind of sixth sense that keeps most people 
 straight about money. I dare say, if he had money to- 
 morrow, and I wanted it, he Would let me have it." 
 
 "I dare say he would do nothing of the kind," said 
 Ross, severely. " And the sixth sense ye speak of — do ye 
 mean common honesty?" 
 
 " Well, it isn't that that I remember against him ; but 
 he had a most pernicious habit of putting things into your 
 
 head " 
 
 "Put them out again, then, for God's sake. Would ye 
 listen to the teaching of a man like that ? " 
 
 " But it is not so easy to put them out. You keep 
 
SHAAWON- BELLS. 209 
 
 asking yourself whether his theories are true or net; and 
 then life is so much of a mystery ; and people who are 
 older than you yourself are must have had so much more 
 experience of human nature " 
 
 " That ye should believe them? No. I say no ! " John 
 Ross said ; and whatever he did say he said emphatically, 
 even if it involved the knocking off the head of his pipe. 
 " I say no. I say, ask first of all with what sort of spec- 
 tacles they have been looking at human nature." 
 
 " For example," said Fitzgerald — but why did ho avert 
 liis eyes, and pretend to be busy with the stove, to hide his 
 shamefacedness ? — " he had a theory, or a conviction rather, 
 that there were many women who were really too affec- 
 tionate — too kind and generous — who really could not help 
 falling in love with anybody who was near them. He said 
 they would keep quite faithful and true so long as you were 
 beside them ; but in absence they could not help letting 
 their tenderness of heart begin to suggest possibilities ; 
 until, perhaps before they quite knew themselves, they 
 grew fonder and fonder of the new-comer; and then you 
 see what the world would call the breaking of a troth : heart- 
 lessness, or something like that^ had really come about be- 
 cause the woman had too much kindness and affection in 
 her nature " 
 
 " What kind of a woman do ye call that ? " said Ross, 
 with harsh contempt. " What kind of affection do ye call 
 that ? I call it the affection that exists between rabbits. 
 God be thanked, that's no the kind o' women I have 
 met " 
 
 " Then you don't think there are such women ? " said 
 Fitzgerald, eagerly, and he raised his head at last — "women 
 wliose excess of kindness would always be keeping one in 
 anxiety ? You think that was merely a fantastic theory? " 
 
 "I mind one poor lass," said Ross, absently, "that had 
 too much love in her heart ; but that was not the way it 
 went. A winsome bit lassie slie was ; so jimp and neat 
 and blithe ; and I think half the laddies in the school where 
 I was at Beith were head over ears in love with her ; and 
 mony's the sair fight there was amongst us about her. She 
 was to be married to a young fellow — a sailor-lad he was, 
 I think — though she was but sixteen or seventeen ; and 
 what must he do one night at Greenock but get fuddled, 
 and go out capering in a boat in one of the docks, and get 
 
210 SlIANDON BELLS. 
 
 droAvne 1 in the dark. The poor lass never held up her 
 head. She had some money, too ; for her father had left 
 her some bits of cottages at Beith ; and many a one came 
 after her ; but she had not a word for any of them. She 
 just dwindled away — though she had been as healthy a lass 
 as any in the parish ; and in three or four years' time they 
 put her in the kirkyard ; and though folk say that nobody 
 ever dies o' a broken heart, I do not know what else it was 
 that Jean Shaw died o'. Ay, that was one. Then there 
 were two more — I may say three — that never married be- 
 cause they could not get the man they wanted. That's 
 four — a good number in one man's experience. Oh, but 
 I've known the other side too — young lasses changing their 
 mind — giddy creatures, for the most part, wanting to cut a 
 dash with more money than their first sweetheart had. 
 And there's one," said he, with a grim smile, " that I 
 would like to know more about now. She was in a place 
 in Glasgow — I mean she was a servant lass — and her sweet- 
 heart was a working plumber — a roaring, swearing, drunken 
 sort o' fellow. Then she must needs take up with some 
 shopkeeper laddie, as being more genteel, d'ye see ; and 
 there was some quarrelling, Aintil the plumber got hold o' 
 the young fellow, and smashed him almost into bits. That 
 w\as a seven years' business for him. So as soon as he was 
 safe out o' the way, she married the shopkeeper ; and no 
 doubt everything went well until the seven years began to 
 come down to six and five and four and three. The last I 
 heard was that the husband and wife were living in daily 
 fear o' their lives ; for the plumber was soon to be out, and 
 he had sworn to murder the pair o' them. Man," said 
 Ross, bringing down his fist on his knee, '* why dinna you 
 leeterary people go where ye can see human passion in the 
 rough, where ye can see the real tragedy of life ? That is 
 no among the fine people — the nobeelity ; for there money 
 lets an ill-assorted couple go different ways : and at the 
 worst, if the wife goes to the bad, the husband is too much 
 of a philosopher to bother himself into a rage about it, for 
 he has run through all the experiences of life long before 
 lie ever got married. And it's no among the middle classes ; 
 they are too well-conducted and circumspect ; they fear the 
 talk o' their church-going and chapel-going neighbors. No, 
 it's among the lower, or even the lowest, classes, that the 
 passions are simple and intense. When the woman is faith- 
 less, the man murders her, or tries to, regardless of snbse 
 
S HAND ON BELLS. 211 
 
 qiiences. Starvation, the madness o' drink, the pitiableness 
 o' the weak, the fight for bread — these are the the things that 
 show ye what the struggles, the passions, the bigness, the 
 littleness, o' human nature are. Leave your books, man, 
 and yet out to Bermondsey, or Spitalfields, or Shadwell, 
 and study the men and women there " 
 
 "Oh, I am not a dramatist," said Fitzgerald. " Besides 
 I think you are quite mistaken." Boss was continually dog- 
 matising about his own profession ; why shonld not he about 
 his? "You may find brute force there, and violent jeal- 
 ousy ; anything else you may take with you. And when- 
 you begin planting your literary theories — your noble tenli- 
 ments that are the product of refinement — into that course 
 soil, the crop is merely afi'ectation. The bully, who suddenly 
 bursts out crying when he hears a canary is a mere sham — 
 unless he is drunk, when he would probably get up and 
 strangle the canary. Passion in the rough ? Yes, the rough 
 sometimes has a good deal of passion— when he kicks his 
 mother. Thank you ; but before I go and try to paint a 
 picture of the costermonger — with a pewter pot in his hand 
 and love and innocence in his heart — I shall wait to see 
 what effect a course of lectures on limelight will have on 
 him." 
 
 Ross regarded him for a second. 
 
 " Ye're a deep young fellow," he said, *'"forall your 
 frank face. Or is it pride ? I'm afraid the young lady up 
 there and you don't get on very well together." 
 
 " Oh, I think she means to be very civil to me. I think, 
 from little suggestions, that she has been talking to her 
 aunt about sending me over as bailiff to an estate they have 
 at Ban try. Well, I don't wonder at it. My present post 
 is rather too much of a sinecure." 
 
 " Other people manage to live on sinecures happily 
 eneuch," said Ross, bluntly. " I wish to Heaven I had 
 half a dizzen o' them ! " 
 
 '* And then," continued Fitzgerald, with some telltale 
 color in his face, " the other people about that house are 
 all such hard working people — I mean those you sometimes 
 meet by chance — that one feels such an idler. I do believe 
 at this minute," he said, in desperation, *' if they were to 
 give me a decent salary as bailiff at that farm, I'd take it, 
 and have done with literature. I can enjoy literature with- 
 out trying to make any ; and I should be in my own ele- 
 ment over there. But what were we talking about?" H(r 
 
012 SIIANDON BELLS. 
 
 protenflecl to make a cast back. " Oh yes ; about Hilton 
 Clarke's theories about women. Well, here are other two 
 women — these Chetwynds — who, I am sure, are perfectly 
 honest and upright and believable. My experience has not 
 been very great ; I can scarcely remember my mother, and 
 1 had no sisters. But most of the women I have been 
 niore or less acquainted with have been, as it seemed to me 
 a good deal better and more honest and more unselfish than 
 the men ; and — and m short you wouldn't be inclined to 
 doubt your own experiences even when a man who has 
 seen more of the world than you have tries to make you 
 less believing? " 
 
 *' I would send him to the devil," said Ross, decisively. 
 "Believe in the honesty of men and women, and in the wise 
 providence and justice o' things, as long as ye can; and 
 when ye can not, ])ut it down to your personal bad luck, 
 and dinna accuse everybody of stealing because the major- 
 ity o' the folk ye liave met have disappointed ye. The 
 truth is ye are anxious about that young lass in Ireland." 
 
 Fitzgerald started, and was inclined to be angry. But 
 what was the use ? His friend had guessed the truth, much 
 as Fitzgerald had tried to conceal it from him, and also 
 from himself. Yes, he was anxious ; it had come to that. 
 
 " Is she a braw lass ? " 
 
 " I think you mean handsome ? No, she is not imposing 
 if that is what you mean. But she is exceedingly pretty. 
 I can talk to you about her with impunity, for you don't 
 know her name. She is very pretty, and very winning, 
 and tender-hearted, and clever too. Think of her being 
 content to wait on and on like this, while I am flounderin*.; 
 about without any certain prospects whatever ! " 
 
 " Content to wait ! " exclaimed Ross. " Goodness me, 
 what would be the worth of her if she were not content to 
 wait ! A fine kind of lass to have that would be ! And ye 
 have two pounds a week as a certainty, with constant smali 
 addeetions ? Get her over, man, and marry hei*. Two 
 pounds a week ! The great majority of the human race 
 live on far less ; and what is good for the muckle is no bad 
 for the pickle." 
 
 This bold and sudden challenge startled him ; but was 
 not the wild project as beautiful as it was Avild ? The 
 thought of it! What if Kitty were really to consent? 
 They could take a couple of small rooms somewhere, and 
 work and wait in patience, with love and blessed content 
 
SIIAiYDON BELLS. 2 1 3 
 
 their constant companions, until the happier time came. 
 Would it not be fine in after-life, when things had gone 
 well with them, to be able to talk of their early struggle, 
 and of their adventures and their fears and hopes ? Kitty's 
 letters had not been very cheerful of late : might not this sud- 
 den challenge deliver her from the bond of despondency? 
 
 But he dared not make so fateful a proposal without 
 much anxious care ; and, as it turned out, on the very 
 next svening something happened that promised to aid 
 him most materially. When ho had got through his ap- 
 pointed hour, and had risen to leave, Mrs. Chetwynd said 
 to him — obviously with a little emb,arrassment : — 
 
 "Mr. Fitzgerald, I — I want to explain something. You 
 know you are on such friendly terms with us — at least I 
 hope so — I hope you feel quite at home in the liouse — it is 
 rather difficult to speak about money matters. But tlicy 
 have to be spoken about ; for every one must live, I sup- 
 pose. And — and, in fact, Mary was saying that a great 
 deal more of your time was being occupied than appeared 
 to be the case " 
 
 "Oh, 1 hope you won't speak of it," said he. "My 
 time is not so valuable." 
 
 " Everybody's time is A^aluable," said the old lady, with 
 a smile, "for it is easy to make it so. Mary was saying 
 you must spend a great deal of time in looking over these 
 new books " 
 
 " That IS a pleasure to myself." 
 
 " Now, Mr. Fitzgerald, is it fair ? I have a frightful 
 task to get through with, and you won't let me alone. If 
 mL\\ Scobell were in England, I should have asked him. 
 ]^[owe^i.er, here is the truth ; that my conscience won't allow 
 me to occupy so much of your time on the present terms, 
 and I propose to make a difference. If," said she, rather 
 hesitatingly — " if you would kindly take that envelope with 
 you, you will find in it the arrears — a small sum, but my 
 conscience will be clear — and now, not another word — 
 for I've got through with it, and I am quite happy. Now 
 good-night, and not a word." 
 
 " Not of thanks ? " said he. 
 
 " No ; good-night ; go away," said the old lady, with a 
 light little laugh : she was clearly very well pleased to have 
 got it over. 
 
 In this open and unaddressed envelope he found a check, 
 drawn out in Mary Chetwynd's clear and Drecise hand and 
 
2 1 4 -SYA-/ NDON BEL LS. 
 
 signed by her aunt, for £65. The rapidest of calculations 
 showed him what this meant. He was to jjave two hundred 
 a year, then, instead of one ! The vision that this opened 
 up left no room for those over-sensitive perplexities that he 
 liad laid before his friend Ross. His heart was beating too 
 quickly. The question was, what argument, what entrcjit- 
 ies, what pretty phrases, would bring Kitty to him from 
 over the sea. . 
 
 He walked rapidly, he knew not whither. The darkness 
 ■was pleasant. Never had he struggled so with the composi- 
 tion of any leading article affecting the interests of Indin, 
 or China or Peru. He tried to meet beforehand every possi- 
 ble objection. He thought of all the nice things he could 
 say to win her consent. At what hour he got home to his 
 iodgings he did not quite know ; but that important letter 
 was yet far from being arranged. 
 
 It took him, indeed, the whole night to write it ; destroy- 
 ing numberless copies that seemed to him to leave a loop- 
 hole of escape here or there. He felt that Kitty's letters 
 liad been somewhat cold and matter-of-fact of late ; he was 
 afraid she might judge this one coldly; he had to make 
 everything safe, so that she should feel the future was abso- 
 lutely secure. And when at last he did go out to post this 
 letter at the nearest pillar letter-box, behold ! the wan gray 
 light of daybreak was stealing over the skies, and far away 
 there was the rumble of the first of the carts. 
 
 I do not know who was the Postmaster-General at that 
 precise time, but have no doubt that when Fitzgerald 
 dropped the heavy letter under the metal lid, he was as 
 impatient with him as Juliet was with her nurse. 
 
 " Love's lieralds should be thoughts, 
 Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams, 
 Driving back shadows over low'ring hills : 
 Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw love, 
 And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. 
 Now is the sun upon the highmost hill 
 Of this day's journey " 
 
 "Well, the sun was not yet quite so high ; but it was 
 slowly spreading abroad its beams, and the world of Lon- 
 don was awaking. Fitzgerald was in no humor for sleep ; 
 he thought he would rather go away down to the river to 
 have a look at a little green and white house there ; and 
 there was a light as of the dawn on his face. 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 215 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 SOME CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 Yes ; there was no doubt of it ; during the months that 
 had elapsed since his hurried visit to Cork, Kitty's letters 
 had grown much more cold, or at least, much more reserved 
 and matter-of-fact, while now and again there was a tone 
 of disappointment running through them which he had 
 striven to overlook at the moment. Now, as he re-read 
 them with this glorious prospect — this near and shining 
 future — before him he souglit for reasonable explanations 
 and excuses, and easily found them. The spring had been 
 wet and boisterous, and Kitty's spirits were readily affected 
 by the weather and its discomforts. Then she had had a 
 good deal of travelling ; and that would account for ^the 
 curtness of some of the notes, Kitty being ordinarily a 
 most profuse letter-writer. And then again the news that 
 he had had it in his power to send her was not of the most 
 cheering description, though he had tried to put the best 
 face possible on matters. Altogether, looking over these 
 letters again, and regarding them by this new light, he could 
 find nothing disquieting in them ; on the contrary, they 
 were quite natural in the circumstances : the question was, 
 How would Kitty write now ? 
 
 He could not doubt how she would answer his appeal. 
 The summer was coming on, with all its beautiful new hopes, 
 new desires, new possibilities. During that winter Kitty 
 had again and again, and not at all to his sorrow, pretty 
 plainly hinted that she was dissatisfied with her present 
 way of living. It had become distressingly monotonous. 
 There were no ambitious hopes to lure her on. Only once 
 had she expressed herself as being pleased with her sur 
 roundings ; and that was on a professional visit to Dublin, 
 where, instead of having to go to the usual lodgings, she 
 had been the guest, along with Miss Patience, of the wife 
 of the manager of a theatre there; and that lady had in- 
 troduced Kitty to a number of people, and made her life a 
 little more cheerful for her for a time. Then she had to 
 return to the provinces, and to miserable rooms, and the 
 fatigues of travelling ; and as the weather happened to bf 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 217 
 
 the places in tlie photographs in the windows ; but neither 
 they, nor the panorama, nor anything else, could have told 
 me of the charm of this beautiful neighborhood. We were 
 out last night in a boat ; there was no moon ; but the stars 
 were lovely. We rowed to Innisfallen ; and I sung one or 
 two songs — the sound was so strange when we got near the 
 island ! I was wondering whether the ghosts in the Abbey 
 would hear. What a beautiful night it was ! 
 
 "Of course you are asking what brought me here. 
 Well, dear Willie, I have had a great deal of bother, and 
 some hard work of late ; and I thought I had earned a little 
 holiday ; and everybody said we ought to go to Killarney 
 in the spring; and Miss Patience and I have done it as 
 cheaply as we could. Where in the world could we have 
 come to for such perfect peace and rest ? This hotel is 
 nearly empty ; when we went to Muckross Abbey and the 
 Tore Cascade and all round there, we were quite by our- 
 selves, and when we go out on the lake there are no tourists 
 anywhere. The day we arrived, however, there was a fear- 
 ful tempest. I said to myself. Goodness gracious ! is this 
 Killarney ? I thought Killarney was always quite still, with 
 moonlight on it (as it was in the panorama). The wind 
 and the rain were dreadful : the mountains were quite black 
 except when the clouds crossed and hid them ; and the 
 waves on the lake smashed on the rocks at Innisfallen, and 
 sprung up in foam just like the sea. But now everything 
 is quiet and lovely ; and I feel as if this Avas the Vale of 
 Avoca that I should like to rest in, with the friends I love 
 best ; only I suppose there never is rest like that for every- 
 body ; trouble is the policeman that steps in and orders you 
 to move on. 
 
 " Dear Willie, I feel quite afraid to begin and try to an- 
 swer your letter ; for I know you won't understand what I 
 mean about it. I entirely agree with you about a private 
 life — it has been the Avish of my heart for many a day ; I 
 am quite tired of the annoyances of my public one. Peo- 
 ple think it is a fine easy thing to earn your living by merely 
 singing songs ; I wish they knew what hard work and un- 
 certain work it is. Of course one's vanity is pleased some- 
 times, when you have nice things said to you, or when the 
 audience is very enthusiastic ; but what a temporary thing 
 that is ! When I stayed with Mrs. Milroy in Dublin I was 
 quite delighted with the little occupations and visits and 
 amusements with which they passed the time; and I know 
 
218 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 that would suit rue ; aud as for your suggestion that I 
 might some day regret giving up this kind of life, you might 
 have saved yourself all the arguing against it : it is the 
 last thing, I tcnow^ that will ever occur to me ; and I should 
 be ready this minute to give it up, if I could do so safely. 
 
 " People never do get what they want, I suppose ; and 
 T suppose it is better for them in the long-run. And for 
 you to think, just now, Avhen you are making a path for 
 yourself that will lead to future fame, of hampering your- 
 self in the way you propose — well, I can understand your 
 dreaming of it, for you were always so romantic and strange 
 in your notions, but I have got worldly wisdom enough for 
 both of us, and I can see what a pity it would be. When 
 you want a clear way for your genius, you tie all this do- 
 mestic anxiety round your neck ! Consider how precarious 
 you would be. That old lady might die at any moment, 
 and then — ! I am afraid, dear Willie, that your literary 
 prospects by themselves wouldn't warrant you in doing as 
 you propose ; and do you know I, for one, am not so sorry 
 there should be such difficulty and hard work, for if there 
 was not, wouldn't everybody be at it, and where would be 
 the glory of making a name for yourself, if everybody 
 could step in and do it ? I know you distrust your powers. 
 I don't ; and I should think myself mean and unscrupulous 
 if I allowed my private wishes to interfere with your future. 
 I know some day you will have reason to thank me. Was 
 it not me who sent you away from that miserable little 
 office in Cork to take the place that your genius entitles you 
 to ? I as good as said : 
 
 * Go where the glory waits thee, 
 But while Fame elates thee, 
 
 Oh ! still remember me ! 
 When the praise thou meetest 
 To thine ear is sweetest, 
 
 Oh ! then remember me ! * 
 
 I know you always laugh at my poetry ; but I like poetry 
 that one can understand, that has common-sense in it ; and 
 there is common-sense in that. I expect great things of 
 you ; and so would the world if it knew as much as I did ; 
 and it seems to me that, with gifts such as yours, you have 
 no right to throw up your career, or at least seriously haul- 
 er it, for tlie mere gratification of a ))iece of roinancre. 
 3Ut that was always like you, Willie. You look at thiu.!^>^ 
 
 £ 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 219 
 
 m sucn a strange way. You don't seem to value things as 
 other people do; and you don't appear to consider it is 
 your duty to get on in the world, and make money, and a 
 security for your old age. I have seen a good deal of the 
 world ; I have seen what money can do ; what good you 
 can do with it; how independent it makes you. I believe 
 if it had not been for me you would have kept on in Cork, 
 simply because you had the chance of living a half-sailor, 
 half-gamekeeper life at Inisheen ; and you would never have 
 thought of the time when you would no longer be able to 
 go after rock-pigeons. And so, dear Willie, you must try 
 and be a little less romantic in the mean time, and do jus- 
 tice to the gifts you have ; and by and by you will thank 
 me, and say that everything has been for the best. 
 
 " Now I know you have quite misunderstood me ; and 
 you are angry, in your wild way, and accuse me of being 
 mercenary — me ! I have never had enough money to know 
 what mercenariness was. And of course you are impatient 
 that everything can't come about just as if it were a story^ 
 book. Alas !• I wish it could, and everybody be satisfied ; 
 but there is always trouble, even to those who make the 
 strongest fight against the inclinations of their heart, and 
 try to do what is best for every one around them. 
 Just imagine me lecturing you like this! And yet you 
 know dear Willie, that you are too poetical ; and so I must 
 be the commonplace person — even here, with Killarney 
 before me. There was a dreadful accident to the coach as 
 we were coming. There is a steep hill some miles before 
 you get here, and one of the two horses fell, and the force 
 of the coach dragged it along, and the poor beast's knees 
 were horrible tQ look at. It just managed to Avalk the dis- 
 tance, though I thought every moment it would go down. 
 But what a fine thing it must be to have a carriage and 
 one's own horses, and drive all through these beautiful 
 places, quite at your leisure, and without a thought for 
 the future ! Just fancy not having to care a farthing 
 whether June or August is near or far off ; nothing but to 
 enjoy the present moment, and drive from one hotel to 
 another, irrespective of time and without a thought about 
 the cost ! I think people who can have such happiness to 
 themselves ought to be very kind to other people. I know 
 I should try to be. I can imagine myself driving through 
 the country like that ; and if there was any trouble, it would 
 be the thought that I could not make all the poor people 
 
220 SHAADON BELLS. 
 
 one might meet just as contented as one's self. One might 
 meet, who knows, some young fellow going away from his 
 sweetheart, forced by fate^ and very much troubled about 
 his prospects ; and a letter of introduction or something 
 might save misery. But these are all id4e dreams ; and one 
 must take the world as it is. 
 
 '' I am so glad that that kind old lady has again 
 befriended you ; and hope that something substantial and 
 permanent may come of her friendship for you ; but even 
 if these hopes are disappointed, I am convinced you did 
 right in going away to London. Genius such as yours 
 is a trust. You had no right to waste your time fishing 
 and boating and shooting. Even if it were to be decided 
 by fate that you and I were never to meet again, do you 
 not think I should watch your career, of M^hich I am far 
 more certain than you are ? Of course I don't say that success 
 is to come all at once. I do believe you are working 
 your best; though I didn't think from what you 
 say that that Scotch artist — I thought the Scotch were 
 so practical ! — does you any good. I suppose he thinks it 
 would be romantic to live in a garret: and if I was a 
 barefoot lassie perhaps it would ; but now again you will 
 accuse me of mercenariness just because I have to talk 
 common sense. I don't believe there's anybody in the 
 world cares less for money than I do; but I see Avhat 
 money can do, and how it gives people time to be thought- 
 ful and kind to those around them ; and in any case I am 
 not going to be the one to wreck such a career as you have 
 before you, Scotchman or no Scotchman. 
 
 '*I have been so much occupied here that I forget 
 whether I thanked you for the volume of political speeches 
 that you sent Miss Patience ; but at all events I was asked, 
 and intended to do so, with her best compliments. The 
 book seems to be highly appreciated ; she has scarcely 
 stirred out since we came here. As for our stay here, that 
 is quite uncertain ; but I am in love with the scenery (it 
 is far prettier and not as grand or wild as I expected, and 
 you kiiow I prefer quietness to Alpine terrors) and I shall 
 tear myself away with great regret. We make our way on 
 to Limerick, where I have four concerts — the old mill-wheel 
 again after this paradise ! So, dear Willie, you need not 
 write here, if you are writing, but to the Post-office, Lim- 
 erick, and I shall expect a letter saying that you know I am. 
 aeting in the best kindness, and laying myself open to the 
 
SIIANDON BELLS, 221 
 
 charge of being a money-grasping young woman (which is 
 absurd, you know, for if I was, where is there any to grasp ?), 
 when all I want is to act prudently for you and me. Good 
 by, dear Willie. If there's any one wishes you a speedily 
 secure position and great fame and reputation such as you 
 deserve, there's no one wishes that more heartily than, 
 
 " Your affectionate Kitty. 
 
 P S — Thursday Morning, Dearest Willie, this letter 
 does read so business-like that I am ashamed of it ; and yet 
 I can't burn it, and have to go over all the arguments again. 
 It quite wore out my small brain last night ; and there 
 were such difficulties, too — such interruptions — that it 
 seems all confused, I meant it to be so kind, and it reads 
 like a schoolbook. Never mind Willie : you know I am 
 not mercenary ; and that no one wishes you to get on more 
 heartily than I do. I meant the letter to be very kind 
 indeed \ and at least you will be pleased that I am delighted 
 with Killarney. Good by. The morning is lovely ; and 
 we are just going out for a row." 
 
 " Going out for a row ? " he repeated mechanically to 
 himself. Who were going out for a row ? Miss Patience, 
 according to Kitty's own showing, scarcely stirred out of 
 the hotel at all. And what were they doing there ? How 
 had he heard nothing about it? What did all this mean — 
 about the trouble of the Avorld, and the sacrifices of one's 
 inclinations, and a future for him of which she was to be 
 the distant spectator? He read the letter over again, in a 
 bewildered sort of way. It was not like Kitty — it was not 
 like the wilful, petulant, loving, and tea^jng Kitty at all. 
 It is true that her letters had for some time past been 
 reserved — occasionally hurried and curt ; but here was a long 
 rambling letter laying bare all her thoughts, and it did not 
 sound as if it was Kitty who was speaking. And was she 
 laying bare all her thoughts ? he asked himself. Was it her 
 great regard for his future fame that caused her to refuse his 
 appeal ? — an appeal that seemed to him to be so simple and 
 natural and opportune. 
 
 Then he eagerly grasped at the notion that perhaps his 
 abrupt proposal had startled her. This was but maiden coy- 
 ness. She had been alarmed by the definite request that 
 she should come over and be married, and occupy these 
 humble apartments until a more suitable dwelling could be 
 
222 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 chosen. These rambling arguments of hers were a mere 
 girlish trick of fence. Modesty was sheltering itself behind 
 the guise of prudence. And he could have laughed at 
 Kitty's imploring him to believe that she was not mercenary 
 — as if it were likely he could suspect her of that. 
 
 Still, there was something very strange and disquieting 
 in the tone of this letter ; and when he sat down to answer, 
 he experienced the novel sensation of being afraid. Afraid 
 of Kitty ? If he could have caught her by both hands, he 
 would not have been afraid. But that was the mischief of 
 it — the great distance between them. That was why he 
 was afraid — afraid of the misunderstanding that letters cause. 
 He wrote hurriedly ; he seemed to have so much to say ; 
 and wished to say it all at once ; and, moreover, he must 
 needs write in good spirits if he would drive away her 
 despondency. 
 
 " My darling Kitty, — I have received your extraor- 
 dinary letter. It does not sound as if you had written it 
 at all. Why are you so serious? What has frightened 
 you ? Are you the same Kitty that, when I first came to 
 London, used to write every day, nearly, * Make haste ; 
 make haste : for I love you so'? And now there is not a 
 word of love in this long letter, but a great deal of down 
 heartedness, and fear, and political economy, and Benjamin 
 Franklin sort of wisdom. And, then, my pretty-eyed 
 philosopher, your facts are a little askew. You accuse me 
 of being too poetical ; and if to love you is to be romantic 
 and poetical, I will admit the charge. But if you mean 
 that I allow poetry or anything else to interfere with my 
 care for the futu<|, you are all wrong. Yon don't know 
 how rigidly I've saved up every possible penny since I 
 came to London. I don't go taking holidays atKillarney ; 
 when I have to go for a journey, it's all because of a wicked 
 young woman who won't be reasonable and sensible, and 
 come and be married at once. And really and seriously, 
 Kitty, what havB you to fear? I have £110 saved; and 
 £200 a year is quite enough to make a start with, in a 
 quiet way, and if things go better, won't you be rather 
 glad in after-life that you and I were together during the 
 poorer times ? You talk about my being precarious (your 
 English, Miss Kitty, has not been improved by the Killarney 
 air), but is not everything and everybody more or less so ? 
 You are like Miss Patience, thinking that literature is so 
 
SIIANDON BELLS. 223 
 
 precarious a profession because a tile might fall on your 
 head from a roof. ]^o doubt this old lady might die, but so 
 might you or I; and surely, since life is so uncertain, 
 common sense would counsel you to make the best of it 
 while you may. Life is not such a very long thing ; youth 
 is still shorter ; and surely when two people love each other, 
 and have a little faith in the future, and a reasonable 
 security in the present, even Benjamin Franklin, Poor 
 Richard, Catharine Romayne, and similar philosophers 
 might admit that it would be unwise to throw away a cer- 
 tain happiness on the chance of some good to come. It 
 seems so strange to have to talk to you like this, Kitty, 
 even as a joke. I can scarcely believe this letter of yours 
 to be serious. Who was it who declared that she could live 
 on nothing ; who implored me never to leave her : who 
 asked me to live in her heart, and pay no rent ? And all 
 that happened little more than a year ago. What has 
 changed her so in so short a time. 
 
 " I know. They say that once in every seven years, on 
 a beautiful summer morning just at sunrise, the O'Donoghue 
 of the Lakes comes down from his magic home in the 
 mountains, riding a white horse, and accompanied by 
 fairies. He rides across Lough Leane, and wherever he 
 goes on the dry land all his old possessions and splendor 
 appear again ; and when he has seen that everything is 
 right he sets out for home again. Now no doubt you have 
 heard that, if you have courage enough, you can go with 
 him, and cross Lough Leane dry-shod, and accompany him 
 to his home in the mountains, where, before bidding you 
 good-by, he will present you with part of his buried treas- 
 ure. Have I found you out, Miss Kitty? Are you watch- 
 ing for the O'Donoghue of the Lakes ? Is that why your 
 email head is stuffed with 'mercenariness? ' Are you so 
 anxious to be rich, and drive through the country with a 
 carriage and pair, that you get up every morning at that 
 hotel before sunrise and wander away down to the lake- 
 side, and look across and watch for the white horse and its 
 rider? Is that the peculiar charm you have found in Kil- 
 larney ? And of course the want of sleep, and the going 
 about so much alone, and the witchery of the whole thing, 
 have dazed you a little, and made you apprehensive, so that 
 I can scarcely believe it is you who are speaking to me. 
 
 " My dearest Kitty, you must really throw aside these 
 unreasonable fears — you, who used to be so fearless, too 1 
 
224 SHAN DON LELLS. 
 
 If you are afraid to take such a decisive step as coniiiio^ to 
 London by yourself, I will come over and fetcli you. 1 ;iin 
 entitled to a long holiday. Dearest Kitty, how would it do 
 for me to come over and meet you at Limerick, and stay 
 there long enough to be married, and go back over the 
 Killarney route ? I am confident I could take you to beau- 
 tiful places you are not likely to find on tlie ordinary tourist 
 route. Write — no, telegraph — one word, ' Yes ' — that can't 
 take up much of your time — and I will come over at once. 
 And then, you see, as one must be practical and business- 
 like in order to please you, getting married in that quiet 
 way would be very inexpensive : you would have no white 
 silk gown to buy, and I should have no lockets to get for 
 the bridemaids. Now, Kitty, take heart of grace, and tele- 
 graph at once. If you telegraph from Killarney, I will go 
 right on to Limerick and wait for you there. Don't think 
 about it; do it. If you sit down and begin to make out 
 all sorts of calculations, as if you were the secretary of a 
 life insurance company, of course you will arrive at no de- 
 cision at all, but only plunge yourself in gloom. What a 
 trip that will be, if you will only say ' Yes ! ' If you went 
 by Bandon and Dunmanway, we will come back by Inchi- 
 geelah ; and of course we shall go down to Inisheen ; and 
 perhaps to the stream there, some moonlight night, just to 
 let Don Fierna and the rest of them know that you had not 
 quite forgotten. You have not quite forgotten, Kitty ? I 
 had the date engraved on the ring you gave me, and then I 
 grudged the expense, for it was useless. There are some 
 things that are engraven on the heart ; they become a part 
 of you ; you can put them away from you only when you 
 put life away ; and I do not think that either of us is likely 
 to forget the vow of that night. 
 
 " Well, now, Kitty, the inhuman wretch who occupies 
 the quaint small house by the river that I told you of still 
 remains in it ; I often take a turn round that way to see if 
 there is not a board up ; but no, the wretched limpet still 
 clings to his shell. Never mind ; we shall have plenty ot 
 time to walk about and pick out a comfortable little place 
 for ourselves ; for, you see, I can always use the fine morn- 
 ings for walking out, and shift on my work to the time of 
 rain. And then, when we give ourselves a whole holiday, 
 Kitty, there is no end to the beautiful, quiet places one can 
 get to from this neighborhood. I have explored them all ; 
 and the whole time I was thinking, 'I know Kitty will he 
 
Sl/JXDOiV BELLS. 225 
 
 charmed with tliis plnce ; and I am certain she never could 
 liave been here before.' Scarcely anybody knows what 
 beautiful sequestered spots there are in Richmond Park 
 alone. Then, you see, Kitty, by taking those furnished 
 rooms to begin with, you will be able to fall into house- 
 keeping ways by degrees ; and we shall take plenty of time 
 to choose a pretty small house, and put things into it just 
 as we want them. You will be surprised at the knowledge 
 I have acquired of the prices of tables and chairs and car- 
 pets ; and Ross — that is your Scotch friend — has promised, 
 xcJien the great tim.e comes, to present you with a tea-service 
 of old black Wedgwood that he picked up somewhere in 
 Surrey, and that is about the only thing of value that he 
 possesses. Just fancy your sitting in state at your own 
 tea-table in your own house ! ' Will you have another cup 
 of tea, Mr. Ross ? ' ' No, thank you, my dear Mrs. Fitz- 
 gerald, but if you would sing another of those Irish songs, 
 that is what I would like to have.' Then you go to the 
 piano : of course we must hire a piano the very first thing, 
 for you are not going to forget your music. Miss Kitty, 
 when you enter upon domestic slavery. And what about 
 ' The Minstrel Boy ' for our Scotchman ? Or will you make 
 him cry with ' Silent, oh, Moyle?' Or do you think he will 
 care as mucli for ' The Bells of Shandon ' as we do ? I 
 think not. He does not know certain associations. He 
 cannot recall the white Sunday mornings; and the quietude 
 of tlie country walks ; and Kitty declaring tliat she should 
 never have tlie courage to marry anybody, and that her 
 proper role in life was to be an old maid. 
 
 " Come, now, Kitty ! You have a tremendous courage 
 when you like. Pull yourself together. If Miss Patience 
 is preaching political economy, tell her to go to the mis- 
 chief. I am thinking of your eyes when you meet me — at 
 Limerick. Will you be shy and coquettish. Or will you 
 be imperious and riding the high horse ? 1 know you can 
 be in any mood you choose ; and the mood I would have 
 you choose is that of the Kitty of the old, beautiful, love- 
 sweetened days, not this timid, fearing, business-like Kitty 
 whom I don't know a bit. Who wrote, ' Just tell them 
 there's a poor girl in Ireland who is breaking her heart for 
 your sake?' I know, whatever troubles you may be think- 
 ing of now, everything will look quite bright and hopeful 
 when I get hold of your shoulders, and challenge your eyes 
 to do anything but smils. So no more of your despon- 
 
226 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 doncy, you pretty, black-eyed, tiny sweetheart ; but one 
 word, and the expenditure of one sliilling, and then don't 
 bothcu* your head any more about it until you see nie at 
 Limerick Then I will take command of you, and be re- 
 sponsible for you ; and we will together make short work of 
 your economical fears. 
 
 " This from one who knows you and loves you far too 
 well to believe in your want of courage ; and who sends no 
 other message, or kisses, or anything of the kind — for he is 
 bringing them. W. F. 
 
 He went out, and walked rapidly to the pillar letter-box, 
 aed posted the letter ; there seemed so little time to lose. 
 And then he walked back more slowly, wondering if he had 
 said everything likely to entice Kitty to a decision. 
 
 Just as lie was entering the courtyard the postman 
 came along with the second morning delivery, and he had 
 two letters for Fitzgerald. Master Willie took them with 
 little interest (for he was still thinking of the phrases he 
 had used in the appeal sent over the sea), and opened them 
 leisurely as he was going up the stair. And yet the first of 
 these read oddly enough : — 
 
 " Dear Mr. Fitzgerald, — 1 wonder if you could spare 
 me a few minutes to-morrow, Wednesday, evening, before 
 you leave the house. Or, if that is inconvenient, any other 
 evening will do; but to-morrow evening I am sui^e to be at 
 liome. I only want a few minutes' talk with you. 
 
 " Yours faithfully, 
 
 "Mary Chetwynd." 
 
 He could not imagine what Miss Chetwynd could have 
 to say to him ; but as nothing further was to be made out 
 of the letter, he put it in his pocket. The next that ha 
 opened was written on the note paper of a hotel in Venice. 
 
 " Dear Fitz, — It is an age since I heard anything of 
 you ; and I have seen so few English periodicals that I 
 have no means of telling how you are getting on. Well, I 
 hope. You have enthusiasm, good health, and an insatia- 
 ble thirst for work : Pactolus will flow your way sooner or 
 later. The beast of a stream doesn't flow my way ; quite 
 the reverse ; it flies at my approach ; hence these tears. 
 The fact is, I am temporarily very hard up, and awkwardly 
 situated as well — I can't explain, but you may guess, and 
 
SHAND ON BELLS. 227 
 
 so, to get out of these embarrassments, I have taken a 
 liberty which I know you won't mind, for it can't cause you 
 any inconvenience. I have drawn a bill on you at three 
 niontlis for £150 ; and if you would have the good nature 
 to accept it on presentation, you will do me a great service ; 
 and of course you will suffer no harm, for it will be taken 
 up long before that. It is merely the use of your signature 
 for a few weeks tliat I want ; and I sha'n't forget your 
 friendliness.; on connait Vami au besoin. 
 
 " How is the Lady Irmingarde, and how are the little 
 ringlets round her ears? Be a good boy, and marry the 
 young damsel decently and honorably before the fides 
 inidica — I do not write Punica., and mean no such thing 
 — begins to show the strain of time and distance ; and then 
 you will settle down into pro])er domestic ways, and run no 
 i-isk of getting into scrapes either at home or abroad. I 
 hope Gifford gives you plenty to do ; two guineas are much 
 too little ; but I suppose you make it help. ScobeU has 
 turned out to be a mean fellow; I always suspected guinea- 
 pigs. 
 
 "Yours faithfully, 
 
 "Hilton Claeke." 
 
 He went down the steps again, and knocked at Ross's 
 door. 
 
 " Come in." 
 
 He entered, and found the Scotchman smoking an after- 
 breakfast pipe, seated opposite a picture, and staring at it, 
 but with neither brushes nor palette in his hand. 
 
 " There ! " said Fitzgerald, triumphantly handing him 
 the letter. " Didn't I tell you so ? " 
 
 Ross read the letter through deliberately, and handed it 
 back. 
 
 " Well ? " said he. " I always thought him a scoundrel. 
 Now I think him nn impudent scoundrel. What more ? " 
 
 " I tell you he is nothing of the kind ! " said Fitzgerald, 
 indignantly. "Don't you see from that letter that he does 
 not think he has done me any injury? I told you so. I 
 told you there were people who otherwise might be admira- 
 ble enough, but who simply wanted that sixth sense about 
 money matters — " 
 
 " That sixth sense ! " said Ross, angrily. " And did not 
 I tell you not to go and confuse things by calling common 
 honestv a sixth sense? If a scoundrel in the street picks 
 
228 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 my pocket, I do not think about any sixth sense ; I give 
 him into the hands of the nearest policeman." 
 
 " But you Scotchmen are too literal, and so exacting. 
 You won't believe in a man having any virtues, unless he 
 has them all. Now this man was exceedingly good- 
 natured ; he was very friendly to me ; I am certain he does 
 not think at this minute that he did me any wrong ; he 
 simply has no conscientiousness on that one point — " 
 
 •' It's a want of conscientiousness that has landed many 
 a poor wretch in gaol who had far greater excuses than that 
 idling, selfish creature," said John Ross. " Man, I thought 
 he had opened your een. I thought it was the one good 
 turn lie had done ye. I thought he had given ye a lesson. 
 And now, I suppose, ye'll go and sign this bill ; and you'll 
 believe he'll pay it ; and the end will be — ten pounds to 
 one is the bet I will put on it — I'm saying I will bet ten 
 pounds to five shillings — that not one farthing of that 
 money will come out of anybody's pocket but your own, if 
 ye put your name on the back of the paper." 
 
 He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and continued still 
 more angrily, — 
 
 *' Man, ye do not deserve to have a young lass waiting 
 lor ye — away over there in Ireland waiting for ye — and 
 you to talk about throwing away your money on a scoun- 
 drel like that " 
 
 "But wait a minute, Ross; I'm not going to do any- 
 thing of the kind. I would not accept a bill, or back it — ■ 
 the fact is, I don't know what the 2>roper phrase is — for 
 any human being. I've seen the results of it over in our 
 district ; the Coursing Club showed me that. And indeed," 
 added Fitzgerald, going forward to look at the picture, " I 
 may soon have need of all the money I can get. There is 
 just a — a possibility of my setting up house, in a small way, 
 by and by." 
 
 " Ay ? Well, that's better news. That's sensible. But 
 don't turn the mill too hard. You were at work early this 
 morning." 
 
 " At work ? " said Fitzgerald, staring. " I have not 
 been at work at all. I have not had any breakfast yet, by 
 the way." 
 
 " Then what was all that stamping up and down for? I 
 thought ye were hammering out an epic poem." 
 
 " Oh," said Fitzgerald, vaguely, remembering that he 
 
SIIANDON BELLS, 229 
 
 might have paced up and down the room in his eagerness 
 to get persuasive plirases. "I was only writing a letter." 
 
 "It must have been a terrible business," said the other, 
 grimly. 
 
 " So it is," said Fitzgerald, perhaps a trifle absently — 
 •'to convince one who is at a great distance from you, in a 
 letter. It is difficult and disheartening at times." 
 
 Koss glanced at him keenly. 
 
 " Things are not going quite right, then ? " said he. 
 
 " Oh yes," answered Fitzgerald, with a forced cheerful- 
 ness. " Oh yes. Quite right. Oh yes, I think everytliing 
 is going quite right ; and by and by I hope you will have 
 the opportunity for presenting the Wedgwood tea-cups 
 with a pretty speech. Of course letter-writing is a round- 
 about kind of way of arranging anything; it is difficult to 
 expLain, and to persuade ; and one is so apt to take wrong 
 impressions from a letter. Especially a girl, you see, who 
 is nervous and anxious, and afraid to trust her own judg- 
 ment in taking a decided step. Any one can understand 
 that. Then — tlien — then it is very hard and difficult to 
 write, you see ; for if you are too serious, she may think 
 you are alarmed, and she may prefer the safety of remain- 
 ing as she is; and again, if you are too cheerful in trying to 
 raise her spirits, she may think that the immediate necessity 
 for coming to a decision cannot possibly be near. It is so 
 much better to see the — the person. But this time, Ross — 
 I don't mind telling you — I have made a very definite pro- 
 posal. I should not wonder if I were to leave London this 
 very week — and come back with a wife." 
 
 " Good hick to ye, then ! Now I can understand there's 
 no fear o' your letting that fellow have any more o' your 
 money." 
 
 " Of course," said Fitzgerald, handing him the other let- 
 ter, " that may have something to do wath it." 
 
 Ross glanced over Miss Chetwynd's brief note. 
 
 '' Whatever the matter is, it is important," said Fitz- 
 gerald. " She has never asked me to see her. like that be- 
 fore. Perhaps they are tired of the present arrangement. 
 Perhaps they think it costs too much ; or they may want to 
 have some one else. Well, well," said he, more cheerfully, 
 " if it is so, let it be so. One can live somehow. 1 am not 
 going to break my heart about that." 
 
 "Are ye coming out for a stroll, then?" 
 
 "Indeed no. I am going to get some breakfast; and 
 
230 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 then set to work on another article on the Irish Ballads. 
 It's wonderful with what heart you work when you know 
 the work is going to be paid for." 
 
 " It's no a common experience wi' me," said Ross, 
 dryly. 
 
 Fitzgerald was whistling to himself as he went up the 
 steps again. It was not the possibility of his losing that 
 chief means of livelihood that could daunt him. Now his 
 mind was full of far other concerns ; and he was forcing 
 himself to believe the best. When was the white day to 
 come ? At Limerick, at Inchigeelah, on the Blackwater, on 
 the Shannon, he and she together would think but little of 
 what had happened or might happen in London. Might 
 tliey not find a four-leaved shamrock somewhere in the still 
 summer woods? 
 
 He worked away at this essay on the Irish Ballads with 
 great apparent cheerfulness. When he stamped up and 
 down, as was his wont, sometimes he hummed the air of 
 one or other of the old songs he was transcribing. But when 
 he came to " Kathleen O'More *' — *' My own'little Kath- 
 leen, ni-y poor little Kathleen, my Kathleen O'More '* — he 
 did not get on so quickly. Perhaps tliere was some chance 
 association — or the bit of likeness between the names; but 
 it seemed difficult to him to copy these lines. And at last 
 the pen was pushed aside, and his head fell forward on his 
 clasped hands. 
 
 Why was Kitty at Killarney ; and why was she so cold, 
 and speaking in a voice that seemed far away and strange, 
 and not close, and tender, and familiar as in the old and 
 happy time ? She could not have forgotten Inisheen ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 IMAGININGS. 
 
 It was without concern or apprehension of any kind 
 that he went up on this evening to Hyde Park Gardens. He 
 cared not what might happen in that direction. He was 
 scarcely thinking of it. 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 231 
 
 As usual on reaching the house he left his hat and coat 
 in the hall, and carried his bundle of books and newspapers 
 upstairs to the drawing-room ; but, to his surprise, found no 
 one there. So he deposited the literature on the table, and 
 went and stood before the fire — an institution retained in 
 this house, for the mere sake of cheerfulness, long after the 
 early summer warmth had set in — and stared into the shift- 
 ing and lliciiering lights as if he could find something bo- 
 hind them. There was an absolute silence in the room. 
 
 Then a slight noise startled him from his reverie, and, 
 turning, he found Mary Chetwynd approaching him, with a 
 pleasant smile on her face. 
 
 " Good-evening, Mr. Fitzgerald," said the tall young 
 lady with the pretty head and the clear eyes. 
 
 " Good-evening," said he, very respectfully. 
 
 " Auntie's compliments, and she is very sorry she can't 
 see you this evening. She has caught a bad cold, and the 
 doctor has ordered her to keep to her room for a couple of 
 days. Won't you sit down ? " 
 
 As Miss Chetwynd gave him this invitation, she herself 
 passed over to an easy-chair near the fire. What perfect 
 self-possession she had ! Everything she did or said seemed 
 to come to her so simply and naturally ! When he ob- 
 served this quiet and serious dignity and grace of manner, 
 he could not but think of Kitty's will-o'-the-wisp flashes of 
 petulance, and affection, and coyness ; but it was with no 
 conscious desire to draw any comparison Kitty was 
 to him the one woman in the world ; there was "none like 
 her, none." 
 
 " I hope it is nothing serious ? " said he. 
 
 " Oh dear no. Not in the least. In fact, I am wicked 
 enough to look on it as opportune, for now I can speak to 
 you freely for a few minutes, if you will give me so much 
 of your time ; and I must tell you that I have a great favor 
 to ask of you, and that I am rather frightened that I may 
 not put my petition before you properly." 
 
 She did not look friglitened. She spoke pleasantly ; and 
 there was a sort of smile in her eyes. 
 
 " Perhaps 1 may be able to spare you some embarrass- 
 ment. Miss Chetwynd," said he, " if I guess wkat you want 
 to say — " 
 
 *' I don't think you could do that, exactly," was the 
 answer. 
 
 ^' Only this," he said with indifference : " if you havo 
 
i:n-2 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 any friend yon wish to put into my position here, I hope 
 you won't think twice about saying so " 
 
 "Oh, but tlint is not it at all," she said, promptly. 
 " Who could fill your position ? Who could give dear old 
 auntie that interest in everyday life that seemed to be 
 going away from her altogether? Indeed, Mr. Fitzgerald, 
 I am very grateful to you — we all are. You have made my 
 aunt quite chatty and talkative again ; and what she taika 
 most about is yourself, and your writings, aud your friend 
 the Scotch artist. Oh, that would never do." 
 
 At another time Fitzgerald would have been glad 
 enough to hear this frank and kindly speech ; for he had 
 not guessed that this was the light in which she regarded 
 the situation. But on this evening, somehow, his thoughts 
 were elsewhere ; he was indiifei-ent as to what might hap- 
 pen to him witli regard to this post of his; there was a 
 weight on his heart — he knew not why. 
 
 " You have often heard auntie speak of Boat of 
 Gari-y ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Fitzgerald, with a sudden awakening of 
 interest. For now she was three hundred miles and more 
 nearer his thoughts. 
 
 " That is what I want to speak to you about then ; and I 
 shall have to make some explanations before I put my re- 
 quest bc^fore you. No doubt you know that auntie, who is 
 generosity itself, made a present of the whole place, just as 
 it stood, horses and carriages and so forth — everything, in- 
 deed — to my poor brother." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know that," said Fitzgerald, who had heard 
 a good deal about this place on Bantry Bay from one source 
 or another, and had even imbibed the preposterous notion 
 that Miss Chetwynd had wanted to turn him into a bailiff, 
 or steward, or something of the kind. 
 
 "Fortunately my poor brotlier was pretty well off," she 
 continued, " and so he coidd keep up the place ; though 
 hunting was his favorite amusement, and he always spent 
 the winter in England. But the summer and autumn he 
 usually spent at Boat of Garry ; and sometimes auntie and 
 I went over and stayed for a while. Those were very happy 
 days for the dear old lady; for she quite worshipped her 
 boy, as she called him, and she was so proud to see him go 
 about over his own place. Her kindness to him was beyond 
 anything you can imagine. I don't know whether she has 
 ever told you, but she is dreadfully afraid of the ssa " 
 
SNA ND ON B ELLS, 233 
 
 *' I guessed as much from one or two things she hjis 
 said," Fitzgerald answered. 
 
 " I think she wns nearly drowned when a girl, or some- 
 thing like that. However, s'he detests being on the water 
 And yet she went and bought a small steam launch foi 
 Frank — for the place is rather out of the way; and she used 
 to control her nerves and go on board that detestable boat 
 — yes, and drag me too — and pretend to be quite delighted 
 when we went roaring and puffing through the beautiful 
 quiet scenery up by Glengariff, or darted about Bearhaven, 
 threatening collisions on every hand. What I thought of 
 these excursions I need not tell you " 
 
 '* I don't know much about steam-launohes, but I should 
 think ladies would not care much for them." 
 
 That was what he said ; what he was thinking of was 
 Glengariff. Had Kitty and Miss Patience passed that way ? 
 Were the roses out in the hedgerows yet? Had they 
 walked along the shore in the twilight? Ilad she tried the 
 piano in the drawing-room later on ? Did the people know 
 who she was ? Had she'sungfor them? Why had she not 
 .*-ritten ? 
 
 "Then after tlie — the dreadful accident," said Miss 
 Chetwynd — and for a moment she looked aside somewhat 
 — " you have heard about that too, I suppose, when poor 
 Frank was taken from us — I thought auntie would never 
 recover. Her interest in life seemed to be couipletely gone. 
 But what she insisted on was that Boat of Garry should be 
 left exactly as my poor brother had left it. Nothing was to 
 be touched. You see, the property had reverted to her ; 
 and she could not bear the idea of going there ; and still 
 less the idea of selling it ; and so she said it should remain 
 exactly as Frank left it. And so it has remained, from that 
 day to this." 
 
 She heaved a little sigh. 
 
 " That is the sad part of the story. Perhaps you know 
 most of it. And now I come to the request I have to make 
 of you, Mr. Fitzgerald, and it is a very plain and unsenti- 
 mental one. I Really think it a pity that a property like 
 that should be allowed to remain absolutely useless ; and 
 I am not sure that auntie would not think so also, if some 
 change could be made gradually. I don't actually wish 
 that she should sell the place, for it has been a long time in 
 the possession of her side of the family; besides, it has 
 associations for both of us. It is a long time now since my 
 
234 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 poor brother was killed ; and — and, if I may hint as much 
 again — since my aunt made your acquaintance she has been 
 much more like her former self, and less given to that 
 moping she gave way to for a time. Now don't you your- 
 self think it a pity that a place like that over at Bantry 
 should be allowed to exist without being of use to a single 
 soul ? " 
 
 "It does seem so," said Fitzgerald. *'But does no one 
 occupy it ? " 
 
 "No; that is the absurdity of it — well, why should I 
 call it an absurdity when it was only a testimony to the 
 poor old lady's grief ? No one occupies it. We have to 
 pay — at least my aunt pays — for keeping up the whole 
 establishment ; and all that we get from it is a hamper of 
 game now and again in the autumn, or a salmon. There 
 tlie whole place is — horses, a coachman, a gamekeeper, a 
 yachtsman, and two woman-servants ; and I suppose the 
 only person who makes any use of the j^lace is Mr. McGee, 
 the solicitor in Bantry, for when he goes round to pay the 
 wages, and that, I suppose he lias some shooting, or a sail 
 in the steam-launch. I proposed some time ago to my aunt 
 that she should at least bring the horses and carriages to 
 London ; but when poor old auntie said nothing at all, but 
 only turned away to hide the tears in her eyes, what further 
 could I urge? You see, they were his horses. He was 
 proud of them. So with the steam-launch. She would not 
 hear of its being sold. In fact, for a long time any refer- 
 ence to the place was so distressing to her that I did not 
 even mention it, except when I had to draw out a check for 
 Mr. McGee, and then it was simply, 'Auntie dear, Mr. 
 McGee wants so much.' You may think all this an absurd 
 piece of sentiment ; perhaps it is ; but then, you see, I am 
 Frank's sister, and I know how kind my aunt was to him : 
 and if she has still this feeling about preserving intact what 
 belonged to him, I don't find it altogether ridiculous." 
 
 "I hope not," said I'itzgerald, gently. He thought she 
 spoke very prettily about "his matter. He should not have 
 thought she had so much sympathy. 
 
 " But now," she said — " now that time has gone by, and 
 auntie seems a little more cheerful, I think some effort 
 should be made to get some good out of the place. I don't 
 know that I am very penurious, but 1 assure you I do 
 grudge to have to draw out checks to keep up a perfectly 
 useless place like that. Perhaps it is because I sec a good 
 
Sl/ANDO^V BELLS.\^n^j , ^^ 
 
 deal of want and trouble and misery that my conscience 
 rebels against throwing away money lil^ that." 
 
 " Surely you are quite right," said Fitzgerald, though he 
 did not quite know why he should be appealed to. " If 
 Mrs. Chetwynd does not wish to sell the place, and if it 
 would be painful for her to go and live in it, why might she 
 not let it ? If the shooting is fair, it ought to let. The 
 neighborhood is pretty enough." 
 
 " That is what I tliink too," said Mary Chetwynd, with 
 that placid, intelligent smile of hers. "But the only per- 
 son who could induce her to let the place, and so save all 
 this expense, is yourself, Mr. Fitzgerald ; and now you know 
 why I have ventured to ask you to do me a great favor." 
 
 " I ? W hat could I do about it ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 " If I were to go now and ask auntie to let Boat of 
 Garry," said Miss Chetwynd, " she would think me very 
 cruel and hard-hearted. The idea of turning in a stranger 
 to succeed to poor Frank's dog-cart, and his gun-room, and 
 the little cabin in the steam-yacht — that would be quite 
 terrible to her. But she might get accustomed to the idea. 
 She would not mind your going over and occupying the 
 place. She has a great regard for you. You are about 
 Frank's age ; you know about sliooting : it would seem 
 natural enough to her that you should go over and live at 
 Boat of G»rry for a time. That once done, the rest would 
 be easy. There would be no difficulty about persuading her 
 to let it next year to one or other of our friends — some of 
 the scientifics, as she calls them, are very fond of shooting. 
 I know I am asking a great deal," she continued, quickly, 
 for she saw that he looked rather astonished. "You are 
 making your way in literature, and tliis looks as if you 
 might be taken away from that for a considerable time. 
 But would it be so ? I can not imagine any place better 
 fitted for literary work, unless, indeed, you found it really 
 too solitary ; and then you could send across to Bantry, and 
 you may be sure that Mr. McGee, who is a sporting char- 
 acter, would be only too glad to join you. Then, again — 
 you see, Mr. Fitzgerald," she said, with a laugh, " I have to 
 begin by persuading you, and if I fail with you, I am done 
 altogether — you would have the kind of holiday that would 
 just suit you, according to all accounts. You would have 
 fishing, shooting, and boating, in a sort of country that you 
 are familiar with. You have been very close at work, I 
 
23G SHAXDON BELLS. 
 
 should judge, since you came to London. You have 
 scarcely ever been out of London." 
 
 " But," said he, in rather a bewildered way, " do you 
 mean tliis ? Is it an actual proposal — that 1 should go to 
 Ireland now?" 
 
 " Oh no, not at all," she said pleasantly. "It is only a 
 project of mine. My prayer to you is that if auntie should 
 suggest your going over to Ireland, and taking your holi- 
 day in that way, you won't refuse. I have put the whole 
 situation of affairs before you ; and if you cared to take 
 your holiday that way, it would be, as you see, conferring 
 a great obligation on us, and on me especially, for you 
 would be helping me to carry out my plan." 
 
 It was a prospect that ought to have been alluring 
 enough to a young man of his habits and occupations. 
 But he could not tliink of that now. There was something 
 of far greater import to him and his future occupying his 
 thoughts. 
 
 " You mean this year ? " he says. *' Now ? " 
 
 " I am not sure about * now,' " she said. " Well, say 
 ' now,' or as soon as I can get my aunt coaxed to make the 
 The salmon-fishing has begun, has it not?" 
 I am sorry," said he, rather breathlessly, " but- — but I 
 may be called away to Ireland on important affairs within 
 the very next few days ; I could not pledge myself with 
 any certainty — " 
 
 And then a wild idea occurred to him— an idea that 
 sent the blood rushing to his brain. AYhat if the two ex- 
 cursions could be combined? What if he were to take 
 Kitty to Boat of Garry instead of to Inisheen ? Here, in- 
 deed, was a project ! Poor Kitty, whose imagination had 
 been bothered by vain dreams of driving a carriage and 
 pair! here was the very carriage and pair provided for her, 
 and the quietest of country residences for the honeymoon, 
 and a yacht at her disposal, and servants and all awaiting 
 her! Could anything be more opportune? Was there 
 ever such a coincidence in human history ? Of course ho 
 knew that great people frequently lent their country-seat 
 to a bridegroom and bride as a safe and pleasant i-etreat 
 during the honeymoon ; but that he and Kitty should be 
 suddenly and unexpectedly provided with this paradise 
 down by the sea — that, surely, was a thing that never could 
 have entered her brain, even when she was dreaming of the 
 bliss of having a carriage and pair, and being rich, and 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 237 
 
 driving through pretty scenery. Moreover, vs ould it not 
 be a great inducement for her to fix a definite time? Could 
 she withstand the pictures he would draw of this happy and 
 secret retirement there ? 
 
 '' But," said he, quickly, " did you mean that it was 
 necessary that I should go to Boat of Garry alone ? " 
 
 " Alone ? Not at all," said she. " I spoke of your being 
 there alone in case you might want to continue your liter- 
 ary work. Of course I don't think I could induce auntie 
 to let you take with you, although you are a great favorite 
 of hers, a big party of strangers " 
 
 " Oh, I don't mean that at all," said Fitzgerald, hastily. 
 His brain was painting pictures with such vivid colors as 
 John Ross never squeezed out of any tin tube. 
 
 "It would be a great favor to me," continued Miss 
 Chetwynd, seeing that he was now considering her scheme, 
 " and it would be a pleasant holiday for you, and it would 
 be doing a service to poor old auntie. She would see that 
 very soon. The present state of aifairs could not possibly 
 continue; and I am sure, once the gradual change was 
 made, she would be the first to acknowledge that it was 
 right. To tell you the truth, Mr. Fitzgerald, I was once a 
 little afraid of that fixed idea of hers. I did not like it, 
 especially when she was alone, her melancholy seemed to 
 get so morbid and hopeless. But now that she has come 
 back to the old interest in everyday affairs, surely now is 
 the time to get her to give up this too sensitive repugnance 
 of hers to having Boat of Garry touched in any way ; and 
 I don't see any one else who can do it so easily as you. I 
 do not know whether it has occurred to you," she continued 
 — and for the first time she showed a little embarrassment 
 — " but I think my aunt wishes to put you, as far as is now 
 possible, in Frank's place — I mean in her little world of 
 friendships and interests ; and sometimes I am quite startled, 
 when I come into the room accidentally, to Loar her chatting 
 to you in exactly the same tone she used to use to him. She 
 thinks you are exactly his height; but you are an inch and a 
 half taller — two inches, perhaps. And dear old auntie for- 
 gets a little ; and now she thinks that poor Frank was just 
 as fond of books and writing and poetry and all that as you 
 are, whereas there was nothing Frank hated so much as a 
 book, except British Rural Sports^ and Colotiel Hawker's 
 volume, and the Fields on Sunday morning. You won't 
 find much of a library at Boat of Garry if you go there. Do 
 
238 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 you think it is hard of me to speak of my dead brother like 
 that? Sometimes I think I have less than my share of 
 natural affection, when I find I can't quite believe all that 
 poor old auntie believes about him. And yet I was very 
 fond of him. The world seemed quite changed for me 
 when he died ; there seemed to be no one with whom I 
 ever could be so intimate, and who did me so much good 
 in talking plain common sense when I was inclined to at- 
 tempt impossible things. And yet when I find how com- 
 mon such sorrows are, I sometimes think that I grieve too 
 much, and that I should try not to think about him at all, 
 but to go on with my work, such as it is, and let everything 
 be for the best. Only the world seemed to get so empty 
 when he was taken away from us. I cared more for his 
 approval than for anybody's, although he was not clever. 
 I could not bear his laughing at me. I used to go out with 
 him when he went shooting' though the cry of a hare when 
 it was struck cut my heart like a knife. The smallest 
 present he made me was of more value than anything any- 
 body else could give me. He used to call me his ' little 
 girl,' though I was quite as tall as he was — perhaps a trifle 
 taller. And — although I am not very sentimental — still, 
 to tell you the truth, Mr. Fitzgerald, I should not like the 
 idea — not just yet — of your taking a big party of strangers 
 to — to — Frank's house." 
 
 " Oh of course not," said he, instantly. " I did not dream 
 of such a thing." 
 
 She was a little tremulous about the lips — only for a 
 second. 
 
 " If any one went with me,'' said he, thinking it better 
 she should know the truth, " it would be my wdfe." 
 
 " But you are not married Mr. Fitzgerald ? " she ex- 
 claimed, with wonder in her eyes. 
 « No " 
 
 ** But you are going to be ? " she said, with a quick in- 
 terest. 
 
 Then her eyes dropped. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I really beg your pardon," she 
 said, as she rose. " I have taken up so much of your time. 
 You ought to have stopped my chatter. Well, may I as- 
 sume that you are my accomplice ? '* 
 
 "Miss Chetwynd," said he, with a smile, " I have a suspi- 
 cion that your ways are very like your aunt's ways, and 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 239 
 
 that you contrive kindnesses under the guise of begging for 
 a favor." 
 
 " On the contrary," she said, as she gave him her hand, 
 *' my motives are distinctly mercenary. I don't want that 
 money to be thrown away from year to year for nothing ; 
 and I ask for your help. At the same time I am not say- 
 ing that you might not have a pleasant holiday there. Good- 
 night, and thank you so much." 
 
 Even in his eager haste to get outside and consider all 
 the bearings of this new proposal that he would lay before 
 Kitty, he could not but carry away with him a pleasant im- 
 pression from this little interview. Mary Chetwynd had 
 been so gentle, so kind, and serious, and true in manner, so 
 good an example (as he thought) of an accomplished and 
 amiable and frank young English gentlewoman, that he 
 had a little remorse about it all. Perhaps he had misunder 
 stood her somewhat. It did not appear that her heart had been 
 altogether hardened by scornful knowledge : what if there 
 were no such deadly antagonism, after all, between senti- 
 ment and science? How nicely she had spoken of old Mrs. 
 Chetwynd ! what true affection breathed in her little simple 
 sentences about her brother ! Even that bit of embarrass- 
 ment seemed so womanly : she had instantly withdrawn her 
 questions for fear of giving offence. And if she were to 
 prove the means of putting this great happiness within the 
 reach of Kitty and himself, would he not seek some oppor- 
 tunity in the future to show that he was not altogether in- 
 sensible of her kindness ? 
 
 But the immediate thing was to let Kitty know. He 
 was so anxious to put any additional inducement before 
 her ; and certainly this one — as his quick imagination pic- 
 tured it — was of sufficient value. But would it appeal in 
 like measure to Kitty ? Would she be able to see all those 
 fascmating glimpses of their life together in the house by 
 the sea that now crowded in on his mind? What a pity it 
 was he had not been able to add this temptation to his 
 letter of that morning ! No matter ; by the time she reached 
 Limerick both letters would probably be awaiting her at 
 the post-office. 
 
 Then in his impatience he walked to a telegraph office, 
 and sent ofE this message to her : " If you are remaining at 
 Killarney, ask letters to be forwarded from Limerick. Do 
 not answer first letter till you get second. Telegraph if 
 this reached." 
 
240 SHANDON BELLS 
 
 This second letter was the one that he was now hurry- 
 ing home to write. And tliese were bright-colored pictures 
 that he saw before him in tlie gray dusk of the evening, as 
 he went ra])idly along the London streets. He somewhat 
 forced himself to think of them. There was something else 
 he would not think of — tliai he put away. This was the 
 immediate question : whether Kitty also would not be 
 fascinated by tliese new possibilities? Had she already had 
 a passing glance at the beauties of Glengariff ? — then she 
 would know the sort of country through which she could 
 have her daily drives in that coveted carriage and pair. 
 Would she come part of the way up the hill in the evening 
 to meet him on his return from the shooting? Would she 
 take a book with her and sit on tlie river-bank, among the 
 warm grass and the meadow-sweet, while with a big 
 sweep of the rod he dropped the great salmon-fly into 
 the deep and distant pool ? And then lie knew that 
 Kitty would jump nj) with a shriek of delight when the 
 struggle began ; and she would watch with wide eyes the 
 rushes and the sharp and dangerous leaps of the big 
 fish ; and by and by, when victory was becoming sure, 
 would she stand by his side with the gaft" ready to his 
 hand ? For one thing, Kitty was not the best of sailors. 
 But then you could so quickly run back again in a steam- 
 launch if there was anything like a sea on outside ; and 
 no doubt still days would occur on which she might, all by 
 herself, as it were — imagine Kitty in sole command of a 
 steamer ! — sail all the way around by Dursey Head into 
 Kenmare River, while he shot across the Slieve Miskish 
 heights, if the Boat of Garry shootings extended so far. 
 And then to think of his being away up there in the wilder- 
 ness of rock and heather, and far below him the little toy 
 steamer, and the tiniest figure sitting in the stern reading. 
 Can the dog-whistle reach as far? Or the view halloo of 
 the keeper to the engine-man Or is it Kitty herself who 
 first catches sight of them, and starts up, and waves a hand- 
 kerchief ? It is almost a race down the hill at last ; and 
 then the little boat is sent ashore, and they are pulled out 
 to the small steamer, and the birds and the big brown 
 hares are all laid out on deck. And then away to sea 
 again in the golden evening, with the long headlands grow- 
 ing warmer in color as the sun sinks, and the Atlantic 
 murmuring all along the solitary coasts. Would there be 
 a piano at Boat of Garry ? Or would their evenings be 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 241 
 
 Bpent out of doors mostly, until the stars began to be visible 
 over the trees? Kitty was fond of the din-kness and of 
 silence; they would hear the curlews calling along tiie shore 
 as they went home through the meadows. 
 
 It was of Kitty at Boat of Garry, not of Kitty at Kil- 
 larney, that he forced himself to think. Also he per- 
 suaded himself that this way of spending the honeymoon 
 would be a very inexpensive one. Kitty must admit 
 that. There would be no hotel bills, no costs by road or 
 rail. Kitty was almost in the neighborhood; the travel 
 ling would be nothing. Would it be asking too much 
 that the carriage should meet them at Kenmare to take 
 them up and over the gaunt mountain-road until they 
 descended into the leafy woods of Glengariff ? No doubt 
 the horses would be the better for some good stiff work 
 now ; it was far from probable that the coachman had taken 
 them out for regular exercise in a place where there was 
 no master. 
 
 These points and many more were put before Kitty in 
 this second letter. It was a very matter of fact letter. It 
 assumed that Kitty would be as delighted as himself with this 
 opportune proposal. Why should he implore and beseech ? 
 — would not his faithful Kitty rejoice as he rejoiced to see 
 their dearest hopes within easy reach of fulfilment? And 
 it behooved him to be very business-like now. Kitty need 
 not be afraid of the cost of the wedding ; the simpler the bet- 
 ter. And if he disingenuously omitted to mention all the 
 minute points of the case — if, without being guilty of any 
 misstatement whatsoever, he still left it possible for Kitty to 
 imagine that this proposal that they should occupy Boat of 
 Garry had been made by the Chetwynds with especial refer- 
 ence to her marriage trip — what harm was there in Kitty 
 innocently believing that these two ladies wished to be 
 kind to her? 
 
 So he went and posted that letter too. All that he 
 could do he had done. Then he walked back to the court- 
 yard, found John Ross at home, and the rest of the evening 
 was spent in the Scotchman's studio. 
 
 For Fitzgerald had grown half afraid of sitting by him- 
 self in the solitary room upstairs. Sometimes strange 
 imaginings would flash across his brain — fears that took his 
 breath away — that were hateful and horrible — that were as 
 unworthy of himself as they were cruel to the true-hearted 
 
242 SIIANDON BELLS, 
 
 and tender-eyed Kitty, who was so far away, with no one 
 to speak for her innocence and honor and faith, if he should 
 dare to doubt. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE REVELATION. 
 
 The days passed ; no message of any kind, no letter, no 
 telegram, came to these poor lodgings in the Fulhara Road. 
 No work Avas possible for him. He kept pacing up and 
 down the room, listening for the postman, or idly wander- 
 ing through the streets of Chelsea, always certain that her 
 reply would be awaiting him there on his return. If he 
 thought of anything, it was of how he and she together 
 would occupy the mornings and days and long summer 
 evenings at Boat of Garry. His eyes were turned to the 
 south. He seemed to keep his face averted from Killarney. 
 Limerick was a blank to him. 
 
 He tried to avoid John Ross ; but Ross was not to be 
 avoided. He came upstairs, regarded Fitzgerald for a 
 second, looked suspiciously round — as was his wont, indeed, 
 for his eyes seemed to take in everything — and forthwith 
 drove his neighbor down into the studio, where Fitzgerald 
 found that a sumptuous supper (according to their notions 
 down that way) had been prepared for two. 
 
 " I have noticed ye, my man," said Ross, " once or 
 twice of late. Ye are at it again." 
 
 " At what ? " 
 
 " Starving yourself." 
 
 " Indeed I am not. Why should I starve myself when 
 I have four pounds a week, with chances of more?" 
 
 Ross muttered something to himself, as he brought one 
 or two further things to the supper table. Then he fetched 
 a bottle of beer for his companion, and they both sat down. 
 I'itzgerald began to talk about a railway accident that had 
 liaj)pened the iDrevious day, but Ross had other thoughts in 
 his mind. 
 
 " Ye are not starving yourself, then ? " said he, glancing 
 at his neighbor. 
 
 " Not in the least." 
 
SI7AND0X BELLS. 243 
 
 "Ye are not looking well, then. Ye keep too much 
 indoore, and too much in town. Ye'll forget what the 
 country is like if ye go on like this ; and fine leeterature 
 you'll turn out then ! — leeterature with a white face and 
 bloodless hands. What the mischief do ye mean?" ho 
 exclaimed, suddenly. " No meat ? " 
 
 Fitzgerald had pushed his plate away, and was merely 
 playing with a bit of crust. 
 
 ^" l1iad something," he said, evasively. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " Oh, not verv long ago." 
 
 *' When ? " said the other. 
 
 " Well, about the middle of the day." 
 
 " And so ye have got yourself into the habit of eating 
 nothing after two o'clock?" 
 
 He himself was busy enough. For a time Fitzgerald 
 had all the talking. What he talked about was merely the 
 current news of the papers. 
 
 " There's an article I would like to see ye write ; ye 
 might do some good wi't," said Ross at length. 
 
 " What do you charge for supplying subjects to poor 
 authors ? " 
 
 " Oh, but it's no for fine lecterary treatment, this. It's 
 a sledge-hammer ye want to smash down a piece of meeser- 
 able hypocrisy. I want ye to denounce the perueecious 
 sympathy that ye find expressed in books — and mostly in 
 weemen's books, I may say — for the genteel folk who are 
 * keeping up appearances,' and for the trouble they suffer in 
 consequence. Lord save us ! these are the people we are 
 to sympathize wi' — people whose vanity makes them live 
 at eight hundred pounds a year, Avhen they have only three 
 hundred pounds ; and it's a ' proper pride' ; and they're 
 doing the best for the family. A proper pride that must 
 suffer some stings, I should think, M^hen the unpaid 
 tradesmen come ringing at the door. And then the way 
 tliey are described as peetying themselves, and sighing with 
 resignation over their struggles, just as if God had decreed 
 them to have hired broughams, and dinner parties, and 
 their daughters at boarding-schools, and what not; and as 
 if their no being able to settle their bills was something 
 they could not make out ! No ; it is their right to live in 
 such a way ; it never occurs to them that if they have three 
 luuidred pounds a year, they'd better live on that, or less ; 
 they have to keep up appearances, and vou and me are 
 
241 SIIANDON bells'. 
 
 expected to have Ji great peety for all they suffer through 
 their perneeeious vanity and pretence. If they choose to 
 live beyond ttieir income, let them smart for it ! — why 
 should I peety them ? I peety the butchers and green- 
 grocers that they plunder ; or, worse still, that they leave 
 so long unpaid that the poor man, for want of ready raoney, 
 is forced to take to overcharging and trade dodges, and in a 
 measure becoines a thief. Now I am told," said he, fixing 
 his keen eyes on Fitzgerald for a second, "that you Irish 
 are rayther given to that keeping up of appearances ; that 
 is to say, living at a rate ye can not ])roperly afford." 
 
 Fitzgerald suspected as much. These homilies of Ross's 
 generally ended with a personal application. 
 
 " Some of the small squireens are pretty much given 
 that way," he said, "but I suppose you'll find about an 
 equal amount of pretentiousness everywhere among the 
 poor genteel. It isn't easy for them to give up the way of 
 living they have been used to." 
 
 " But it's the beginning, my lad," said the other. *' It's 
 the beginning to live beyond your means that's the mis- 
 chief. Now you, for exami)le — how are you going to 
 begin ? " 
 
 " I told you. In two small rooms, I hope, at perhaps 
 eight or ten shillings a week. Then we shall look about 
 for a house." 
 
 " What size ? " 
 
 " Small. But I know what you are thinking of, Ross, 
 and there's no use beating about the bush. You are think- 
 ing that I am starving myself, being too keen in saving up 
 money ; and that this probably means that I shall start 
 housekeeping in too expensive a way. I think that is 
 about what you are afraid of." 
 
 " It is," said the other, promptly. " You have just hit 
 it. I can not understand the use of such violent means. I 
 take it that when two young people get married, they 
 should accommodate themselves reasonably and fairly to 
 their income — not starving yourself, Inddie — and when cir- 
 cumstances improve, let their expenditure grow. But if 
 ye begin at the beginning with a vain pretence of genteelity, 
 and get into trouble, do ye expect I am going to peety ye ? 
 Not one jot." 
 
 "No; what you would do would be to lend us money," 
 said Fitzgerald, who knew the ways of this ]>urson. "But 
 there's no starvation in the case — not the least " i 
 
SlIANDOy BELLS. 24.'; 
 
 "Then what is the matter with ye? Where got yo 
 til at grayness in the face ? " said his friend, whose eyes 
 missed nothing. 
 
 " 1 have been working hard," said the other, evasively, 
 " and been anxious a little about one or two things." 
 
 " I wish ye could bring that young lass over here and 
 marry her straight off," said Ross, bluntly. 
 
 " That may not be so far away," was Fitzgerald's an- 
 swer ; and his friend — though he waited for a second, re- 
 garding him, as if he expected him to say more — accepted 
 Fitzgerald's silence, and forbore to press him with any 
 question. 
 
 Next morning there was again neither letter nor tele- 
 gram. This suspense was more than he could bear. He 
 hastily w^ent to the telegraph office, and sent messages both 
 to Killarney and Limerick, asking w^hether she had not re- 
 ceived his communications. More than that, he telegraphed 
 to the postmaster at Limerick, asking to be informed 
 ■whether letters addressed to Miss Romayne had been sent 
 or called for. 
 
 The day passed somehow ; there was no answer. And 
 now he made sure she could be neither at Killarney nor at 
 Limerick; and a thousand conjectures filled his anx- 
 ious mind as to what might have happened. He went 
 back over her letters. There she had used the phrase " make 
 our way " to Limerick ; and it occurred to him that in- 
 stead of coming back by rail to Mallow, and so getting 
 north, it was just possible she and Miss Patience might 
 have tried to get round by Tralee and Listowel, taking the 
 stage-coaches. And although they were both pretty ex- 
 perienced travellers, who could tell what slight "misadven- 
 ture might not have detained them somewhere in these 
 western wilds? It was the only possible explanation of 
 Kitty's silence. And again he convinced himself that 
 there could not have been any serious accident, or that 
 would have found its way to the papers. That truant 
 Kitty, to go and lose herself among these Kerry moun- 
 tains ! 
 
 Then, when he was least expecting it, there came to 
 him a letter, or brief note rather. 
 
 Killarney, Thursday Morning, 
 "Deab Willie, — ^You di-ive me to say that you are 
 very inconsiderate in worrying me with these constant 
 
246 SJMNDON BELLS. 
 
 letters and telegrams. I meet with so much consideration 
 and kindness on every hand that it is all the more surpris- 
 ing to find you so exacting and impatient. That would not 
 seem a pleasing prospect to any one. I have not sent for 
 your letters to the Limerick Post-office, because there would 
 not be time. We leave here to-morrow, and do not go to 
 Limerick, the engagement bemg cancelled. But I dare 
 say I know what is in them; and I am rather tired of arguing. 
 Besides, you do not seem to think of anything but your 
 own wishes. How could I turn adrift Miss Patience, who 
 has no means of livelihood whatever? She has been most 
 faithful and good and kind to me ; and of course I could 
 not send her away without making some provision for her. 
 I am sure I wish to please every one — especially those who 
 have been very kind to me ; but it is sometimes so dis- 
 tracting to try to please everybody that sometimes I don't 
 know what I may not do. But please be a little forbear- 
 ing with me ; you are so impetuous. 
 
 " Your affectionate Kitty " 
 
 He stared at the letter in dumb amazement. Was it really 
 Kitty who had written that ? Was it the Kitty with whom 
 he had walked arm in arm through the hawthorn lanes on 
 the Sunday mornings — who could find no speech soft 
 enough, no caressings endearing enough, no words of love 
 true and close and near enough, for him — who was now re- 
 proaching him with his want of consideration, and taunt- 
 ing him with the suggestion that others were kinder than 
 he ? Was it possible for a woman's heart to change so ? 
 He would not look at the intermediate time ; he would not 
 think of tlje last six or eight months' letters ; it was the 
 Kitty of Inisheen that he was thinking of — it was the Kitty 
 who had stretched her warm, trembling little hand to him 
 across the stream down in the darkness, and repeated the 
 pledge that gave each to the other, and looked up and 
 kissed him when the lovers' vows were over. Was this 
 the same Kitty ? 
 
 But she could not have changed so. He would not be- 
 lieve it. Kitty had been put out of temper by something ; 
 and at such times she wrote hurriedly, a little incoherently, 
 sometimes heedless of her grammar even. What he would 
 do would be to take the matter in his own hands. He 
 would go and get hold of Kitty herself — ^that was the first 
 thing. Once he had a grip of her small, warm fingers, he 
 
SITANDON BELLS. 247 
 
 should feel safe. Poor lass, she had become petulant 
 tlirougli being left so mucli alone. He would press back 
 the hair from her forehead, and smile away the evil spirit 
 from her eyes. 
 
 But it suddenly struck him that she had not said 
 where she was going. Was he to lose all clue to her 
 whereabouts, then ? Was she to remain for an indefinite 
 time in this petulant mood? Then a strange sort of fear 
 — that seemed to go through his heart like a red-hot wire — 
 stabbed him, as it were; and in a blind and bewildered 
 way he went down the stairs, and went in to Ross's 
 studio. 
 
 " Ross," said he — and Ross certainly stared at him, for 
 his manner was unusual — "I wouldn't show you a love- 
 letter ; but this isn't much of a love-letter. I wish you 
 would look at it, and tell me what you think." 
 
 He seemed rather breathless. 
 
 " Have you had any quai-rel ? " said John Ross, when 
 he had read the letter slowly and carefully. 
 
 " Quarrel ? Not a shadow of a quarrel," he said, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Will I tell ye what I think?" said his friend, watch- 
 ing his expression closelv. 
 
 " Why not ? Why not ? That's what I want." 
 
 " I think that young lass is going to marry another 
 man." 
 
 Fitzgerald reached out his hand, and took back the 
 letter. 
 
 " You are quite wrong," he said, quietly, but with his 
 face very gray and haggard. "You are quite mistaken 
 about that. You don't know my — my darling." 
 
 He went away without another word ; and Ross knew 
 better than to follow him. 
 
 His faithfulness fought on to the end. He would not 
 bolieve it. It was not in human nature. The heart of a 
 woman could not be so treacherous. It was not possible 
 /or the Kitty whom he had clasped to his breast on the 
 fihore there at Inisheen, when her face was wet with tears 
 in the moonlight — it was not possible for that Kitty to be 
 gayly smiling a love smile into other eyes. He had heard 
 her heart beat. 
 
 There came a letter : — 
 
 DuBLiis", Jxine 2. 
 
 ''Dear Mr. Fitzgerald, — In the hurry of packing, 
 
248 S/fAA'DON BELLS. 
 
 I have been commissioned to acquaint you with a piece of 
 news, whicli I fear will cause you some pain, though prob- 
 ably but little surprise. Miss Romayne is to be married 
 to Mr. Cobbs to-morrow morning ; and I believe they go 
 to the Isle of Man afterwards, where Mr. Cobbs has some 
 friends. For my part, I must say I am heartily glad of it ; 
 for although Miss Romayne has always been kind to me, 
 and remains so, her, successive flirtations have only caused 
 me eiribarrassment ; and I have often been suspected of 
 influencing her to favor this one or reject the other, when 
 in truth I took no interest at .all in such trivial matters. 
 What I can not help regretting is the £40 that will have to 
 be paid to the Limerick people for her cancelling the en- 
 gagement ; but Mr. Cobbs has plenty of money, and prob- 
 ably they regard that as a small matter now. I have 
 some things to send back to you, but can not get a proper 
 box before the morning. It shall be registered. 
 
 " Yours sincerely, E. Patience." 
 
 There was one word added to this letter — in another 
 and trembling handwriting. It was in a corner. It was 
 the word ^'•Forgive.''' 
 
 The drowning man, we have often been told, sees all 
 the chief events of his life pass before him — a procession of 
 clear and startling pictures — in time limited to seconds. 
 This man saw wild and sudden visions too, as he l^ent for- 
 ward his brow on his clasped hands ; but these rapid, be- 
 wildering, heart-breaking scenes had always for their cen- 
 tral figure a woman. All the rest of his life was forgotten. 
 The beautiful pictures ! — filled with the color and sunlight 
 of young love and hope ; and even in the midst of them — 
 whether by sea or shore, in rocky glen or on the breezy 
 hillside — some one laughing with parted lips, and smiling 
 with glad eyes. But then this other vision that would in- 
 trude : it was like the dreadful thing that Heine saw : 
 " That was a merry bridal feast ; joyfully the guests sat at 
 the table ; but when I regarded the bridal pair — Ah, God, 
 my darling was the hride ! " 
 
 Was the blow unexpected, then ? No. For days and 
 weeks he had been living under the shadow of this name- 
 less fear. It had been like a black cloud over him; he 
 would not look at it ; he tried to escape from it ; he tried 
 to argue it out of .existence. He would not confess to a 
 doubt of Kitty's honor and faith. Had she not kissed hini 
 
SHAND ON BELLS 219 
 
 by the side of tlie stream where they tiad plighted their 
 troth together? 
 
 And now he had nothing to say about perjured lips, or 
 women's deceit, or anything of the kind. The wound had 
 struck deeper than that. It had struck at the very founda- 
 tions of his faith in human nature. Rather vaguely and 
 thoughtfully — for these pictures of Inisheen were still before 
 his eyes — he got his hat and stick, and w^ent out into the mild 
 summer air. The day was fine; the people seemed busy. 
 He only knew that life was over for him ; that the world 
 had nothing left for him — except, it might be, a few memo- 
 ries : he was without interest, or care, or hope, though 
 the lad had scarcely touched his four-and-twentieth year. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 " SIE TKAGEN ZU DIE, O GELIEBTE ! " 
 
 It is midday on the first of June ; the skies are clear 
 and this old-fashioned coach goes jolting, and rattling, and 
 swinging away through the lonely country that lies between 
 Drimoleague and Bantry Bay. The w^arm summer air is 
 sweetened, now W'ith the fragrance of the abundant honey- 
 suckle, now with a whiff of peat smoke from one of those 
 poor stone hovels near the wayside. There are plenty of 
 beautiful things to charm the eye of the traveller. There 
 are masses of blue forget-me-nots in the marshy pools. 
 The waste bog-land has its own rich hues ; and these rude 
 stone walls that enclose the miserable bit of farm or garden 
 are surmounted by golden gorse. Even the far-reaching 
 sterile hills, where the scant pasturage scarcely tints the 
 barren rock, have their qualities of color that a painter might 
 observe. For the day is beautiful ; the air is clear, and the 
 sunshine falls so strongly that the shadows under the hedge- 
 rows or under a steep bank seem quite black — and yet not 
 the opaque black that a palette would give — but a sensitive, 
 deep-reaching, luminous blackness that reveals things wdth- 
 in itself, and that is cut across outside by the sharp-pointed 
 spears of the iris, a brilliant deep strong green in the sun- 
 light. 
 
250 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 The solitary passenger by this mail-coach regards these 
 things with a minute and close and mechanical attention ; 
 perhaps he forces himself so to regard them. He has come 
 through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, as it were : 
 there is a black cloud behind him, and he durst not look 
 that way ; he busies himself, and strives to busy himself, 
 with the phenomena of the visible world around him. And 
 while he fondly imagines that he is contemplating these 
 phenomena with the calm and dispassionate eye of an artist 
 — looking at the waste bog-land and the poor hovels and 
 the sad far hills with a view to guessing at their value in 
 color — in reality he is reading human sorrow, and the 
 tragedy of human life, into every sight and sound that 
 meets him. 
 
 But the first glimpse of the broad waters of BantryBay 
 made his heart leap with pain. Visions and dreams that 
 had occupied days not so far bygone seemed to dazzle his 
 eyes for a moment, but only for a moment. With a terrible 
 effort he put them away. He would not confess to that 
 quick sharp quiver at the heart. He was studying this 
 beautiful picture as John Ross might have studied it. 
 Look at the great width of the sea, with its armlets stretch- 
 ing in between the sunny browns and greens of the head- 
 lands. So still is the summer air, so calm and clear is the 
 summer sky, that the blue of these far-reaching arms of 
 water is a dull and almost opaque blue — a sort of sealing 
 wax blue — looking molten and heavy in the spaces between 
 the wooded islands and the rocks. The hills on the other 
 side, that stretch away out to the lonely Atlantic, seem 
 desolate and uninhabited. It is a sad picture, despite the 
 loveliness of the summer day. But if one wishes to lose 
 one's self — to get away from the world, to seek out the 
 secret haunts of nature, and find solace and forgetfulnes 
 there — surely these remote shores, these voiceless hills and 
 glens, may afford a resting-place for the tortured soul. 
 
 He had to encounter strange faces at Glengariff. At 
 the pretty hotel there, which from a distance seemed to bo 
 half smothered among trees and flowers and shrubs, he 
 found a number of the visitors sitting outside, some having 
 afternoon tea at small tables, others playing chess, or smok- 
 ing, or chatting ; and doubtless they would regard the new- 
 comer wdth sufficient curiosity. No matter ; he was soon 
 inside, and there he asked if he might have a room for the 
 night. 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 251 
 
 " Mr. Fitzgerald, I presume ? " said the landlady. 
 
 " That is my name," said he, with some astonishment. 
 
 " A room has been kept for you," she said ; and Fitz- 
 gerald could only ask himself why he had been astonished, 
 for indeed the though tfulness and kindness of those Chet- 
 wynds went beyond all bounds. 
 
 ** I suppose," said he, " I can get the Castletown mail-car 
 in the morning?" 
 
 "But you won't need that, sir," said the good landlady, 
 " for the carriage is coming from Boat of Garry for you at 
 half past ten, if that is convenient. I was to give you the 
 message from Mr. McGee. Mr. McGee has been down to 
 Boat of Garry to see that everything is in readiness for you ; 
 and I was to say that he was very sorry he could not stay 
 to meet you here, as he had important business at Kenmare 
 to-day." 
 
 " Oh, indeed." 
 
 " Visitors' book sir," said a waiter, opening a large vol- 
 ume that lay on the hall table, 
 
 " Oh yes," said Fitzgerald, and he mechanically took the 
 peD and wrote his name. 
 
 Then he lingered, glancing over the other names on the 
 page, as is the fashion of new arrivals. He had his finger 
 and thumb on the leaf, as if he meant to pursue this aimless 
 inquiry, whf-n all at once he seemed to recall himself : he 
 shut the book hastily, and turned, as if afraid that some one 
 had been watching him, then he went to his room, and re- 
 mained there until dinner time. He sat at the open window, 
 looking at the beautiful foliage, and listening to the birds, 
 and trying to think of nothing but these. He would not con- 
 fess to himself what sudden and frightful suspicion it was 
 that had made him so hurriedly shut the visitors' book : nor 
 yet would he ask what new weight this was on his heart — 
 this terrible consciousness that sooner or later, before he 
 left the house, he would be irresistibly drawn to search those 
 pages. 
 
 At dinner he sat next a vivacious little old gentleman 
 with a thin dried pale face and a brown wig, an Englishman, 
 whose pleasant chatting, if it was not very wise or profound, 
 served to beguile the time. He gave Fitzgerald a vast 
 amount of information about the neighborhood. He had 
 his views also, 
 
 " What is the highest form of human happiness ? " he 
 asked, abruptly. 
 
252 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 " Killing a brace of ducks right and left," said Fitzgerald, 
 for the sake of saying something. 
 
 " Oh no. These are violent enjoyments, and violent enjoy- 
 ments are invariably accompained by violent disappoint- 
 ments. It is the attainment of peace and content, which is 
 only possible after the wild passions and pursuits of youth 
 are over. And what does it depend on ? Sound sleep mostly. 
 I mean to live to ninety." 
 
 " I am sure I hope you may," said his neighbor. 
 
 " I think I shall. I see no reason to tlie contrary," said 
 the cheerful old gentleman. " I cultivate happiness and 
 liealth at the same time : indeed, I find them to be the same 
 thing. The only stimulant I allow myself in the day — the 
 only thing that rises a little above the level — is the dinner 
 hour. I permit myself that, and find no harm in it. Now 
 when I was your age I did as most young fellows did at 
 that time : that is to say, without being a drunkard, I drank 
 too much. A brandy and soda in the morning, a pint of 
 claret at lunch, perhaps a glass of Madeira in the afternoon,, 
 then the usual wine at dinner. What was the resnlt? There 
 was no novelty in it. There was no pleasant stimulus. 
 The system was too familiar with these repeated excite- 
 ments. And so nowadays I drink nothing but tea or soda- 
 water up till dinner-time, and then I have my pint of cham- 
 pagne ; and my whole system enjoys this unwonted stim- 
 ulus, and ])erhaps I may even grow talkative, eh ? " 
 
 " But about the sound sleep — you have not told me how 
 you secure that," said Fitzgerald, So long as this old gentle- 
 man would talk, he was glad to listen. 
 
 " I will tell you; I should like to proclaim it from the 
 house-tops," said the other, seriously. " It is by having an 
 occupation for all idle hours; an occupation sufficient to fix 
 your attention, so that you can pass a rainy morning with- 
 out fretting : an occupation sufficient to distract your mind 
 in the evening — I mean the last hour or so before going to 
 bed — and yet leave no puzzling questions behind to disturb 
 you. Now my occupation is to read carefully and strictly 
 through from one end to the other the Encyclopedia Britan- 
 nica Not one of the new editions, which might have mod- 
 ern speculation in it, but the edition of 1812, in forty half- 
 volumes. I am quite sufficiently interested for the moment 
 in Aberagavenny, in Abruzzo, in Abyssinia, or Aquilaus, but 
 yet not so eagerly as to interfere with my sleep : and when 
 I have got away through to the end of the twenty-fourth 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 253 
 
 volume, I can bej^in again with my memory free from a 
 single fact. But this I allow myself, I must tell you : I allow 
 myself the use of a number of small hieroglyphics that I put 
 in as I go on ; and when I come to one of them again I say 
 to myself, ' Why the last time I read this I was in Mrs. 
 Scott's inn at Boscastle, and what a storm was blowing ! ' or 
 perhaps another tells me that when I read this paragi-aph I 
 was at Ben Rhydding, just come back from a stroll across 
 the moors : or perhaps at the Bell Inn at Henley, when all 
 the confusion of the boat races was about — " 
 
 " You seem to spend a good part of your life in hotels," 
 suggested Fitzgerald. 
 
 " All of it — the whole of it, my young friend," was the 
 prompt reply. " Why should I have the trouble of keep- 
 ing a house ? I have that done for me by those who have 
 had most experience of it of any people in the country. 
 Where should I have peace and quiet if I were worrying 
 about servants and smoky chimneys ? Why should I bother 
 about cooking? If I do not like the cooking, or the bed- 
 rooms, or the direction of the wind, I go away elsewhere. 
 I could not do that if I were tied to one house, and ham- 
 pered with my own servants. I agree with Shenstone. I 
 know where to find a warm welcome. I can fit my habita- 
 tion to the season of the year. At one time I am in the 
 Isle of Wight ; at another, in the West Highlands. I may 
 say that England, Scotland, and Ireland form my house ; 
 aud I have a noble staif of servants — in numbers, at all 
 events — who please me tolerably well. And you — at your 
 time of life one does not travel for pleasure. May I be so 
 impertinent as to ask what your business or profession 
 may be?" 
 
 " I don't know that I have any just at the present 
 moment," said Fitzgerald, absently. " I have been think- 
 ing of going to America." 
 
 " Ah," said his neighbor, regarding him with curiosity. 
 " You know the saying, ' America is here or nowhere.' " 
 
 " That is from Wilhelm Meister^'' said Fitzgerald (it 
 was a wonder to himself how glad he was to talk to this 
 old gentleman, in however mechanical a fashion ; the jour 
 ney had been a lonesome one). " And I never could un- 
 derstand Wilhelm Meister. But I suppose, as it is an epi 
 gram, it must be clever. What I know is that here the 
 government won't give you one hundred and sixty acres 
 of freehold land for five shillings an acre." 
 
254 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 "You mean to farm, then? Pardon me, but — but 1 
 should not have thought that would be congenial occupa- 
 tion. You spoke of Wilhelrn Meister," said the old gentle- 
 man, in his precise and courteous way. " What do you 
 think of Werther, then ? He was a great favorite umong 
 the young people when I was a youth." 
 
 "I like him still less," was Fitzgerald's frank reply 
 (though his eyes sometimes wandered away, as though he 
 were looking at other and distant things). "I don't like 
 hothouse sentiment. I don't think a man could go on loving 
 a woman whose eyes were quite cold and indifferent toward 
 him — concerned about bread and butter, in fact. If she 
 had once loved him, even before her marriage, that would 
 have been different. I can understand a man going on 
 through his life constant to his love for a woman who has 
 once loved him, and whom he has lost. I mean," he 
 added, hastily, " by death. I mean one who has been 
 taken away from him by death, and whose memory is a life- 
 long treasure. I don't pity him ; I think he is lucky." 
 
 *' What ! " said the old gentleman ; " lucky to have lost 
 his sweetheart ? " 
 
 " Yes, before he found her out," said Fitzgerald, quite 
 simply, and even absently. " Then nothing can upset his 
 idol. She is always beautiful to him, and true ; he can 
 have no suspicion of her ; and when she has been always 
 good and true and believable, he thinks other women may 
 be. That is something. That is, when she dies in time — 
 before she has degraded herself, before she has shown him 
 
 what lies womens' eyes can tell " 
 
 " I say, my young friend, that is a very extraordinary 
 theory for one of your age to hold," said his neighbor, 
 staring at him. 
 
 The blood rushed to Fitzgerald's forehead ; he had been 
 talking almost to himself. 
 
 "Oh," said he, hastily, "there is something in what 
 you say about America. Of course one would want a cer- 
 tain amount of capital. But the land along the Platte 
 Valley is excellent ; and I fancy that these pre-emption 
 
 grants are free from taxation " 
 
 "But have you any practical experience in farmingy 
 may I ask ? " said his neighbor. 
 
 Now Fitzgerald was so glad to get away from that 
 other topic on wliich he had haplessly stumbled that he 
 began and gave this old gentleman a very fair notion of 
 
SHAN DON BELLS, 255 
 
 the stale of his affairs — of his struggles to obtain a place in 
 the London literary world, and so forth. He named no 
 names except the names of newspapers. 
 
 " It is to me a very interesting story, for a reason I 
 will tell you presently," said his companion. " May I ask 
 if you chanced to meet Mr. Noel ? " 
 
 Mr. Xoel was the editor of a great daily newspaper in 
 London, and his name was pretty well known. 
 
 " No, I never did," said Fitzgerald. 
 
 " Perhaps you did not apply to him ? " 
 
 No ; I had no means of introducing myself, oven if I 
 had thought " 
 
 "Ah. Well, you see, it happens that I am one of the 
 
 proprietors of the and I should be delighted to give 
 
 you a note of introduction to Mr. Noel." 
 
 Of course Fitzgerald expressed his gratitude for this 
 friendly offer, but rather avoided accepting it. He had 
 learned one or two of the lessons of life. His imagination 
 was not so sanguine nov\^. The time was over when a 
 chance conversation in an Irish inn could suddenly reveal 
 to him a roseate path to fame and fortune. And, besides, 
 what would be the use of an introduction ? Supposing he 
 were to be allowed to write for that great newspaper, what 
 then? For whom? Toward what end? Who was to 
 care ? — He had what money he wanted ; the struggle was 
 over ; he had no ambition to make his voice heard amid the 
 discordant roar of London, even if it could reach all the 
 way from the solitudes of Boat of Garry. 
 
 Nevertheless, he felt very grateful to this old gentle- 
 man for the distraction his conversation had afforded dur- 
 ing dinner, for it was with a renewed and agitated fear that 
 he passed quickly by the small table in the hall where the 
 visitors' book lay. For one brief second he paused, half 
 determined to brave the discovery, and free his mind from 
 this lurking and intolerable dread : and then again he 
 turned, mastering his vacillation, and resolved to give way 
 to no such weakness. Of what concern was it to him ? Let 
 the dead past bury it's dead. He had put that black cloud 
 behind him. His business was the present. And here, on 
 this lovely summer evening, amid the quiet beauties of 
 Glengariff, was there not enough to occupy his attention ? 
 He would do as these others were doing ; only he rather 
 wanted to get away from them and be alone. 
 
 He got a boat, told the boatman he might go where he 
 
256 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 pleased, and was glad to be away from the shore and in 
 silence. Was it because the silence was so intense, that 
 now and again some air of an old familiar song seemed to 
 come floating across the abyss of time, speaking of other 
 nights and other scenes that his heart remembered ? This 
 was not Inisheen ; this was Glengariff. Look at the beau- 
 tiful still bay, at the wooded islands, at the solemn hills. 
 Far up in tlie northwestern heavens there is still a yellow 
 glow of twilight ; here along the shore everything is pale 
 and cold and clear. In under the islands the water is of a 
 glassy blackness ; but the ripples catch the glow from the 
 sky, and the black is barred with a faint gold. A heavy 
 splash out there tells that a salmon has leaped ; the young 
 herons high up in the trees croak as they are being given 
 their evening meal ; in by the rocks, under the bushes, the 
 gray wet back of an otter comes up again and again silently 
 to the surface until he finally disappears. Then they turn 
 seaward (a white ghost of a heron rises from a creek, and 
 shows itself for a second or two crossing the shadows), and 
 make away down by a Martello tower; the night deepening 
 m silence ; a faint gray mist gathering along the lower hills; 
 the twilight still strong enough to show, faraway, the Inrge 
 mainsail of a yacht lying at her moorings — a phantom 
 thing on the dark Expanse of sea. And then slowly home 
 again, over the clear shallows ; and as one nears the land- 
 ing place a slight stirring of wind brings a scent of roses — 
 from the hedge there. It is a gracious evening. The stars 
 come out one by one ; the silver sickle of the moon has 
 arisen in the south ; there is just enough of ripple along the 
 shores to make a soft and continuous murmur. And the 
 roses make sweet the night air. 
 
 But what was this that went through his heart like fire ? 
 He was standing by the rose hedge, alone — for nearly all 
 the people liad gone indoors — dreamily listening to the low 
 jBiurmur of the water. But this other sound ? There were 
 two people coming along the road, and but vaguely seen ia 
 the gathering darkness, and they were quietly singing to- 
 gether one of Mendelssohn's duets. Did he not know it ? 
 — the pain and the sweetness and the longing of it ! And 
 then, somehow, a bewilderment seized him : surely if he 
 were to hasten away at this moment — if he were to hasten 
 away to Cork, and ascend the hill, and enter the small 
 liouse there, he would find that all this black nightmare of 
 the past few weeks had been a ghastly dream. It could 
 
SHAN-DON BELLS, 257 
 
 not be that Kitty was a traitor ; that she had gone away 
 from him — Kitty whose eyes had looked into his, who liad 
 pledged her life and her love to him in the glen at Tn- 
 isheen, who had trembled in his arms, and subbed and 
 kissed him as she bade him good-by at the shore. He would 
 escape from this frightful thing; he would go to Kitty her- 
 self. And the next second a sudden strange transforma- 
 tion takes place : he is in a vision ; Glengariff has disap- 
 peared ; he is at Cork; this is Audley Place 1 Look! he 
 opens the small iron gate, and goes up the pathway, and 
 rinojs the bell. The sound of the piano within ceases; it 
 is Kitty's footstep that is in the lobby. " Well, sir, liavo 
 you come for your singing lesson? "I have come for a 
 great many lessons, Kitty." They go hand in hand into 
 the warm little room. Miss Patience is absent ; the piano 
 is open. 
 
 " Which one ? " says Kitty. " O wert thou in tlie 
 cauld blast?' N"); you can manage that pretty well. 
 Some day, when literature gives out, we may have to sing 
 that together in a concert-room ; and then you'll see whether 
 anybody else can give you a lead with the accompaniment 
 as well as I can. No; we'll try 'O would that my love 
 were whispered.' !Now let my hair alone, and attend to 
 your business ; and please don't bawl as if you were at 
 Limerick races, but sing as if you were singing to me — at 
 night — and just us two in the whole world ^" 
 
 [Surely, if these two people — no doubt young people 
 fond enough of each other — who were at this moment com- 
 ing along the road to the Glengariff Hotel, could have 
 known what agony they were inflicting on one who wished 
 not to listen but who could not refuse to listen, surely 
 they would have ceased their careless humming of the old 
 familiar air.] 
 
 He is standing by Kitty's side. She strikes the first 
 notes of the music ; and he loses his voice in hers, so 
 anxious is he to hear her : 
 
 " O would that my love were whispered 
 
 To thee in a single sigh ; 
 Or murmuring in sweetest music, 
 On swift zephyr's wing could fly—' 
 
 On zephyr's wing " 
 
 The music stops. 
 
 "Dear me," she says, "what are you doing? What 
 
258 sir AND ON BELLS. 
 
 business have you with that? Don't you see that's mine? 
 I believe you are singing by ear, and not looking at the 
 words at all " 
 
 " They are not worth much when you do look at thcra, 
 are they, Kitty?" he says. 
 
 " That is not my business, nor yours," she answers, 
 with the asperity of a music-mistress. " We have got to 
 Bing the duet ; you can criticize the poetry afterward. 
 Now you come in at the proper place — and leave my hair 
 alone will you? Miss Patience asked me if I had combed 
 it with a furze-brush the other night. Now " 
 
 And so they finish that verse, and get through the 
 next verv fairly. But presently when they come to 
 
 " And even in the depths of thy slumber, 
 When night spreads her sliadowy beams,'' 
 
 Kitty finds herself singing alone, She ceases, and turns 
 round and lifts up her soft pretty black eyes in astonish- 
 ment and affected anger. 
 
 " Well ? What is it now ? Why have you stopped ? " 
 " It is so much nicer to hear you singing alone, Kitty ; 
 I don't want to spoil it." 
 
 " Am I to sing a duet by myself ? " 
 " I don't care what it is, so long as you sing it." 
 *' I thought you might have had enough of my singing 
 by this time." 
 
 " Perhaps you will be thinking that I have had enough 
 of you ? " 
 
 " That's what you will be saying some day, at all 
 events," she answers, saucily. "And soon enough. Oh, I 
 know what men are. Sighing their lives out over a little 
 bit of your hair ; and then you marry them, and before 
 you know where you are they wouldn't walk the length of 
 a drapers shop to buy a pair of gloves for you." 
 
 "But you have not been married so very many times, 
 Kitty?" 
 
 " Don't be absurd. I speak from observation. And I 
 know you'll be just like the rest. But never mind ; it's 
 very nice in the meantime ; and you're looking such a 
 bonny boy to-night and — and, in fact, I'm going to be 
 very kind to you, as I always am ; and make you misera- 
 ble ; and if his highness will condescend to fetch me that 
 book over there, his hunble attendant will sing anything 
 ne chooses " 
 
SFTANDON BELLS. 259 
 
 He places his hand on her shoulder. 
 
 " And do you really think Kitty, that we may grow in- 
 different to each other ? " 
 
 " Don't tease ; but bring the book." 
 
 " I want you to look at me and say so. ' I know what you 
 mean when 1 see your eyes." 
 
 She keeps down her head. 
 
 " For I have heard strange things since I went to Lon- 
 don ; but about women only. I have heard it said that a 
 woman's eyes are always wandering ; that if you look down 
 a table d'hote you will soon find that out; that it is not 
 safe to leave a woman by herself who has a loving heart ; 
 that she is likely, in your absence, to become gently inter- 
 ested in somebody else " 
 
 She removes his hand from her shoulder with a quick 
 gesture. 
 
 **It isn't true, Kitty?" he says, with gentleness. 
 
 *' I know the man you mean — and I hate him ? " she an- 
 swers, fiercely. 
 
 "It isn't true, then, that women are like that?" 
 
 And then — ah ! the thought of it ! — she leaps to her 
 feet, and seizes his arms, and there is a proud indignation 
 in the white, upturned, quivering face ; and there is some- 
 thing like tears in the black soft eyes, and the pretty lips 
 are tremulous. 
 
 " Read my eyes, read my heart and ray soul, and say if 
 you can think such a thing of me ! " 
 
 And then — But this dream of what was bygone was 
 like madness to the brain ; he could no longer think of it ; 
 and happily these two people had passed into the house, 
 and he was once more alone with the silence of the night. 
 
 But even here he could find no rest ; the darkness was 
 too full of pictures. He passed into the warm light of the 
 hotel, and in the hall met the old gentleman who had talked 
 with him at dinner, and who was now chatting with the 
 landlady. 
 
 " Ah, here you are, I see ; I have been wondering where 
 you had got to. Here is the letter to Mr. Noel." 
 
 " Oh, I am very much obliged to you." 
 
 " You will find him a most excellent fellow ; and it is 
 not often I try his good-nature in this way." 
 
 " I think you arc doing too much for a stranger," said 
 Fitzgerald, frankly. " I know something of newspaper 
 offices. I know editors are not fond of letters of introduo 
 
260 SI/A A' DON BELLS, 
 
 fion. Supi)Osing that I were to begin and pester the life out 
 of this poor man ? " 
 
 " Oh, 1 am not afraid," said the old gentleman, good- 
 naturedly. *' Something in your conversation at dinner 
 showed me you had an old head on young shoulders. You 
 will see" he added, speaking in a lower voice, and, in fact, 
 in a somewhat mysterious manner, " that I have written to 
 Mr. Noel merely as a friend. There are a number of pro- 
 })rietors, you understand, and as our interests might be di- 
 verse, we have agreed never to intermeddle with the con- 
 duct of the paper, except on such large points as the board 
 may be summoned to consider." 
 
 " I hope," said Fitzgerald, pleasantly, *' that the declar- 
 ation of dividends is one of these large points." 
 
 " Marvellous !" said the other, putting a finger on hia 
 companion's arm to be emphasize his tragic whisper, 
 " Marvellous. Not a word to a human soul ; but last half- 
 year the manager announced to us a dividend of eighty-five 
 per cent, on the original capital I Think of that ! Now of 
 course we don't want to intermeddle with a concern that 
 is paying like that ; and this note does not recommend you 
 ais a writer to Mr. Noel, but merely tells him that I had the 
 pleasure of meeting you at the table d'hote here, that you 
 knew something of literary affairs, and asking to be allowed 
 to introduce you. That is all. You understand ?" 
 
 " Oh, perfectly. I am very much obliged to you." 
 
 " Although I am a pretty withered old stick myself,'* 
 aid the old gentleman, facetiously, *' I believe in the infu- 
 •ion of new blood ; so does our manager — a most shrewd 
 and excellent man. 'New blood,' I say to him: * When 
 you can get it,' says he. N'ow I am off to my final hour at 
 tli<3 Enci/clopcedia. Where was I ? Oh, yes, at ' London : * 
 the account of the great fire ; very interesting, I assure you. 
 But," he added, with impressiveness, " not too interesting. 
 I shall not sleep any the less soundly to-night because I 
 have been reading about the baker's shop in Pudding 
 Lane." 
 
 " Good-night to you, then," said Fitzgerald. 
 
 '' But not yet, if you are coming into the drawing-room. 
 Of course you are ; there are some charming young ladies 
 there. I have my volume there, too ; their chatting or 
 singing does not interrupt me; on the contrary, is it not a 
 pleasant variety to look up from Ancient Thebes or the 
 wars of Alexander and see a nicely rounded cheek and 
 
s/iaavjojV bells. ^Cl 
 
 pretty eyelids bent over a book ? I always keep my volume 
 there, though once or twice the wicked young creaturea 
 have hidden it out of mischief." 
 
 So he went off and into the warm, bright little drawing- 
 room, and Fitzgerald was left in the hall. He had u 
 reason for lingering, which he dared scarcely confess to him- 
 self. 
 
 "Youltave a good many people here," he said, cheer- 
 fullv, to the landlady, or manageress, "for this time of the 
 year." • 
 
 " Oh, yerf, sir. It is rather a favorite time. Many peo- 
 ple like to go through and see Killarney while the haw- 
 thorn is still out." 
 
 He was turnmg over the visitors* book, his face and man- 
 ner careless, his heart throbbing with a nameless dread. 
 
 " Is Boat of Garry a pretty place ?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir ; I believe so, sir ; I have never been there 
 myself." 
 
 He did not hear that answer. He had come to three 
 names, two of them bracketed together, all written in the 
 sam^ hand : 
 
 Miss Romayne .... \ 
 
 Miss Patience .... ) Cork. 
 
 E. L. Cobbs .... Liverpool. 
 
 He shut the book quickly, without looking round : he 
 dared not show the landlady his ghastly face. He took 
 refuge in the drawing-room, concealing himself in a corner, 
 with his hands clinched on the newspaper he held up before 
 him ; the letters he saw before him seemed to be printed in 
 blood. And then there was a kind of suffocation in the air of 
 the place ; was not the night hot? Some people were laugh- 
 ing ; it was a strange sound. A chord was struck on the piano, 
 and there was silence. Two voices Avere heard — two girls' 
 voices — one soprano, the other contralto — and what must 
 they sing but " O wert thou in the cauld blast " ? His 
 clinched hands were trembling : the agony was too great. 
 But he managed to read on — such reading? — such blind, 
 wild fixing the eyes on words that had no meaning — until 
 the musical piece was finished ; and then he slunk out, his 
 face averted, from the room, and found safety and coolness 
 and time to think in his small apartment upstairs. 
 
 But even here, as he sat down, strange fancies that he 
 strove to banish came into his head. Why did he look so 
 
262 SnA.\DON BELLS, 
 
 intently at the window-sill, at the dressing-table, at the 
 mirror ? Tlie mirror can reflect many faces, but no trace 
 remains. This bedroom must have been breathed in by 
 many a visitor ; but here was the sweet fresh air of the night 
 blowing in at the open window. What idle fancies were 
 these ! The room was but as another room. He got a 
 book, held it up against the light, and began to read. 
 
 He read nothing. The window was still open, the soft 
 ni^ht air blowing in, and yet the room seemed to choke him. 
 •Bnt then all at once he seemed to know that Kitty had oc- 
 cupied this room. She had kissed her lover out there in the 
 passage ; she had come in here to be alone with her perjured 
 heart ; she had looked in the mirror to see whether her eyes 
 had been lying as bewitchingly as was their wont. These 
 were the eyes with which she had sought him out when, 
 breathless and smiling, she had come down to the Cork sta- 
 tion to see him away — glad no doubt, that he was going, 
 and knowing that he would trouble her no more. She had 
 taken back her love, her pledged love, from him ; but she 
 could give him a basket, and salad cut with her own hands. 
 Was she not kind ? Was she not generous? Had she not 
 a woman's thoughtfulness and pretty consideration and af- 
 fectionate ways ? He could see "her smiling, and kissing 
 her hand to him, and waving her handkerchief, as the train 
 slowly left the station ; she was thankful, no doubt, she had 
 escaped ; she had got through the hypocrisy ; her eyes had 
 met his, but he had not read down deep enough, nor seen 
 the treachery of her heart. 
 
 The air of this room seemed contaminated ; he could not 
 remain in it. Was it on that window-sill there that she had 
 leaned her arms, on the still morning, and looked out ? Oh, 
 lier eyes were pretty enough ; any one passing along the 
 road and noticing her would say that was a charming enough 
 face. Any kisses to sell this morning fair young lady ? — it 
 Beems that these things are bought nowadays. Is the price 
 high ? Must one hail from Manchester, or Liverpool, or 
 Bome such commercial place, before one can become a pur- 
 chaser? Hearts, too : do they find quick buyers, seeing 
 they are so easily transferable? Bah! — she is no woman fit 
 for a man's love — throw her out to the dogs, the smirking 
 Jezebel ! 
 
 He puts down his book ; he has not been reading much. 
 
 Why this contempt, then ? Why this scorn of poor 
 
 Kitty, who (when she was at Inisheen at least) did her best 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 2G3 
 
 to l)e loving ? Poor little Kitty ! the small, trembling, over- 
 fond heart mistook its strength. No doubt she wished to 
 be steadfast and true. Perhaps she tried for a time. But 
 she was a creature of the sunshine ; the warm little heart 
 went dancing and fluttering on ; what was it to her that be- 
 hind her lay a man's broken life ? 
 
 No, he could not remain in this room ; the objects in it 
 were horrible ; the air stifled him. He went downstairs 
 again, got hold of somebody to whom he made the excuse 
 of sleeplessness, and so had the door opened, and went out 
 wandering into the darkness. 
 
 And now a breeze had sprung up in the south, and all 
 the night was awake. The wind murmured and trembled, 
 through the dark branches of the trees : there was a sound 
 along the shore ; and the sad mother earth was listening to 
 the wail of her daughter the sea. Only far away in the 
 stars — those calm and shining and benignant orbs — did there 
 seem to be peace, if only one could reach them through the 
 gateway of the grave. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 Next morning the little old gentleman with the dried- 
 up face and the brown wig was standing in the veranda 
 outside the hotel when the Boat of Garry carriage — a large 
 open landau, with a pair of smart-looking grays — drove up 
 to the door, and Fitzgerald came out. Master Willie, who 
 had been taught by John Ross to observe the expressions of 
 the human face as closely as the colors of palings and Chel- 
 sea cabbage gardens, instantly perceived that his friend and 
 patron of the preceding evening was surprised — more than 
 that, that he seemed to have some misgiving. 
 
 " This isn't newspaper work I am engaged on at pres- 
 ent " said the younger man, promptly, as his luggage was 
 being handed up to the coachman on the box. " I am going 
 as a sort of land-agent or surveyor, to see whether a house 
 and a shooting down here are all right, before they are of- 
 fered to a tenant.'' 
 
264 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 "Oh, I see," the old gentleman remarked, as he scanned 
 the turn-out. " He won't find fault with the carriage, at all 
 events. A landau is the proper sort of carriage for this 
 changeable sort of climate ; but heavy, eh, on the hilly roads ? 
 They seem a strong pair of beasts, though." 
 
 " Good-by," said Fitzgerald, as he shook hands with him. 
 *' If ever I have the courage to try the newspapers again, I 
 may make use of the note of introduction you were kind 
 enough to give me." 
 
 " It will be an easier experiment than going out to Ne- 
 braska for your one hundred and sixty acres of land, eh ? 
 Don't you think so ? " 
 
 Then Fitzgerald got into the landau ; and when the near 
 horse (whose name he afterwards discovered to be Welling- 
 ton) had reared and pranced on the ground for a bit, olf 
 went both of them like a bolt from a bow, apparently well 
 accustomed to the weight of this spacious carriage. The 
 morning was fine, though there was a strange luminous opa- 
 city in the air — a sort of thin sea-fog suffused with sunlight — 
 that hung over the woods and hills like a tender bridal veil. 
 The air was soft to the cheeks ; tlie warm wind was from 
 the south. If this were to be banishment, it was banishment 
 to a very beautiful and gracious part of the world. 
 
 And indeed, as Fitzgerald lay back in the soft, blue- 
 cushioned carriage, he had an uneasy sense that the whole 
 performance was very much like setting a beggar on horse- 
 back. He regarded the two white buttons on the brown 
 coat of the coachman, and wondered whether he could not 
 induce the human being within that garment to be a little 
 more companionable, and less elaborately respectful. So he 
 hit on the device of adding a trifle to his Irish accent ; and 
 he perceived that, by slow degrees, the coachman, who was 
 a good-looking man of about thirty, permitted a more 
 friendly look to come into his eyes when answering ques- 
 tions. At last Fitzgerald said to him, — 
 
 "What is your name, now ? " 
 
 " Murtough Dunne, sorr." 
 
 "But what do they generally call you?" 
 
 *' Very well, then, Murtough, you stop the horses for a 
 minute, and I'll get out and come up on the box, for I want 
 you to tell me about the country." 
 
 " As ye plase, sorr." 
 
 So Fitzgerald got up on the box j but he knew better 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 266 
 
 than to begin on the subject of topography. He praised the 
 look of the grays. Wellington, he discovered, was the 
 showier of the two, and always made a little fuss about 
 starting ; but Dan was the one for real hard work. Dan 
 had taken the dog-cart sixty miles in one day, over bad 
 country, and was as fresh as paint after it. Dan was hia 
 honor's favorite. Bnt indeed — as appeared from hints con- 
 tinually cropping up in this desultory talk about horses, and 
 carriages, and hay, and shooting parties, and what not 
 - — his honor, that is to say the late owner of the place, 
 seemed to have had a great many favorites, both among 
 the human beings and the animals around him, and 
 to have left behind him a reputation for constant kindness 
 and consideration. He was quick-tempered, it appeared^ 
 but his wrath was over with a word, and there was nothing 
 the people round about would not do to serve him and to 
 please him. 
 
 " That made it easy for the keeper, then ? " said Fitz- 
 gerald. " No trampling of nests in the spring, no chasing 
 of leverets by the dogs ? " 
 
 "True for you, sorr," said the coachman. "There was 
 John O'Leary, up at the Knockgarven farm, and he had a 
 dog — sure, sorr, there never was such a rascal for hunting 
 and worrying and shtaling both bird and baste. What does 
 he do but bring down the dog, wid a string round his neck, 
 and ties him up in the yard, and laves word for his honor to 
 shoot him or drown him as he plased. ' Bedad,' says 
 Micky " 
 
 "But who is Micky?" 
 
 " Sure the keeper, sorr. * Bedad,' says he, ' his honor 
 ■will do neither the one nor the other whin he comes home ; 
 and wid you lave I'll get rid of the baste myself. ' " 
 
 " And I suppose the gentleman up at Knockgarven 
 expected a little compensation ? " Fitzgerald said suspi- 
 ciously. 
 
 Murtough grinned, and said nothing. 
 
 " How much was it 't " 
 
 " I tink it was tree pounds, sorr, his honor gave him, and 
 the cur not worth the sound of a sixpence ! " 
 
 In this way Fitzgerald managed to obtain a large amount 
 of information about Boat of Garry and its neigliborhood, 
 and the long drive through occasional woods, or along high 
 and stoney hill roads (with always the far Atlantic in the 
 south), was rendered cheerful enough. He made it a matter 
 
266 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 of business to obtain these particulars. He had undertaken 
 a commission, as it were. And he tried hard to devote his 
 whole time and thinking to this duty, so that amongst 
 inquiries about the price of oats, and the probable introduc- 
 tion of hay-drying machines, and the different kinds of 
 nails for horseshoes, and so forth, other and less immediate 
 things might be definitely shut out and forgotten. Was not 
 this a new and strange experience for him — to be installed 
 as master of a house that he had never seen ? How would 
 he get on with the other people about ? This man seemed 
 civil and lionest, and was now rather more friendly, while 
 always preserving a careful respect. And he could report 
 that he at least had not been neglectful of his duties : the 
 horses seemed in excellent condition ; the metal of the har- 
 ness was brilliantly polished ; the carriage tliroughout was 
 as ,spick and span as it could be — much more so than is at 
 all common with carriages in remote parts of the country 
 where they get rough and constant usage. 
 
 By and by, however, the sunlight seemed to withdraw 
 itself from the thin mist; it grew darker a little ; then the 
 moisture in the air was felt in jjoints ; at last a fine rain 
 began to fall. 
 
 " Will your honor be for going inside now ? " Murtough 
 askecl. 
 
 " Oh no," was the answer. " But I will hold the reins 
 while you close the carriage. I know the south of Ireland. 
 Besides, I have a waterproof." 
 
 And very soon he had to put on that waterproof ; for 
 the soft small rain now fell steadily, and the outlines of the 
 hills and the reaches of the lake were blurred over or 
 altogether invisible, and the skies were growing dark. 
 Murtough had a waterproof also, but he did not seem to 
 think this rain suflUcient to injure his livery. So the pair 
 of grays trotted on monotonously, or splashed through 
 2)uddles; and the rain fell more slightly or more closely as 
 the clouds came drifting over from the hills ; and all the 
 time Fitzgerald was interesting himself in particulars about 
 the Boat of Garry household, or asking the name of this or 
 that feature in the ever changing and widening and drip- 
 ping landscape. 
 
 At length there was a sharp dip down from the high- 
 road, and they passed through an avenue of trees. Here 
 the landau dragged heavily through the mud, and there was 
 a pattering of big rain-drops from the branches. Then they 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 267 
 
 swung into the open again, passed through an open iron 
 gate, drove briskly along a pathway of wet gravel, and 
 drew up at the door of the house of which Fitzgerald was 
 to be the temporary master. 
 
 It was a plain, square, two-storied building, with an un- 
 pretentious porch of wood and glass. The shrubbery 
 around and the bit of lawn looked trim and well cared for; 
 there was no sign of neglect about the place. And when, 
 leaving his dripping waterproof in the porch, he walked 
 into the hall, and then into the dining-room (where there 
 was a fire, despite the fact that the weather had been un- 
 usually warm, even for the first week in June), everything 
 around seemed neat and clean' and well looked after. There 
 was not the slightest air of neglect about the place ; on the 
 contrary, one would have expected a trim house-mistress to 
 make her appearance to welcome the visitor. There were 
 preparations for luncheon on the table. There was a pair 
 of slippers on the fender. Beside the easy-chair at the cor- 
 ner of the fireplace stood a smaller table, on which some 
 books and old magazines were methodically arranged. 
 
 *' I beg your pardon, sir," some one said at the door. 
 
 The voice sent the blood to his heart — it was so like 
 another voice that he now regarded as being beyond the 
 grave. He turned quickly. But this person was merely a 
 quiet-looking, rather pretty young woman of about six or 
 eight and twenty, whose black hair and blue eyes made him 
 conclude she was Irish. But then he recollected. Was not 
 this the English maid whose fellow-servants, according to 
 Mrs, Chetwynd had considered to have made such a fright- 
 ful mesalliance in marrying the good-natured Irish coach- 
 man ? 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said she, in very pretty En- 
 glish. " I was having your things taken upstairs. Would 
 you please to have luncheon now ? " 
 
 *' Oh yes," he said, " any time. I am in no hurry." 
 
 " I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction. 
 Bir, 
 
 " Oh, I am sure of that. I am not particular." 
 
 " If you would be so kind as to tell me anything you 
 would like different, we could get it. We have had two 
 letters from Mrs. Clietwynd, sir, and Mr. McGee has been 
 here several times. I hope you will be comfortable, sir." 
 
 " Ohj no doubt, no doubt. You are Mrs. — Mrs. Dunne 
 I suppose ? " 
 
268 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 ** Yes, sir. My husband said this morning he thought 
 it would rain ; and so I had the fire lit, sir, in case you 
 might have some things damp." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, but I don't think there will be any 
 need to keep up the fire in this warm weather." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said she^ and withdrew. 
 
 He went to the window. It was a pretty place despite 
 the wet. It was so quiet and still that you could not well 
 tell whether the continuous sh — sh — sh outside was the 
 falling of rain or the murmur of the brooklet that splashed 
 along unseen behind the bushes at the foot of the lawn. 
 The rain, too, had made everything look even more richly 
 green than it normally is at this time of the year, from the 
 luxuriant rhododendrons, whose glossy starlike leaves were 
 all shining wet, to the belt of trees, maple and chestnut and 
 ash, that made a circle round the place. But through 
 these trees there were spacious openings, and through some 
 you looked in one direction over broad meadows and one 
 or two patches of wood, while in another direction a broad 
 pale silver streak between the foliage showed where the 
 shallow waters of a creek came up from Bantry Bay. And 
 always in this loneliness was the murmur of the rain, rising 
 a little as the wind stirred in the branches, and then again 
 subsiding into a sort of semi-silence, in which one could 
 hear the sharp twittering of birds or the lowing of kine at 
 some distant farm. 
 
 Again there was a knock at the door, and he started. 
 He wished this woman's voice had not that peculiar tone in 
 it. He wished she had the croak of a raven. Was it not 
 enough that this- soft veil of rain was but as a screen that 
 seemed to hide behind it the fancies and visions and pic- 
 tures of other days ? That is the saddest thing-about rain ; 
 it makes the landscape look far away ; it invites the imagi- 
 nation ; the world looks vague — just as the ghost of a 
 woman's face may look, if you think of it through tears. 
 
 " Come in," said he, sharply. 
 
 It was Mrs. Dunne ; and there was an older woman 
 visible, bringing some things to a table in the hall. He 
 turned to the window again. 
 
 Presently that pretty, startling voice said, — 
 
 " Luncheon is served, sir." 
 
 " Thank you," said he, thinking she would go. 
 
 Slie remained, however, standing behind the empty 
 chair. He went and took his seat. 
 
SHANDOjy BELLS. 269 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir," she said, "but will you have 
 cbampagne or claret? I have not opened the bottle yet. 
 Mr. Frank had sometimes the one and sometimes the 
 other." 
 
 At this Fitzgerald flushed like a schoolboy. How 
 could he explain to her that he was not Mr. Frank ; that he 
 was mucli more of a fellow-servant with herself ? It was 
 clear that these instructions from Mrs. Chetwynd and 
 from Mr. McGee were putting him into an altogether false 
 position. 
 
 "But I am not at all used to such luxury, Mrs. Dunne," 
 said he, good-naturedly. *' Is there any beer in the house ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir ; I will fetch some. Audi tliey call rae 
 Kate, sir." 
 
 When she returned with the ale, and put it on the table, 
 he said ( without looking up ), 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. — Mrs. Dunne ; that is, if you don't 
 mind — if it is the same to you — to have that name, from 
 a stranger, you know. And 1 would not trouble you to 
 wait. I am sure there is everything here. If I want any- 
 thing, I will ring." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said she, with the same pretty polite- 
 ness, and then she stirred the fire, and left the room. 
 
 As he sat, moodily and dreamily, at this far too copious 
 banquet, it seemed to him — or perhaps it was only a bit of 
 sarcastic phantasy that he played with — that women were 
 by nature really kind and thouglitful and considerate so 
 long as you liad nothing to do with their affections, when 
 tliey were as the tigers that slay. Think of Mrs. Chetwynd's 
 solicitude about his welfare, her repeated injunctions, the 
 j>roof8 being visible on the table here at this ordinary mid- 
 day meal. He, as well as any, and better than most, knew 
 with what trouble and even difficulty many of these things 
 must have been procured at a remote country house in the 
 south of Ireland. Think of the anxious kindness of this 
 ])Oor creature, who would have him consider himself quite as 
 much at home as Mr. Frank. Kitty, even when her heart 
 had gone away from him, when her eyes were smiling only 
 *o deceive him and get rid of him, she must needs rob her- 
 ^slf of half her night's rest for the purposes of cooking, and 
 "ome rushing and panting to the station with the salad that 
 ner own hands had dressed. That was the misssion of 
 women, then? There they found themselves at home, were 
 Qatural a/id trustworthy ? There they were truest to them- 
 
270 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 selves? It was an odd theory ; but lie left the food before 
 him almost untouched, and went to the easy-chair and lit 
 a pipe, but soon dropped that on the floor and went fast 
 asleep, for he had not closed his eyes the whole of the pre- 
 vious night. 
 
 He was awakened by Kitty's voice ( as he thought in 
 his dream ), and he sprang to his feet, with his face white. 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon, sir," said the English maid- 
 servant, about to withdraw. 
 
 " No, no ; what is it, Mrs. Dunne ? Do you want to 
 take away the things ? " 
 
 " It is only Micky, the keeper, sir, who would like to 
 see you, sir. But any time will be convenient •*' 
 
 *» Where is he?" 
 
 " In the kitchen, sir." 
 
 " Tell him to come along now, and we will go and have 
 a look at the kennel.'' 
 
 "Very well, sir." 
 
 Micky, or Mick, as he was generally called, proved to 
 be a smart-looking, clean-built young fellow of about two 
 and-twenty, with i-eddish-yellow hair, ruddy brown eyes, 
 and a face that could express more than his tongue. For 
 be had come from one of the westernmost distincts in Kerry, 
 and his English was somewhat scant. Fitzgei*ald, on the 
 other hand, had almost forgotten what little Irish he ever 
 knew ; so that the convereation that now ensued in the hall, 
 about cartridges, and the cleaning of guns, and what not, 
 was conducted with a good deal of guessing on both sides. 
 However, Mick showed himself shrewd enough ; he quite 
 understood Fitzgerald's monitions about the importance of 
 keeping on good terms with the farmers and shepherds 
 around ; and when, in the little gun-room, they turned over 
 the various drawers and cases and so forth — sad enougli 
 relics these were of the dead man — ^it was very clear that 
 he had done his best to master his trade. The guns had 
 been beautifully cleaned, and carefully oiled and put away. 
 Such cartridges as were there were well made. Not only 
 that, but some sea-birds stuck up along the wall were of 
 Mick's own stuffing ; and they were very fairly done, con- 
 sidering,the difficulty of the performance. Master Willie 
 had found a companion jnst to his mind. 
 
 "The loicense, sir?" said Mick, as if his clear brown 
 eyes conveyed all the rest of the question. 
 
 "Yes, what?" 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 271 
 
 " * Twas Misther McGee was axing would it be a gun 
 loicense or a kaper's loicense he was to be getting for me." 
 
 " What had you before? " 
 
 " Sure I had the kaper's loicense ; but Misther McGee 
 was saying mebbe you'd be shoottng all the toime yourself, 
 sir, and what would I be after wanting the game loicense 
 for?" 
 
 " What did you use it for before ? " 
 
 But this took Mick some time to explain ; the fact being 
 that " his honor," as every one except the English maid- 
 servant called young Chetwynd, had been away frequently 
 during the shooting season, and on that account the keeper 
 had had a license to kill game, so that an occasional hamper 
 could be sent to London. Fitzgerald said he would have 
 to settle that matter afterward ; and together they set out 
 for the kennel through the silent thin wet that seemed to 
 hang in the atmosphere like a vapor. 
 
 He spent about an hour in the kennel and stable, and 
 then returned to the solitary room, and got a book, and sat 
 down to read in the melancholy silence of the rain. But 
 he was restless. The type before him got into a fashion of 
 fading away, and pictures formed themselves in its stead. 
 This would not do. 
 
 He threw down the book, and went out and put on his 
 shooting-boots and leggings and waterproof. Then he got 
 out the fishing-rod he had brought with him, and jointed it 
 together on the lawn. Then he got his fly-book, and chose 
 indifferently the first cast that came to hand, which he 
 twisted round his hat. Thus equipped, he set forth through 
 the shrubbery, and made his way to the side of the small 
 but rapid stream that came down from the hills through the 
 valley to the salt-water of the bay. 
 
 He had not stayed to ask what chances of sport there 
 were. But the throwing of a fly would be sufiicient occu- 
 .pation, he thought ; one could not stay indoors the whole 
 afternoon ; besides, there would be practice — in case he 
 might happen on some better fishing elsewhere. 
 
 So he made his way through the rank tall grass and her- 
 bage (the best shooting-boots in the world could not keep 
 out the wet) until he reached the side of the stream, and 
 there he put on the cast, and with a short line threw the 
 flies on the swirling water. It very soon appeared that if 
 he only wanted to exercise his skill he would have ample 
 opportunities, for the streamlet was narrow, long weedg 
 
272 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 grew down to the very edge, the water was rapid, and in 
 the first three casts he got twice caught up. But when he 
 had chosen his position better, and was a little more care- 
 ful, he soon found himself catching fish ; that is to say, 
 small brown trout of about four to tlie pound. It amused 
 him, and did no harm to them ; nay, perhaps it was a bene- 
 fit to them, for when they were flung in again they had 
 learned a lesson in life, and would be more cautious in the 
 future. And to him there was a certain variety in the oc- 
 cupation besides merely trying to dodge the tall weeds. To 
 get at some of the pools and reaches of this sharply curv- 
 ing river he had to cross necks of land that were obviously 
 covered at very high tides with the sea-water, and as these 
 contained a considerable number of deep peaty-looking 
 holes partially concealed by the long grass, there was a pos- 
 sibility of his finding himself any moment up to the neck 
 in mud. So he kept on, on this sad, dull day, with the soft 
 rain continuously falling, discovering new pools, hanging 
 up on weeds, landing small fish, and leisurely throwing 
 them back again, until, — 
 
 Yes, until there was a sound that made his heart jump 
 — the shrill whir-r-r-r of the reel ! Up went the top of the 
 rod, out went the butt, in a moment. Then he saw his op- 
 portunity. He floundered down through the bushes, and 
 got into one of the ahallow reaches of the river, where the 
 ■w\iter was not up to his knees ; here he could deal with his 
 enemy face to face. The fisli had at first banged away 
 down stream, but was now sulking under a bank ; so he 
 cautiously waded and waded, winding in his line the while, 
 and keeping as heavy a strain on as he dared. If this was 
 a grilse or sea-trout making its first experiment into fresh- 
 water, he knew very well that it was as likely as not to re- 
 sent tins treatment, and make a bolt back for the sea. And 
 DOW there came between him and his prey a bend of the 
 i-iver where the banks came close together, and he was 
 afraid it was too deep for him to wade. The fearfi*l un- 
 certainty of that moment ! Look at the danger of getting 
 on either bank — scrambling up among the tall weeds — if the 
 fish should just choose that precious point of time, — 
 
 Suddenly there was a slackening of the line, and for a 
 w^ild second he saw a blue and white thing flashing in the 
 air, and splashing down again on the water. He dipped his 
 rod. Quickly and sharply raising it, he felt no harm had 
 been done. But now the line was appreciably slackening 
 
SUA A DON BELLS. 273 
 
 again, nnd as ho rapidly wound it in, he found that the iisli 
 \vas heading up stream, and must be approaching liiin. Tins 
 was a serious situation. At hist the rod was nearly verti- 
 cal, though he was winding as hard as he could to get the 
 strain on again, and he was anxiously looking at the point. 
 Just at the instant of his greatest endeavor he joyfully ielt 
 the strain returning — nay, he had to release his grip of the 
 liandle of the reel ; he merely kept his forefinger on the 
 line, ready for any emergency — and then with another great 
 whir-r-r-r away went the fish again, round a turn in the 
 bank ; and the next thing he knew was that his rod was 
 quite limp and vertical in his hand, with the line, minus the 
 cast, flying high and idly in the air. 
 
 So far from disheartening him, however, this put a new 
 aspect on affairs altogether : and he thought that the best 
 thing he could do before risking any further and similar 
 losses was to go straight away home, and sit down, and 
 thoroughly overhaul his fly-book, and see that his casting 
 lines were in good condition. This, when he had changed 
 liis wet clothes, he proceeded to do ; and the table in tlie 
 dining-room was pretty well covered with fishing material 
 when the English maid-servant entered. 
 
 " What would you like to have for dinner, sir? " said 
 the young woman, 
 
 " I do not care. It appears to me I have dined already, 
 Mrs. Dunne." 
 
 " Mr. Frank used to dine at seven, sir." 
 
 "Very well, seven, if you like. But please don't take 
 so much trouble as about luncheon : I am used to very 
 simple fare." 
 
 " I am sorry we can't get any game at this time of the 
 year, sir." 
 
 « Well, I know that." 
 
 She lingered and hesitated for a second or two. 
 
 " I wish, sir — I beg your pardon, sir — but would you be 
 fio kihd as to speak to Micky ? " 
 
 " What is it now ? " said he, looking up for the first 
 time — for he had been busy with his flies. 
 
 " The Fenians, sir. Some of them have been down here, 
 and they are frightening the poor boy. He does not want 
 to join them : but they have been threatening him — yes, 
 and threatening the house, sir — if he does not join them." 
 
 " Send him to me, Mrs. Dunne, I know the fellows." 
 
274 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 Presently Micky appeared at the door of the dining-room, 
 anxious-eyed. 
 
 '* Are there any Fenians about here, Micky? " said he, 
 pulling at a casting line. Kate Dunne was listening the 
 while, though she pretended she was getting out the dinner 
 things from the sideboard. 
 
 "N— no, sir." 
 
 "I'm glad of that," said Fitzgerald. "I come from the 
 Blackwater, and we know how to deal with them there. If 
 any of the idle blackguards — I say if any of the idle bligards," 
 he repeated, looking up, and speaking with more signifi- 
 cance, " should come bothering about here, and trying to 
 get decent young fellows into trouble — getting them to 
 drink whiskey, and march about at night — you come and 
 tell me. While I am here I won't have any strangers come 
 prowlinjy about — do you understand, Micky ? Wasn't it 
 you made up the No. 4 cartridges?" 
 
 " Sure it was, your honor." 
 
 " Well, now, its one or two of the No. 4 cartridges that 
 I keep in my pocket at this time of the year, just for any- 
 thing that may turn up ; and I generally have a gun handy, 
 especially at night. Now, d'ye see now, if I catch any idle 
 vagabond interfering about the place, and threatening any- 
 body, or talking about his marching and his countermarching, 
 I'm not going to wait to ask him his business ; it's the 
 Queen's guinea to a quid o' tobacco he'll get a charge of 
 No. 4 shot catching him up behind ; and ye weighed the 
 shot yoursilf, Micky, and sure ye know it '11 make the 
 bligards jump." 
 
 Micky went away deeply impressed. That Irish way of 
 talking carried conviction with it. He sought out his 
 friend Murtough, the coachman, and after a second or two 
 of thoughtful silence, he said : — 
 
 " Sure 'tis the new master can spake his moind. Blood 
 and ounds ; but I hope there'll be no murther about the 
 house." 
 
 In the evening Fitzgerald dined in solitary state, the 
 pretty house-maid, very quickly perceiving that he prefened 
 to be alone, leaving things about handy, so that he could 
 help himself. Thereafter he smoked and read. Toward 
 nine or so she again appeared, bringing in the spirit tray. 
 
 " Thank you," said he, looking up in a bewildered kind 
 of way (for he had been vaguely dreaming as well as read- 
 ing), " I don't want anything more." 
 
SHAN DON BELLS. 275 
 
 " If you would rather have brandy, sir," said she, " I 
 think there is some." 
 
 ** Thank you, but I never take spirits." 
 
 " Oil, indeed, sir. I hope you will find your room com- 
 fortable, sir. You will find a candle on the hall table." 
 
 *^ Thank you very much," 
 
 "Good-night, sir." 
 
 " Good-night to you." 
 
 So thus had passed the first day in this new neighbor- 
 hood, and it had not been uninteresting. He was not 
 thinking of any work now ; he had no thought of turning 
 these fresh experiences into literature. Nor had he any re- 
 (lection that this place, so remote, and still, and silent, and 
 beautiful, was just the place where Nature, if she were com- 
 muned with in her mysterious haunts, might reveal her 
 subtler secrets to the listening and sorrowing soul. No ; he 
 had got through a sort of day's duty, and that had kept liim 
 from thinking much, which was his chief good at present. 
 He was glad to be able to do something in return for the 
 Chetwynds' kindness. No doubt his being there and oc- 
 cupying the place would reconcile the old lady to the idea 
 of letting it. He would be able, he hoped, to give a good 
 report of both house and shooting. And no more than the 
 man in the moon, it may be added, had he the slightest con- 
 ception of the purpose Mrs. Chetwynd had in view in beg- 
 ging him to be so kind as to pay a visit of inspection to Boat 
 of Garry. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 GLIMMERINGS. 
 
 He was soon to have an inkling of that, however. After 
 having been some little time in this still, silent and beauti- 
 ful place, occupied mostly in taking long and solitary 
 walks by sea and shore, he wrote as follows to Mary Chet- 
 wynd : — 
 
 *' Boat of Garry. 
 
 " Dear Miss Chetwynd, — In the last letter I had from 
 Hyde Park Gardens your aunt seemed to think it quite 
 enough if I remained here enjoying myself in idleness ; and 
 
276 SHAN DON BELLS 
 
 the temptation to do tliat is sufficiently strong ; for it is one. 
 of the most beautiful neighborhoods I have ever seen, and 
 the people are very friendly. I think I ought to remind 
 you, however, that if you wish to let the house and shoot 
 ing, it would be easier to do that now than later on ; and 
 really it seems a pity to think of such a place remaining 
 vacant. I am afraid a good many of the young birds were 
 killed by the heavy rains in the early spring, but in some 
 cases there are second broods in the nests ; and there will 
 be plenty of hares. Every one says the winter shooting is 
 most excellent, though Mr. Chetwynd does not appear even 
 to have spent a winter here. Everything about the house, 
 as I wrote to your aunt, seems well managed — the horses in 
 excellent condition ; the dogs not so good, as far as I can 
 judge (the tenant should bring a brace of Ihorouglily 
 trained setters with him) ; and the new boiler will be in 
 the steam-yacht next week. As to the prettiness of the 
 place, of course you know about that as well as I ; but if 1 
 hear of any photographer coming through by way of Glen- 
 gariff to Killarney, I will take the liberty of getting him to 
 come down here and take one or two photographs. 
 These would not cost much, and they would help you ir* 
 letting the place. 
 
 "Yours faithfully, 
 
 " William Fitzgerald." 
 This was the answer : 
 
 •'* Hyde Pap.k Gardens, Sunday Evening, 
 *' Deak Mr. Fitzgerald, — 1 am in deep disgrace. Your 
 letter seemed to me so reasonable that I thought I would 
 venture, in the most roundabout way, to make the sugges- 
 tion. Well, auntie, as you know, is not the kind of person 
 to get into a tempest of indignation ; but I could see sho 
 was really pained at the notion of taking money for poor 
 Frank's place, and that she regarded me as a most unfeel- 
 ing and wicked creature. Of course I did not press the 
 matter. I suppose I was premature. But what I really do 
 believe auntie means to do with Boat of Garry is to ask 
 you to take it — probably with the name of Chetwynd as 
 well. Perhaps I should not mention this project to you, 
 for I have no authority ; but auntie has been talking about 
 it to Dr. Bude (w^ho is a great friend of yours, by the way) ; 
 and if he advises yes, the least you can do will be to send 
 him some game. Auntie appears to wish that in the mean- 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 277 
 
 limo you should wait over for the shooting, unless you find 
 the place intolerably dull ; and we both hope you find the 
 house and the neighborhood to your liking, and that if you 
 are writing anymore papers like the 'Woodland Walk,' 
 you won't forget to put something about Boat of Garry into 
 them. 
 
 *' Yours sincerely, 
 
 " Mary Chetwynd." 
 
 '* P.S. — After all, on reflection, it seems to me that 
 auntie may be right. I am afraid I should not like to 
 think of poor Frank^s place going away into the hands of 
 perfect strangers. But as this is a mere piece of sentiment, 
 I am not going to interfere in any way, or give any advice. 
 
 "M. C." 
 
 When he read this letter he was seated on a rocky knoll 
 high up on the hillside, whither it had been brought him by 
 a boy. Far below he could see the small house ensconced 
 among the abundant foliage; the trim lawn, the belt 
 of trees, the spacious meadow outside, and the curved arm 
 of the sea — a silver white — that swept round as if to en- 
 close the whole. Was it not a beautiful picture, then, 
 under these skies of June — a desirable enough possession *i 
 Here, indeed, was a vale of Avoca, where one might pass 
 the peaceful years away, quietly and equally, with the 
 friends one loved best. But strangely enough, he looked 
 on the place with no longing eye. He did not crave for the 
 shelter, the snugness, the indoor affections, of a house. 
 Here, alone with the sad hills, and the clouds floating in 
 from the Atlantic, he was more at rest. He watched the 
 great and mysterious shadows moving along, and those 
 hills growing darker and grander, or disappearing alto- 
 gether behind the folds of vapor, and slowly revealing 
 themselves again in altered lines ; and iji the face of this 
 mighty phantasmagoria, human life, with all its fears and 
 ills, seemed a petty and trivial thing. He watched the 
 great gray sea darkening or lightening wit|h the lowering or 
 the lifting of the heavy skies. And sometimes, as it seemed 
 to him, there was a sudden vision overhead, a break in the 
 pall of white, and a glimpse into a far and unknown realm 
 of intensest blue ; and then a warmth and a golden glory 
 spread around him on the herbage and the rocks ; and the 
 clear singing of a lark sprang into the silence, far away 
 
278 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 down there over the waterfall and the glen ; and the sea 
 air coming over from the south grew so balmy and soft 
 that it was delicious to breathe : one turned one's throat to 
 it, and the touch of it on the cheek was like the touch of a 
 velvet glove. 
 
 Look, now, at this new companion of his. In the per- 
 feet stillness of sea and sky and land, and while his eyes 
 are far away, some quick movement near at hand tells him 
 that he is not alone. A small rabbit, the ^^r^ tiniest of 
 baby rabbits, a ball of brown fur, has come quietly along, 
 all unconscious of his presence until it is within three yards 
 of him. It trots here and there, with a leisurely, ungainly 
 tripping, nibbling the grass now and again, never looking 
 up. And then suddenly it stands still ; and the fat little 
 ball of fur has great staring eyes — staring with observation, 
 not friglit, for very likely it has never beheld a human 
 being before. The big, flat, gray eyes regard him un- 
 winking ; there is no movement. Then, with a little for- 
 ward jerk of the head, up go the long ears ; and again the 
 motionless staring. Then up goes the baby rabbit itself on 
 its hind-legs, the fore-paws comically drooping ; and again 
 the steadfast stare at this immovable strange creature 
 seated on the rock. Then by some accident he inadver- 
 tently stirs a hand or a foot — the eighth of an inch will do 
 it — and at the very same instant the earth is left empty ; 
 there is only a glimmer of white disappearing into the 
 brackens a dozen yards away. 
 
 By and by he makes out another living object, appar- 
 ently not much bigger than the baby rabbit, coming up the 
 l»ill by the side of the narrow glen, and as he makes no 
 doubt that this is the same boy sent up with another mes- 
 sage, he rises, puts tlie letter in his pocket, and proceeds to 
 descend. Sure enough, the shock-headed gossoon has a 
 message ; there is a gentleman waiting for his honor. What 
 gentleman ? He does not know. Did he come in a dog-cart 
 with a white horse ? That he did. And then Fitzgerald 
 knows that Mr. McGee, the Bantry solicitor, has paid him 
 another visit, and hastens down through bracken and over 
 stone walls until he reaches the road sweeping round to 
 the house. 
 
 This Mr. McGee was a big, burly, good-natured kind ol 
 man, with a sort of sporting air about him, who had really 
 gone a good deal out of his way to make Fitzgerald's 
 sray at Boat of Garry pleasant for liim. And his present 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 278 
 
 mission was to say (with profuse apologies for delay) that 
 at last the steam-yacht, the Black Swan, as they called her^ 
 had got her new boiler in, which was to increase her speed 
 by two miles an hour, and all she wanted now was to get 
 in a few tons of coal and a store of oil ; and would he, that 
 is, Fitzgerald, care to take coach and rail to Cork, and make 
 the trip in her from Cork Harbor to Bantry Bay ? 
 
 " Oh, no ; no, thank you," said Fitzgerald, hastily. 
 
 " Sure it would be as safe as sitting in chapel," said Mr. 
 McGee, with a good-natured laugh. " We'll wait for 
 smooth wather; and if there's too heavy a swell when we 
 come to Cape Clear or the Mizen Head, can't we run back 
 and put into Glandore?" 
 
 *' It isn't that," said Fitzgerald. " I don't feel inclined 
 to go to Cork just at present." 
 
 " I was thinking 'twould be a bit of variety for ye ; for 
 divil the much there is to do about here at this time of the 
 year." 
 
 " The fishing is capital." 
 
 *' The fishing ! — the fishing, did ye say ? " 
 
 " If you like to wait for lunch, you'll have a bit oi a 
 three-pound sea-trout I caught in the stream there only yes- 
 terday afternoon." 
 
 "D'ye say that now? It's myself has tried it half a 
 dozen times, and I might as well have been throwing a fly 
 into my grandmother's taypot. But faith I'll stay to lunch 
 tvid ye, and give the ould mare a bit of a rest." 
 
 Master Willie did not say anything about the number of 
 trout to be found in the adjacent stream ; but, at all events 
 this particular one proved to be most excellent, and Mr. 
 McGee proceeded to make himself very much at home. 
 
 " Katie, darling," said he to Mrs. Dunne when she 
 brought in the beer, ^' isn't there a glass of whiskey about 
 the house now? " 
 
 *'' I beg your pardon for forgetting," said Fitzgerald ; 
 »* but really I am not sure who ought to jjlay the part of 
 host." 
 
 '.' Well, many 'a the evening I've spent in this very room 
 with the poor boy that's gone ; and a pleasanter companion 
 or a finer gintleman there was not in the country," said he. 
 " Thank ye, my good gyurl ; and isn't there a drop o' hot 
 wather about now? Well, sir, ye've a good ould Irish 
 name, and I hope ye'll have a happy stay among us ; an' 
 niver fear, ye'll be mighty plazed with the Black Sioan 
 
280 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 when we get her round, and sure ye'll be able to run up to 
 Glengariff whenever ye want, and the divil sweep her if she 
 doesn't do her ten moils an hour." 
 
 The quite novel excitement of meeting a stranger had 
 almost driven the contents of Miss Chetwynd's letier out of 
 Fitzgerald's head ; but when, after luncheon, they went out 
 to the seat fronting the lawn, and had coffee there on the 
 little marble-topped table, and lit their pipes, the quiet 
 charm of the place again stole over him, and he could not 
 help for a moment wondering what his sensations would be 
 if he were really the owner of such a delightful spot. Of 
 course it was out of the question. A more preposterous 
 white elephant could not be imagined. Where could he 
 find money to keep up such a house — to pay wages and find 
 provender for the horses'? It was like offering a crossing- 
 sweeper the use for the season of a three hundred ton yacht* 
 Indeed, he so clearly saw that this could only be regarded 
 as a sort of pretty sentimental fancy on the part of Mrs. 
 Chetwynd — as something so obviously outside the limits of 
 practical possibilities — that he was very niearly mentioning 
 it to this good-natured lawyer ; but as Mr. McGee had for 
 the moment dropped into a snooze, he forbore, and finally 
 concluded he would say nothing about the matter. 
 
 The quiet was enough to send any man to sleep. The 
 day had brightened up ; there were wider deeps of blue be- 
 tween the ribbed white clouds, and the mellow sunlight fell 
 warm on the meadows and on the lawn, on the glancing, 
 trembling green of the broad-leaved limes, and on the still 
 yellower green of the drooping foliage of a swaying acacia. 
 The air was soft and warm, and yet moist, and it was per- 
 vaded by a scent of all growing things — a general, vague, 
 delicious perfume that perhaps came chiefly from the lush 
 grass there not yet cut for hay. A curlew or two were stalk- 
 ing along the shore, where the bold white cimeter of the sea 
 came in between the meadows. A blackbird shot through 
 the rhododendrons, and the silence seemed to miss its sud- 
 denly closed song. But there was always the plash and 
 gurgle of the stream at the foot of the lawn, and sometimes 
 the distant bark of a dog or the rumbling of a cart spoke of 
 a life far remote from this enchanted enclosure that seemed 
 to be given over to sunlight and peace and the growing of 
 green leaves. 
 
 The lawyer awoke with a start. 
 
 " Begorra !" said he. 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 281 
 
 " You were saying," observed Fitzgerald, just as if he 
 had not been asleep at all, " that she was registered up to 
 eighty pounds on the square inch; but of course the boiler 
 has been tested beyond that " 
 
 " Faix, I believe I've been asleep," said Mr. McGee, rub- 
 bing his eyes. " 'Tis no wonder, when ye get out of the 
 worrld. What will ye be afther doing now all the after- 
 noon?" 
 
 "I? I am going down to the stream to see if I can't 
 catch another sea-trout for my dinner." 
 
 •" Good luck to ye, thin ; and I'll go and get the mare 
 out, for 'tis a mighty long drive to Bantry ? " 
 
 So that unusual feature of fffe at Boat of Garry, a visitor, 
 disappeared, and Fitzgerald was left to the solitude and 
 silence and dreamy loveliness of the place. In the after- 
 noon, however, he caught a good sea-trout, and also a brown 
 one of about three-quarters of a pound — a fair size for this 
 small stream. And again he had dinner by himself ; and 
 thereafter he smoked and read as usual. By and by, when 
 the moon was clear on the gravel-walk, he stole outside ; he 
 had got into a way of doing that. The servants thought 
 the new master merely wished to have a breath of fresh air, 
 after the smoke of the dining-room, before going to bed. 
 
 And perhaps it was only that. He walked along the 
 gravel in the clear light (though the moon was now waning), 
 and lie listened to the croak of the heron and the cry of the 
 curlew down by the sea. He went along to the road, 
 climbed over a wire fence, and made his way up a steep 
 bank where there was a clearance among the trees. When 
 he got to the tap, he was on the side of a deep and almost 
 black chasm — the wooded glen through svhich came down 
 the little brooklet that passed by the end of the lawn. And 
 there he sat down on the stump of a felled tree, and looked 
 around, and was alone with the night and the stars, and the 
 moonlit world. 
 
 This glen was smaller and narrower than the one near 
 Inisheen, but it was a far more lovely place ; for above and 
 beyond it towered dark hills, rising far and solemnly into 
 the clear night sky. There was a more spacious view, also, 
 of this broad silver creek running out to meet the wide 
 waters of Bantry Bay, and of wooded islands and long 
 promontories, and of the dusky shore beyond, that seemed 
 to lie behind the moonlight, and was half lost in shadow. 
 Night after night he climbed up to this spot ; and of course 
 
282 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 it was merely to look at the beautiful picture, and to listen 
 to the strange, sad, distant sounds in the stillness. Some- 
 times a faint perfume of the sea came, borne along by the 
 slight stirring of a breeze ; sometimes, in a dead calm, be- 
 fore any wind was moving, he thought he could hear a 
 trembling of the great deep in the darkness, and a whisper 
 along the shore. Sometimes, moreover, as he sat there, 
 Avith the silent hills above, and the great sea beyond, a wild 
 fancy got into his brain that he could hear a voice in the 
 sound of the stream below — the stream down there in the 
 dark ; it became quite plain : a human voice — so strange, so 
 strange and clear : O'oer running water : my life 1 give to 
 you. The voice sounded <Juite close. All trembling, he 
 would bend his head forward : might there not be two 
 people there? or only one voice? — the voice of a girl who 
 was dead, and gone away from the world — a young girl who 
 used to be associated with all young and beautiful things, 
 like hawthorn and blue speedwells and sunlit mornings, 
 when there was a freshness in the air ? And then again 
 there would be nothing but the aimless and meaningless 
 murmur of the stream down there in the ravine ; and the 
 awful hills and the sombre sea would have no speech or 
 message for him; and what was the use or value of this 
 throbbing, fretting, tortured insect life between the dark 
 dead world and the cold and distant and pitiless skies? 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 TO THB EESCUE. 
 
 About this time there began to appear in the columns 
 of a London daily newspaper a series of articles which very 
 soon attracted the attention and curiosity of the public. 
 They were a new feature in journalism ; some went the 
 length of saying that they were ^a new feature in English 
 literature. They were called " The Occupations of a Re- 
 cluse," and professed to give some account of the various 
 pursuits incidental to a quiet country life ; but they were 
 in reality a description of solitary rambles by roadside and 
 sea-shore and stream — a succession of carefully studied out 
 of door scenes that had a quite unaccountable charm about 
 them.. For this way of describing nature was not the poet- 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 1><S;J 
 
 ical way of bringing together similitii<5:es, saying that one 
 thing is like another thing, and inviting tjie iiongination to 
 hop tlie little differences. Nor was it the otiter way of giv- 
 ing an honest and trustworthy catalogue — a gamekeeper 
 sort of catalogue — of the phenomena of the hedge row or 
 the wood, leaving the reader who has sufficient time, train- 
 ing, and patience to fill in the light and color and back- 
 ground of the picture for himself. No ; there was some- 
 thing strange in this way of looking at things. There was 
 a minute observation, it is true, put down in the simplest 
 of terms ; and there was a certain atmospheric quality that 
 made the picture clear and vivid. But there was more 
 than that : there was a kind of sensitive, pathetic thrill in 
 the writing: these sights and sounds that were so 
 quietly and unobtrusively chronicled seemed interpenetrated 
 by a subtle human sympathy — rather sad, perhaps, in cer- 
 tain of its under-tones. Indeed, to some it seemed that 
 this writer had got behind the veil ; that even the sticks 
 and stones and flowers had whispered to him in his soli- 
 tude ; that the silence of the hills had reached to his heart. 
 And very soon — as we shall see presently — he began to 
 abandon even the pretence of writing about definite pur 
 suits. The further he was allowed to drift, the further ha 
 drifted, until the papers grew to be mainly the reflections 
 of a man who, whether it was a gun he held in his hand, 
 or whether it was a fishing-rod, or whether he was merely 
 looking abroad at mountain and shore and sea, continually 
 found himself face to fa6e with the mysteries of the world, 
 and with the old and sad and insoluble problems of human 
 existence. 
 
 Of course such a series of papers looked odd — at the 
 outset, at least — in the columns of a London daily news- 
 paper. The editor of that journal was himself at first very 
 doubtful; but something in the writing struck him, and as 
 his time and attention were then wholly engrossed by a 
 cabinet crisis, he shoved the manuscript into his pocket and 
 took it home, and showed it to his wife, who, when all his 
 anxieties and interests were confined within the sphere of 
 politics, acted for him as the mouthpiece of the vain clamor 
 of the other and outer world. Now this lady happened to 
 be a person of a very keen discrimination in literary mat 
 ters, and when she had read the first two of these papers 
 her judgment was prompt and decisive. 
 
 " This writing is quite extraordinary," said she. " There 
 
284 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 is a description of a frosty night settling down over n 
 stretch of bog-land that made me shiver to my fingertips." 
 
 " It is not news, and it is a newspaper we publisli," said 
 her husband, doubtfully. 
 
 " I should not care whether it was news or not," said 
 she, " so long as people are interested." 
 
 " It is very magazinish," he said. 
 
 " Why should the magazines monojiolize literature ? " 
 fihe answered. 
 
 Well, the experiment was made, and the public, who 
 don't care a pin's point about the traditions of new^spaper 
 offices, seemed to like these quiet and clear pictures of coun- 
 try life, and began to talk about them even amid the throes 
 of a cabinet crisis. At first, it is true, they were more ob- 
 viously practical. There was a good deal of information 
 about dogs and guns, about rabbit-snaring and deep-sea 
 fishing. Even the good Scoball was driven to send for a 
 file of this journal (which he did not regularly see, as it did 
 not express his political views) as he took his seat in the 
 library of his club one evening after dinner ; and so charmed 
 was his imagination Avith some of these sketches that he sud- 
 denly exclaimed, "Damme if I don't take a shooting in 
 Ireland this year ! " at the same time bringing down his fist 
 on the table, to the excessive alarm of three old gentlemen, 
 who had each been fast asleep in his favorite arm-chair, and 
 who started up to see if the world had come to an end. 
 
 But as has already been hinted, this new writer by slow 
 degrees seemed to feel that he was being allowed a good 
 deal of latitude ; and he took advantage of it to frequently 
 wander away from the ostensible purpose of these articles, 
 and to insinuate, rather than to state, a sort of philosophy 
 of human life which had some odd points about it. He 
 seemed to say : " In this strange transit through the world, 
 from the unknown to the unknown, where should one most 
 naturally look for safe and close companions whose inti- 
 macy could not be filched away from us or altered by th(3 
 fluctuating circumstances of life ? Surely in the grand and 
 beautiful things around us which we know to be permanent. 
 The time is so short, wdiy seek to probe the unsearchable 
 mysteries of the human heart; to secure and imprison the 
 elusive; to stake one's happiness on so unstable a founda- 
 tion as human affection ? Is there anything so variable, so 
 liable to change — nay, to cease? But if the beautiful 
 things of nature were to become our friends and loved 
 
SHANDON BELLS. . 285 
 
 ones, then securely year after year could we greet the re- 
 appearance of the liowei-s ; and securely day after day 
 could we welcome the wonder of the dawn, and listen to 
 the murmuring and soothing voice of the sea. The friend 
 whom we had trusted might disappoint and betray us; lov- 
 ing eyes might grow cold, and take away their love-secrets 
 elsewhere ; but he who had chosen the winds and the seas 
 and the colors of the hills for playmates and constant com- 
 panions need fear no change. The beautiful human face 
 would fade — nay, death might step in and rob us of our 
 treasure; but the tender loveliness of the sunrise remained, 
 and the scent of summer woods, and the ripple of the rivulet 
 down through the spacious meadows. But then this compan- 
 ion had to be wooed before it was won ; tlnj secret voice had 
 to be listened for ; the eye trained to know this wonderful 
 and not evanescent beauty. To such a lover, secure in his 
 possession, what evil could fortune bring? Friend and 
 sweetheart might prove false, but there was no discordant 
 note in the music of the lark ; the suspicions and envies 
 and enmities of mankind might appall, but there could be 
 nothing to doubt in the clear, beautiful blue eye of the 
 speedwell; and even those who had lingered in the fight 
 until sorely stricken there might find solace in retiring to 
 these solitudes, and seeking out these secret comijanions, 
 letting the seasons go by peacefully to the appointed end.. 
 * Then are titey glad because they he quiet y so He hringeth 
 them unto their desired haven,'' " 
 
 All this was insinuated rather than preached ; and it 
 was only here and there that some finely attuned ear 
 caught the under-note of sadness, and perhaps guessed at 
 its cause. Of course the bruit of these articles reached the 
 house in Hyde Park Gardens, and Miss Chetwynd, who was 
 not a diligent student of newspapers, and had, in fact, 
 missed them, had to hunt them all out one afternoon and 
 read them over to her aunt. What surprised her was that 
 mere sketches of sport, as they seemed, had the effect more 
 than once of giving her a choking at the throat ; but 
 nothing was said by way of criticism either by aunt or 
 niece, for the reading was just finished by dinner-time. 
 
 At dinner Miss Chetw^'nd herself introduced the sub- 
 ject, and asked if any one knew who had written theso 
 papers. 
 
 "I don't," said Dr. Bude ; "but what I do know is 
 that it is a thousand pities that fellow is thrown away on 
 literature. Literature does not want him. Science does 
 
286 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 I can assure you, my dear Mrs. Chetwynd, that an accurate 
 observer is a very rare bird indeed — far more rare among 
 men of science than is supposed. There are so few who 
 will take the trouble to look patiently ; they must jump to 
 their theory at once^ What does literature want with that 
 kind of observation ? Literature should deal with the 
 mind — with emotions. That fellow, now, should be set to 
 work to observe the habits of beetles or birds, or the action 
 of the tides, or some useful thing like that." 
 
 "I confess I was disappointed, after all the talk," said 
 Professor Sims, looking over his gold spectacles. " I 
 glanced at one or two of the papers, and found them incon- 
 sequential. You began with wild fowl shooting, but got on 
 to Shakespeare and all kinds of things. Then he seemed 
 to me to be interfering with the proper business of the 
 artist — describing what ought to ))e painted. What is the 
 use of describing the silvery waves that wind makes on a 
 field of long grass. Every one can see that for himself." 
 
 "Every one may not be in a position to see it," said 
 Miss Chetwynd, in her gentle and yet pointed way. " Tliis 
 is bringing the picture in-doors for you." 
 
 " That is not to be described in words ; that is for an 
 artist to paint," continued the professor. 
 
 " Could he ? " she said, quietly. 
 
 " But there is something to be said," Dr. Bude interposed 
 again, " for his theory that the eye should be trained to 
 observe the beauty of all manner of simple things, so that 
 you may increase the value of life. That is practical and 
 sensible, it seems to me. Even if you don't give science a 
 lift, you can make a country walk more interesting. He 
 seems to have picked up some curious illustrations of the 
 morphology of plants. And I had forgotten, I confess, 
 about the abortive stamens of the primrose. You have 
 read these papers, Mrs. Chetwynd ? " added the tall, lank, 
 dark man. 
 
 " Mary has just finished reading them to me." 
 
 " What is your opinion, then ? What is the writer ? 
 A man of science excusing lumself for idleness? a philoso- 
 pher taken to shoothig snipe ? or an artist taken to literature 
 because his pictures won't sell." 
 
 " I am sure I don't know," said the old lady, rather 
 hesitatingly, and with none of her usual sprightliness. " I 
 was thinking when Mary was reading them that — that if 
 my poor boy had taken to writing, most likely that was 
 the kind of subject he would have chosen to writ« about. 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 287 
 
 I liked the papers. They seemed a little sad sometimes — 
 at least wistful and strange. There is a kind of remoteness 
 about them." 
 
 " What is your opinion, then, Miss Mary ? " he asked. 
 
 Mary Chetwynd started slightly ; she had been listening 
 with downcast eyes. 
 
 "I?" said she, somewhat slowly. "What I think ia 
 that they are written by a man whose heart is broken." 
 
 Indeed, she seemed preoccupied during dinner ; and 
 when the people had gone she went quickly back to the 
 dravvina^-room, where she had left the cuttings from the 
 newspapers, and set to work to read them carefully over 
 again. Her aunt followed her in a short time, and found 
 her deeply engaged. 
 
 "You have no more of the newspaper articles to read, 
 have you, Mary ? " 
 
 " No ; I was only looking over them again." 
 
 By and by she looked up ; but the old lady could not 
 see that her niece seemed a little agitated. 
 
 " Auntie, surely you must know who has written these 
 papers ? " 
 
 ''I, child ?" said Mrs. Chetwynd, absently. " Well, I 
 was dreaming about them. I think he might have written 
 them." 
 
 " But, auntie, don't you recognize the place ? It is Boat 
 of Garry." 
 
 The old lady sighed. 
 
 " Yes, that 'is what he would have written about, no 
 doubt — the place he was so fond of." 
 
 " But, auntie, these articles are written about Boat of 
 Garry. Don't you recognize it all — the creek, and the 
 glen, and the islands, and the sea? Why, the acacia on 
 the lawn is there ; and the little marble-topped table : it is 
 like a photograph. Mr. Fitzgerald has written these 
 articles." 
 
 " Mr. Fitzgerald ? Yes, I should not wonder," said the 
 aunt, though she was obviously still thinking of the nephew 
 whom she had lost. " He is very clever. I suppose he 
 began to write early. I suppose it wants training. But I 
 think — Frank — could have written them." 
 
 " What I am thinking of is this, auntie," said her niece, 
 with some touch of feeling in her voice, " that if these articles 
 are written by Mr. Fitzgerald, we have no right to ask him 
 to remain in that loneliness. I — I suppose he must have 
 met with some sorrow ; there it is in every line. I say we 
 
288 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 liave no riglit to ask him to remain there. I am certain he 
 wrote these papers. Didn't you see the reference to the 
 heronry at Glengariff? and he has put in Berehaven as 
 clear as can be. And if — if he is in trouble, no matter 
 what it is, it is not for women to let him be there all by 
 himself, eating his heart out in solitude. It isn't human. 
 I'm sure I never thought how solitary the place would be 
 if one were there alone until I read those articles — we 
 always had plenty of society. It must be dreadful : doesn't 
 it sound dreadful, auntie." 
 
 ** Oh no, Mary ; he seems so pleased with the birds and 
 the different things around him — So you think that is 
 Mr. Fitzgerald ? Dear me ! he has become quite famous, 
 though no one knows his name." 
 
 " They'll know it soon enough." 
 
 " And that is his life at Boat of Garry that you have 
 been reading to me ? Yes, it is like the place, too — the 
 gun-room even, and the stuffed birds. You must read 
 them all over again, Mary. Then it was ht? who saw the 
 young rabbit trot along and tell its father and mother? 
 That was very prettily written ; now that I think of it, it 
 must have been in the wood beside the jjl^'", just over the 
 wire fence ; I wonder I did not notice before how like it 
 was to the place. 
 
 " But you don't seem to understand what I say, 
 auntie ; you are so full of dreams and pictures ; and I am 
 in the main responsible for Mr. Fitzgerald going to Boat of 
 Garry, and — and something has got to be put right, auntie." 
 
 " Well, then, child, I don't know what you mean, I 
 confess it," the old lady said. 
 
 " Mr. Fitzgerald told me something," said Miss Chet- 
 wynd, with an unaccustomed flush on the clear-cut, intel- 
 ligent face, " before he left for Boat of Garry, and I 
 guessed more. Do not tell him so, auntie — don't breathe a 
 word of it — but I fancy he has been in some trouble, and 
 that solitary place must have been a dreadful place to be 
 in. I should have thought of it. It was my fault. But I 
 thought if he were there for a time you would get accus- 
 tomed to the notion of some friend or other occupying the 
 place, and then that you might let it." 
 
 " I have asked you not to speak about that Mary. I 
 can have only a few years to live ; and if for that short time 
 I choose to do what I wish with my own " 
 
 " Auntie dear, don't speak like that to me," the girl 
 said, going to the old lady and putting her hand on her 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 289 
 
 shoulder. " Surely you know it was not for my own bene- 
 fit that I thought of it. It is not money that is likely to 
 come between you and me, I hope." 
 
 The aunt took the girl's hand and patted it. 
 
 " No, no. You are a good child. I wish you were 
 more saving with your money. Now what is it you want 
 me to do?" 
 
 " One of two things, auntie dear. After reading tliese 
 papers, I am quite distressed to think of Mr. Fitzgerald 
 being there in that loneliness he describes ; and 1 want you 
 to ask him to come back at once." 
 
 " Child, I want him to have the place. To whom else 
 could I give it ? Who else could have found out the charm 
 of the neighborhood and written like that ? No ; I have 
 thought over it, Mary. I could neither sell nor let Boat of 
 Garry ; and I would not have it go to the Lawrences, to 
 have all those ill-bred young cubs stamping through my 
 poor Frank's rooms ; and what good would it be to }»ou ? 
 — you would marry and give it away to somebody I know 
 nothing about." 
 
 " If you please, auntie dear, what I have is quite 
 enough," said the tall young lady, somewhat frigidly. 
 
 " Oh yes, I know ; and anything more you might have 
 rou v/ould fling away in Whitechapel," said the old lady, 
 with a smile. " Well, then, why should Mr. Fitzgerald 
 come back ? Why should he not become familiar with the 
 place ? Why should he not stay for the shooting ? " 
 
 The niece remained silent for a minute or so. 
 
 " Well, then, there is another thing you must do," she 
 said. " I think you and I might go over to Boat of Garry." 
 
 " To Boat of Garry ! " said the old lady, rather faintly. 
 
 " Very shortly now," said Miss Chetwynd, cheerfully, 
 " everybody will be leaving town, and my poor old auntie 
 will have nobody to bring her all the wicked gossip. Why 
 should not we go too ? " 
 
 " To Boat of Garry, child ? "• said the old lady, almost 
 reproachfully. 
 
 . " It is not like you, auntie, to think of refusing to com- 
 fort a friend in distress," said her niece. 
 
 '• But what do I know of his distress ? And what could 
 I do, since I am not to breathe a word about it ? " 
 
 " Well, auntie, I will tell you the truth," said the girl, 
 frankly. " My conscience is not quite clear. I was main- 
 ly responsible for the arrangement ; and I am afraid w« 
 
290 SIIANDON BELLS. 
 
 have been ratlier cruel. I should like to see liow things 
 .are going at Boat of Garry ; perhaps there will be no need 
 for us to remain ; we could pay a short visit, and then go 
 on to Killarney. I should feel more at ease. I am afraid 
 Mr. Fitzi^erald has got into a sort of morbid state through 
 being all alone there. That may be very good for his 
 literary prospects, and people may begin and talk about 
 him now and make him famous ; but I would rather have 
 nothing to do with the great god Pan and his fashioning of 
 the reed by the river." 
 
 " You are asking a great deal from me, Mary," said 
 Mrs. Chetwynd, after a while. 
 
 " I think I am asking what is right, auntie." 
 
 "It will be all the old sorrow over again," she said, 
 absently. 
 
 " Oh no, auntie, not that ; it will only be beautiful 
 memories now. I am sure you w^ould like to see Dan and 
 Wellington again, and Murtough and Kate, and the Ghoul, 
 and old Father Time, and the children up at Knockgar- 
 ven." 
 
 " It is a terrible thing going into an empty house, 
 child." 
 
 *' Oh, but it won't be empty, auntie ! " said her niece, 
 cheerfully. " We will have the Ballykilloge Barrys over to 
 show Mr. Fitzgerald, if he is to have the place, what it can 
 contain ; and we must drive to Ken mare to see the old 
 General ; and wouldn't Murtough be glad to take us on to 
 Killarney?" 
 
 " I never thought to see Boat of Garry again," said the 
 old lady, wistfully. 
 
 " Indeed, auntie, if I were going to be so munificently 
 generous as to make a present to a friend of a house and 
 garden and shooting lease, and horses and carriages, and 
 all the rest of it, I do think I should want to see how he 
 liked the place, and if he was properly grateful. How do 
 you know that Mr. Fitzgerald would take it ? How do 
 you know but that he sees nothing in the neighborhood ? " 
 
 "You can judge by these articles," said Mrs. Chet- 
 wynd ; but there was a yielding smile on her face. 
 
 " You will be able to judge, auntie, when Mr. Fitzger- 
 ald drives us from Glengariff ; and then you will see 
 whether we have been too cruel in condemning him to 
 such a solitary banishment. Now that's settled, auntie, 
 and there is not to be another world" 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 291 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 AT BOAT OF GARRY. 
 
 Mary Chetwyi^d read and re-read the " Occupations of 
 a Recluse " until every searching and sensitive phrase 
 seemed to find an echo in her heart ; and when at last, one 
 morning toward the end of July, she found herself stand- 
 ing at a window in tlie hotel at Glengariff, looking out on 
 tlie beautiful calm bay and the woods and the mountains, 
 it almost appeared to her as if a dream had become a solid 
 reality. For the recluse had written a good deal about 
 this neighborhood, though not specifying names ; and she 
 recognized the place now, not as she had known it in for- 
 mer years, but as transfigured by the new light and color 
 he had conferred upon it. It was the dream-picture be- 
 come real ; here were all the points of it — the rose hedge, 
 the little landing-stage, the wide water, the Martello tower, 
 and the far ranges of the hills. The place had a strange 
 interest for her. It was something other than the Glen- 
 gariff that she used to know. 
 
 Her aunt came into the room. 
 
 " I wonder whether Mr. Fitzgerald will come with the 
 carriage," said the niece. 
 
 " I have been wondering," said the old lady, doubt- 
 fully, *' whether we should tell him that we know of his 
 having written these articles." 
 
 " It can not be long a secret ; everybody is certain to 
 find out." 
 
 "It needed the interposition of a cabinet minister be- 
 fore we could make sure,'' said the aunt, however. 
 
 " I was sure from the beginning, auntie. It was only 
 
 you who must needs go and get Dr. Bude to beg Mr. 
 
 to ask the editor of the Daily Mirror. And all that trou- 
 ble for nothing — you ought to be ashamed of yourself, 
 auntie. Any one could see the papers were written about 
 Boat of Garry." 
 
 " Scold yourself, Mary Chetwynd ; don't scold me," 
 said the old lady. " There was no trouble about it. You 
 remember what Dr. Bude said the moment I asked him ? 
 
202 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 — ^that it was difficult for newspaper editoi-s to got at the 
 Becrets of cabinet ministers, but that the revei-se of the pro- 
 cess would prove to be easy enough. And a pretty thing 
 it would have been if we had come all this way on a mis- 
 sion of charity and compassion, and found that it was not 
 Mr. Fitzgerald at all who had been writing in the news- 
 papers. What would you have said then ? " 
 
 There was a rumble of a carriage below in the road. 
 
 " Oh, auntie, come quick ! " the niece cried. " Here 
 are Dan and Wellington, and Murtough ; and here is Mr. 
 Fitzgerald too. But what is he doing on the box ? " 
 
 The old lady went to the window ; and when she caught 
 sight of the empty carriage, she inadvertently put her hand 
 on her niece's arm, without saying a word. Then she 
 turned away, her eyes full. 
 
 "Oh, I know,'* said Mary Chetwynd, cheerfully ( though 
 m her heart she guessed that Fitzgerald had out of delicacy 
 refrained from presenting himself to the old lady as tlie 
 occupant of her nephew's place) — *'I know. Of course 
 you must see the scenery so much better from the box. Of 
 course that is it. Now, auntie dear, are you quite ready ? 
 Are all your things sent down ? " 
 
 " I think so, Mary," said Mrs. Chetwynd, when she had 
 recovered her composure. " You — you must make apolo- 
 gies to Mr. Fitzgerald for our interrupting him. We sha'n't 
 stay long. He may have his own friends coming for the 
 shooting. We don't want the carriage to take us to Kil- 
 larney, if you wish to go back that way. We can hire." 
 
 " I don't think you would get Mr. Fitzgerald to agree to 
 that, auntie," the younger lady said, quietly. 
 
 Fitzgerald was in the hall when they went downstairs ; 
 and he came up and shook hands with them, and said that 
 their luggage was all in the carriage, and were they ready ? 
 In this partial dusk he did not seem changed at all, except 
 perhaps that his manner was somewhat grave. And he 
 rather avoided observation, as it were ; he waited until they 
 went out, and then followed. 
 
 But when Mrs. Chetwynd and her niece got into the 
 carriage they found that the main part of their luggage had 
 been placed on the two seats opposite them, leaving no 
 further room. The Boots of the hotel shut the door. 
 
 " Leave ^hat open," said Miss Chetwynd, almost angrily. 
 "Murtough, why is all the luggage down here ? Mr. Fitz- 
 gerald, they will make room for you in a moment." 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 293 
 
 " Oh, tliank you," said lie, going round to the other side. 
 " I will get on the box." 
 
 " Certainly not," said she, with promptitude. " You 
 must have seen everything that is to be seen about here 
 many a time. Murtough, take these things up beside you. 
 See, Mr. Fitzgerald, here is your seat cleared. Don't you 
 think that auntie and I have had enough of each other's 
 company during such a long journey? And we have all 
 the gossip of the neighborhood to get from you. I suppose 
 old Father Time has a dozen more complaints about tho 
 Knockgarvan children ? " 
 
 So Fitzgerald had to take his seat inside ( the previous 
 arrangement had been a cunning device of his own ), and 
 away they drove. For a time there was a little embarrass- 
 ment. He was unaccustomed to new faces; he would 
 rather have been on the box. Then Mrs. Chetwynd had 
 got it so clearly in her mind that he was already the actual 
 owner of Boat of Garry that she kept making little ingen- 
 uous excuses for their intrusion. But very soon the light 
 and pleasant humor of Mary Chetwynd, and the clear frank- 
 ness of her eyes, dispersed these awkwardnesses, and Bantry 
 Bay and all its surroundings began (for him, at least) to 
 assume quite a new and cheerful aspect. Boat of Garry, 
 too : did he not know that the old gardener, with his stoop, 
 and his long hair, and his scythe, was familiarly spoken of 
 as '* old Father Time " ? Had he not observed how Ghoul- 
 like was the engineer, stoker, and captain of the Black 
 Swan when he raised his head, all smothered in coal dust 
 from the yacht's bunkers, and glared through his huge brass- 
 rimmed spectacles? This landau : had no one told him it 
 was properly called "the Ark," especially in wet Aveather, 
 when its vast capacity could have transported half the neigh- 
 boi-hood safely through the rain ? Perhaps he had never 
 heard of H.M. S. Coalscuttle ? At all events, she said, she 
 was pleased to see that the Ghoul had not blown him into 
 the air, 
 
 " I think it is very wicked of Mary," said the old lady, 
 "to come and throw ridicule on everything, and make you 
 think light of the place. Perhaps — perhaps it is from old 
 association, but I consider Boat of Garry very pretty." 
 
 "Who could say otherwise ?" he answered. "It is a 
 beautiful neighborhood.'* 
 
 " But a bit lonely ? " said Mary Chetwynd, timidly. 
 " Oh no." 
 
294 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 She raised her eyes in astonishment. 
 
 " You don't find it lonely? " 
 
 " Not in the least," said he, simply. " I mean — that is 
 — well, perhaps it might be called lonely ; but I find the 
 solitariness of it its chief charm, I think." 
 
 She was silent for a second. Then she said, good-na- 
 turedly : — 
 
 "Auntie, what do you think of that^ as a compliment? 
 Why, Mr. Fitzgerald, we thought — we imagined — that you 
 might be rather lonely here — and — and we thought of giv- 
 ing you the pleasure of our company for a week or two — I 
 mean a few days " 
 
 She was clearly embarrassed ; but there was a humor- 
 ous smile on her face all the time. Then she looked up 
 with her frank clear look. 
 
 *' I will confess the truth, Mr. Fitzgerald. My dark and 
 nefarious scheme has failed. Auntie won't let Boat of 
 Garry." 
 
 " I don't wish it even talked about," said the old lady, 
 but without sharpness. 
 
 "And so you see all my plotting and counter-plotting 
 has only ended in your having been banished away from 
 human-kind for all this time." 
 
 " But Boat of Garry is not such a howling wilderness, 
 Miss Chetwynd," he said, with a smile. " Humanity exists 
 there as elsewhere ; and human — folly, shall we say ? You 
 don't know what tragic passions may be smouldering in all 
 that quiet. Murtough," he said, lowering his voice some- 
 what, " has discovered that a man at Adrigole made Kate 
 an offer of marriage before she married Murtough " 
 
 " I know she came to me about it. Why did the stupid 
 girl not tell her husband? What harm was there in 
 that?" 
 
 " Why, none. Only the pitiableness of it," he said, 
 absently. " It is merely the old story. When you see three 
 jackdaws flying along together in springtime you know 
 what a story of jealousy and hatred and madness that 
 means, and how one poor chap is doomed to an inevi- 
 table fate. But it appears that the gentleman from Adri- 
 gole, having recently taken to drink, and idleness, and 
 Fenianism, and so on, is now desirous of renewing his ac- 
 quaintance with Kate ; so there is to be a tremendous head- 
 smashing when he and Murtough meet." 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 295 
 
 '' I will put an end to that," she said, promptly, '* for I 
 know Pat Carey's master." 
 
 "I am afraid Pat Carey hasn't any master to speak of 
 now," said he. " But Murtough can hold his own." 
 
 For a time there was silence ; and only the driving 
 through the delicious air ; and the opening out of the beau- 
 ties of the far-reacliing bay. Mary Chetwynd was afraid 
 she had said too mucl\ about his loneliness. She could not 
 explain to him, here and now, what she had been guessing 
 about him from these writings. She had been listening to 
 inner secrets when she was reading those papers. Now 
 everytliing seemed so ordinary and matter of fact — as he 
 ])ointed out where the coal smack had come to grief, or 
 asked Mrs. Chetwynd if she had read Professor Sims's 
 lecture, or got Murtough to stop the carriage so that he 
 could get out to walk a steep part of the road. And yet, 
 sometimes, when he was absently looking away over the 
 wide expanse of water, there was a look in his eyes that 
 told her something she had only imagined, and that con- 
 vinced her that this visit on the j^art of her aunt and her- 
 self was not so much amiss. 
 
 When they swept round the gravel-drive and drew up 
 in front of the house, it was Miss Chetwynd's aim to make 
 a rare bustle, so that her aunt should have no opportunity 
 of indulging in sad recollections. Sure enough, here was 
 old Father Time, with his scythe, just finishing off the 
 lawn ; and here was the pretty Kate, all smiling and 
 pleased ; and Tim was sent to bring the dogs ; and the 
 Ghoul was to be summoned to report about the new boiler. 
 But indeed Mrs. Chetwynd did not seem to mind as much 
 as had been expected her entering this house. It Avas far 
 from being an empty house. Everything was noise and 
 turmoil and confusion. And when at last something like 
 order had been restored, and when the three sat down to 
 lunch, Mrs. Chetwynd, so far from being dejected, said 
 with a smile on the pretty, bright old face. 
 
 "Why, Mary, this is quite like old times." 
 
 The luncheon was not a sumptuous one ; but the old 
 lady was obviously highly pleased — with something or 
 other. 
 
 " Your telegram, Mrs. Chetwynd, came late last night," 
 Fitzgerald said, " and I had to get away early this morning, 
 or I should have tried to get you a sea-trout, or a brace of 
 wood-pigeons, or something." 
 
200 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 '^ Oh, but this will do capitally," she said, " If Kate 
 would only let us have some wine. I hope you found the 
 wine to your liking, Mr. Fitzgerald ? " 
 
 "I — I have no doubt it is excellent," said he, flushing 
 somewhat. 
 
 *' But you don't mean to say you have not tried it — all 
 this time ? " said she, staring. 
 
 " The beer is very good indeed," said he evasively. 
 
 The old lady looked at her niece, as if to say, " There 
 is something to be amended here" ; but she said notliing. 
 
 Then she began to cross-examine him about his impres- 
 sions of the place, and his pursuits, and so forth, just as if 
 she had never heard about the " Occupations of a Recluse." 
 Pid he like the situation of the house ? The shooting prom- 
 ised to be good this year ? And how about the winter — 
 would it not be a terribly dull place in winter ? And she 
 was very much surprised that he had not made any use of 
 the Blade Swan. 
 
 " I don't know much about steam-yachts," said lie, 
 " but I suppose it costs a good in coals before you can get 
 steam up ? " 
 
 " A trifle — a mere trifle," she said. '* Surely it was not 
 that that hindered you ? " 
 
 " I thought if you were letting the place, it miglit be as 
 well to have a full stock of coals in the boat," said he. 
 
 " Never mind, auntie," said the niece. " You and I and 
 Mr. Fitzgerald will all have a famous trip to-morrow, 
 if the day is fine, and we will see what the new boiler can 
 do." 
 
 " Not I," said the old lady, -with decision. " You two 
 may go if you like. I wish to end my days in a peaceable 
 kind of way." 
 
 " Mr. Fitzgerald," said Miss Chetwynd, "have you ever 
 steered a small steam-yacht ? " 
 
 " I have never been on board one." 
 
 "Well, the sensation will be a new one for you — you 
 must not miss it. You will have the pleasing impression 
 that a wild beast has run away with you, and that you 
 haven't the least notion against what it is going to rush. 
 Then the Ghoul is generally below at his fires ; and I sup- 
 pose you don't know much about the navigation of Bantry 
 Bay?" 
 
 "Nothing whatever." 
 
 " That is still more excellent," she continued, gravely 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 297 
 
 " And when you see the finger of the dial informing you 
 that you are about twenty pounds above the registered 
 pressure, you don't know how to let off the steam, I sup- 
 pose ? " 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 "Capital! — capital ! It will be the greatest enjoyment 
 of your life. The Ghoul will be below ; pressure will be 
 100 pounds on tlie square inch ; the wild beast will be run- 
 ning away with you ; and you don't know where the rocks 
 are. And yet they say that Boat of Garry is a sleepy, un- 
 exciting sort of place !" 
 
 "If you don't mind, Miss Chetwynd, I Avould rather 
 leave the management of that wild war steed to you." 
 
 "Tome? Oh, no. When there is a man on board, of 
 course the man steers. It isn't a woman'^i place." 
 
 " But suppose the man prefers to stay on shore ? " 
 
 " Then you are afraid ? " 
 
 "Yes, I am." 
 
 "I thought men never acknowledged that." 
 
 " It does not much matter whether they acknowledge it 
 or not. If you put a man on a railway engine, and start it, 
 and send him careering along the line without any power to 
 stop, and then if you ask him whether he is quite hap])y, 
 and he says ' Yes,' you can judge for yourself whether he 
 is a truthful person." 
 
 " Besides," continued the young lady, in the same calm 
 and placid manner, "you know you have to get the yacht 
 out of the creek first ; and the deep channel is about a 
 dozen yards wide ; and it twists between rocks ; and tlie 
 currents are fearful." 
 
 " Mary Chetwynd !" said her aunt, angrily, and then 
 she turned to Fitzgerald. " I don't know what has got into 
 her head, but she seems determined to put you out of con- 
 ceit with the whole place. The yacht is as safe as sitting in 
 that easy-chair — why, look at the new boiler ! And it is 
 most delightful to be able to go away on a perfectly still 
 day — when an ordinary yacht would be unable to move — 
 and go as far out as you please, and have luncheon there, 
 and come back just when it suits you. I would go with 
 you myself to-morrow — " 
 
 *' Only — ? " said the niece. 
 
 " Only what ? " 
 
 "I wanted to know what the excuse was to be this 
 time, auntie dear," said the imperturbable young lady. 
 
298 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 " But I mean to go," said Mrs. Chetwynd, valiantly. 
 
 " Now you know very well, auntie, you are as sensitive 
 as a cat, and the least speck of dirt on your face or on your 
 hands makes you fidgety and miserable ; and when H.M.S. 
 Coalscuttle does take it into its head to throw up a cloud of 
 wet soot at starting — " 
 
 "But wc can go below until she has started," the aunt 
 said. 
 
 " Who is to steer, then ? '' 
 
 " Tim can steer." 
 
 " He knows no more of the rocks than the man in the 
 moon. Besides, would you miss the expression of the 
 Ghoul's face when he gets to the Narrows ?" 
 
 " Come away, Mr. Fitzgerald," said the old lady, " and 
 we will have coffee outside. If you stay here any longer, 
 Mary will persuade you that sea air is poisonous, and that 
 Boat of Garry is celebrated for small-pox." 
 
 Now this fighting, which had been brought about of set 
 purpose by Mary Chetwynd, had the desired effect of tying 
 down the attention of the old lady to the affairs of the mo- 
 ment ; and it was wonderful with what little concern — how 
 easily and naturally — she now took her accustomed seat on 
 the bench outside the porch and looked around. Tlie or- 
 deal she had feared was no ordeal at all. She was regard- 
 ing the trim-cut lawn, and the masses of rhododendrons, 
 and the openings through the trees which revealed glimpses 
 of the sea and distant hills ; and she was thinking that for 
 a man of letters no more desirable haven of rest could have 
 been found. Was it a wonder that he had written those 
 charming papers in this dream-like quiet? The world 
 seemed filled with sunlight here ; and yet there was a slight 
 cool breeze coming over from the sea to temper the heat ; 
 and as it passed along it stirred some lime-trees down there 
 by the rivulet, and the sweet scent -was all around. And 
 the old lady was very pleased to see the place looking so 
 beautiful ; and she was pretty sure in her own mind that 
 a contemplative student would be glad enough to have it 
 as a gift, and to remain there for a portion of the year a^. 
 least, and do the best work of which he was capable in it, 
 and perhaps also submit to be bothered — for a week or two 
 in the summer — by a visit from two idle women escaping 
 into this gracious quiet from the clang of London life. 
 
 Occupied by this pleasing fancy, the old lady, accom« 
 panied by the two younger people, now set out on an in 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 299 
 
 Bpection of the place. Father Time received high praise 
 for the condition of the garden. Then they visited the 
 kennel, and the stables, and the fowl-house, and what not ; 
 and, as the day was so beautiful, Mrs. Chetwynd said she 
 thought she could walk as far as the shore, and have a look 
 at the Black Swan lying at her moorings. 
 
 But to do this they had to return to the house and take 
 a road leading somewhat inland from the marshy stretches 
 lying alongside the creek ; and they were leisurely walking 
 along, chatting, and watching birds and butterflies and so 
 forth, when Fitzgerald suddenly discovered that right ahead 
 of them, at some distance, stood the Knockgarvan bull, 
 calmly contemplating them, and apparently disposed to 
 contest their right of way. It was an awkward, even a 
 serious, situation. He knew the beast and its ill temper, 
 and had, indeed, passed it several times, tliough on these 
 occasions he had been accompanied — as was his wont in 
 going about — with one or other of the dogs, and when there 
 is a dog about, the bull does not pay much attention to its 
 master. However, now there was no help for it; there 
 was no gate for the two women to go through, no wall for 
 them to get behind ; and he knew very well that the first 
 symptom of fear or retreat would be the first inducement 
 for the bull to pursue. Moreover, he dared not even tell 
 his companions of their danger; for he Av\as afraid the old 
 lady might scream and try to run away, and there was ab- 
 solutely no shelter. So he continued talking in a loud and 
 unconcerned way, carefully keeping a short distance ahead 
 of the two ladies. 
 
 " Oh yes, Mrs. Chetwynd," he was saying (with an anx- 
 ious eye on the bull all the time), "that purple loosestrife 
 is a very handsome plant when you see it growing by the 
 wayside — very handsome — yes — splendid color out of 
 doors " 
 
 Here he had come within stone's-throw of the bull which 
 stood immovable but for the angry flapping about of its 
 tail. He picked up a pebble and carelessly shied it at the 
 animal. 
 
 " Get out of that ! " he growled, with apparent indiffer- 
 ence, and forthwith continued his talking. 
 
 " — but it is worth nothing indoors. It does not tell in 
 a room. It loses the pink and becomes purple. I told Tim 
 to cut a lot, and meant to put them in the dining-room 
 when you came ; but I found they would not do — " 
 
800 SIIANDON BELLS. 
 
 Here the animal gave alow, warning bellow ; but there 
 was nothing for it. He kept on talking ; always a little 
 ahead of his companions ; and he knew the time was come, 
 for good or ill. 
 
 " Mr. Fitzgerald," said Mrs. Chetwynd, anxiously, 
 " hadn't we better go back " 
 
 " Oh no," said he, carelessly. " Come along. It is only 
 one of the Knockgarvan beasts strayed down from the farm. 
 Get out of the way^ wiU you f " 
 
 He lifted this time a big stone — what in those districts 
 is called a rock — and pitched it at the brute, intending to 
 miss him. By dire mischance the lump of stone landed on 
 the animal's nose ; and Master Willie's heart at the same 
 moment leaped to his mouth, for he was convinced that the 
 beast would not endure such an insult. But slowly and 
 sulkily, and with deep mutterings and flapping of the tail, 
 the coward brute yielded its dignity, and crossed a ditcli, 
 and went into the adjoining pasture. Fitzgerald was much 
 too prudent ta try a repetition of the stone-heaving. He 
 let well alone. 
 
 "I was saying," he continued, as if nothing had hap- 
 pened, " that loosestrife isn't good for lighting up a room. 
 Fox-gloves are better ; but even they are too purple. Now 
 a splendid show of wild flowers is to get the marigolds that 
 grow in the corn here, and mix them up with meadow- 
 sweet " 
 
 He cautiously turned his head ; the bull — at some dis- 
 tance — was regarding them, but evidently not inclined to 
 follow. In a few more minutes they were down at the little 
 landing-slip; and here was the Ghoul, otherwise. Shell 
 Glanny — a great, awkward-looking man, with bushy black 
 hair and brass-rimmed spectacles — seated on the beach, tar- 
 ring a broken-down old punt. 
 
 " Shell," said Fitzgerald to him, under his breath, " haul 
 in the boat there, and I'll row the ladies out to the yacht. 
 And then you'll go back to the house, and tell Tim to bring a 
 couple of the dogs along the road, and drive the Knockgarvan 
 bull up to the farm. And you'll tell him to tell the boy 
 that the next time he lets the beast go wandering down here 
 like that, I'll come up with a stick and beat him till he's 
 black and blue." 
 
 " Sure I'll do it mesilf now, sir,'' said Shell, looking 
 about for an instrument. 
 
 Then it occurred to Fitzgerald that this was a most 
 
SIJANDON BELLS. 301 
 
 injudicious threat, seeing how near the shooting season 
 was. 
 
 " No," said he ; " Tim is to give the boy this shilling, 
 and say I am much obliged to him for keeping his dog from 
 hunting ; and, while the ladies are here, would he see that 
 the bull is kept up at the farm ? " 
 
 " Well, well, sir," said Sheil, going away rather down- 
 faced, and no doubt thinking that it was throwing away 
 a shilling when a beating would have done as well or 
 better. 
 
 So Fitzgerald got into the big boat, and rowed the two 
 ladies (he noticed that Mrs. Chetwynd kept a hand tightly 
 grasping the gunwale all the time, though the water was 
 like glass) out to the Black Swan^ and got them on board. 
 She was a smart enough looking yacht of about fifty feet in 
 length, with a small cabin aft, and a larger one forward ; 
 and as there was a pretty strong odor of new paint about, 
 it was clear that Sheil Glanny had been occupying his spare 
 time usefully. Indeed, so anxious did the old lady seem 
 that Fitzgerald should express approval of the little yacht 
 that even her niece refrained from making disrespectful 
 comments ; nay, she even undertook to make a cup of tea 
 for them, until she found that all the small lockers were 
 locked, and that there was neither tea nor anything else to 
 be got at on board. 
 
 " I think she is a beautiful little boat, and very handy 
 and convenient," said Fitzgerald, to the old lady's great 
 delight. " I had no idea there was such room in her. 
 Why, half a dozen people could sleep on board. And with 
 that twisting channel down at the mouth of the creek, a 
 sailing yacht would never be able to get in here. To-mor- 
 row, then, Mrs. Chetwynd, would you like to take a trip ? 
 for I will tell Sheil about getting up steam." 
 
 " If — if you wish it," said Mrs. Chetwynd, rather doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 *' Don't drive auntie into a corner," said the niece, 
 laughing. " She would be trembling all the time. No ; 
 she shall come down to the beach ; and I will go with you, 
 if you like, for I know the way down the creek ; and wo 
 will have a short run out and back, and pick up auntie again. 
 How will that do ? " 
 
 " It will do very well," said the old lady, " if you are 
 not in one of your scornful moods. But when Mr. Fitz 
 gerald knows you a little better, he will know when you are- 
 speaking the truth and when you are not." 
 
302 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 When they got back to the house again (there was no 
 bull to contest their passage this time) Fitzgerald took out 
 his fishing-rod, and said he was going down to the stream 
 to see if he could get a sea-trout for their dinner, while the 
 two ladies had tea brought them to the little table outside 
 the porch. 
 
 " Mary," said Mrs. Chetwynd, after a time — what a 
 beautiful, quiet, golden afternoon it was ! " — " I wish you 
 would write to Mr. McGee, and ask him to come over and 
 see me. Or we can send up the yacht for him, if that will 
 suit him best." 
 
 ** Very well, auntie," said the younger lady, dutifully ; 
 " but I think you are making a mistake." 
 
 " Why ? " , 
 
 " I have seen it brewing all day long. The place looks 
 pretty ; Mr. Fitzgerald is pleased with it, and you are 
 proud of it — and you have gone back to your old notion of 
 givinor it to him." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " What would he do with it ? He has no money to 
 keep it up, as poor Frank had*. You couldn't expect him 
 to live here all his life, in any case — a young man like that, 
 with a great career before him. Why, you'd never even 
 have the satisfaction of seeing him to let him say ' Thank 
 you ' for your kindness. Besides, I wouldn't trust the con- 
 veyancing of a valuable property to Mr. McGee." 
 
 "Really, Mary," said her aunt, with a little laugh, 
 *' you must have been thinking about it as much as I have 
 all day. But some of your objections meet each other. I 
 don't want Mr. McGee to convey the property, but to come 
 over and make a calculation as to what would be necessary 
 to keep it up as it stands. When I present a picture I like 
 to present it framed. And then, no doubt, if what people 
 say about these writings is true, no doubt Mr. Fitzgerald 
 would have to live a part of the year in London ; and I am 
 sure you would be as glad to see him as I should be, for the 
 more I see of him I like him the better ; and — and in a 
 measure I should like him to be to us what — what my poor 
 boy was. Well, that means money. That means an allow- 
 ance, Mary. Do you think he is not deserving of it ? '^ 
 
 " I wouldn't say that, auntie dear. But all the deserv 
 ing people don't meet with such a kind friend. I suppose 
 he will continue to write. You know, auntie — ^now don't 
 
SHANDON BELLS, ' 8(1 -J 
 
 bo cross, for I am only talking common sense — I think you 
 were too good to poor Frank; and many a time I wished 
 he would give up his hunting, and come and do some kind 
 of useful thing." 
 
 " Now, Mary, that is enough," said the aunt, but with- 
 out anger. " We are not all reformers and politicians like 
 you. If my poor boy pleased himself, that is enough for 
 me ; that is what I like to think of. But there's always 
 good sense in what you say, Mary. Of course I should not 
 dream of making Mr. Fitzgerald such an allowance as would 
 make him independent and careless. Oh no. But I think 
 I can trust the lad. I like the look of his eyes. And if he 
 can not be everytliing that my boy was to me — well, at my 
 time of life one is glad to be able to do what kindness one 
 can ; and 1 don't see any one else to whom I would rather 
 give Boat of Garry." 
 
 The niece was silent for a little while. 
 
 *' Auntie," said she at length, " if you are quite resolved 
 upon this, will you allow me to tell him to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Yes. Why not ? " 
 
 '' There are one or two things I should like to say to 
 him — if you don't mind." 
 
 " Why not ? Who knows all the circumstances of the 
 case better than you ? Well, now Mary, I am going to my 
 room to lie down for a while ; but you may come and 
 knock at my door before dinner." 
 
 Master Willie was not fortunate that afternoon, foi 
 there was not a breath of wind, and the surface of the 
 pools was like glass; and he was returning to the house 
 rather disheartened — not knowing that the Ghoul had got 
 two splendid flounders, a cod, and a skate in his drift-net, 
 and that Tim, who had been sent up the hill, was bringing 
 back a brace of mountain hares and a couple of teal — 
 when he met Miss Chetwynd. She was trying to plait 
 rushes, and not succeeding very well. 
 
 " Mr. Fitzgerald," said she, looking up with those clear 
 blue-gray eyes of hers, " was not that rather an ill-tempered 
 bull we met this afternoon ? " 
 
 " It does not like strangers." 
 
 " And we were in some danger?'* 
 
 *' Well," said he, hesitatingly, " something might have 
 happened." 
 
 " I thought so," she said, regarding him. " And yet 
 you would not tell us we were in danger." 
 
304 SIIANDON BELLS. 
 
 *' What would have been the use ? I should only liavo 
 frightened your aunt, and made more mischief." 
 
 "If my aunt had not been there, would you have told 
 me?" and for a second her frank, shrewd, inquiring eyes 
 met his. 
 
 *' Yes, I think I would have told you," he said. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIII. 
 
 THE BLACK SWAN. 
 
 Mary Chetwynd's manner was ordinarily marked by 
 a perfect ease and simplicity ; it seemed to suit the sin- 
 cerity of her eyes; women noticed it, and found her com- 
 panionable ; sick children were glad to be nursed by her ; 
 poor people did not become self-conscious when she entered 
 their door ; at her aunt's table she spoke to guests and ser- 
 vants in precisely the same voice; she had the same smile, 
 the same frank look, for every one. All this pertness 
 of humor she had displayed since their arrival at Boat of 
 Garry had been assumed ; but it had answered its purpose ; 
 the old lady had taken quite naturally to the place ; there 
 were no fits of despondency or gloomy reminiscences. But 
 when she herself drew near the true object of their visit, 
 she became more grave, and again and again found herself 
 wishing that these explanations were well over. At all 
 events, chance provided her with an ample opportunity of 
 making them. 
 
 Next morning Mrs. Chetwynd had almost resolved to 
 go on board the Black Swan, and even went down to the 
 shore of the creek with them; but at the last moment she 
 changed her mind, and said she would go to the hill above 
 the house, from which she could see them sail away out 
 into Bantry Bay and back. But this hesitation had caused 
 delay ; and when at length Miss Chetwynd and Fitzgerald 
 and Tim, the keepei-, got on board the little yacht they 
 found the Ghoul in a state of great excitement and impa- 
 tience. There was a rapid ebb-tide running ; steam was up 
 to within five pounds of the extreme registered pressure: 
 the donkey-engine was rattling away as if it were in a tin 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 305 
 
 box ; and Slieil Glanny was here, there, and everywhere — > 
 at the moorings, at the furnace door, at the waste-pipe, at 
 the coals. And then, before Fitzgerald fairly knew where 
 he was amid all the uproar, he found himself with a rope 
 in his hand, and the rope was attached to a hauling and 
 jerking and tlirobbing iron tiller, and he knew that the 
 Black Swan was forging ahead just anywhere, for the con- 
 densers had not arrived, and he was enveloped in steam, 
 not even the bow of the boat being visible. 
 
 " Miss Chetwynd," he called aloud — for the Ghoul was 
 down in the bunkers again — " have you any notion where 
 we are going ? " 
 
 " Not the least," said she. " But Tim is at the bow." 
 
 However, the steam abated, or else the wind freshened ; 
 at all events, he began to get glimpses of his surroundings, 
 and strove as near as he could to keep this raging little 
 beast in mid-channfd And what a noise it made ! — or 
 rather a succession of noises, each distinct, and each sharply 
 following the other. And then there was still another — a 
 sudden, brain-dividing shriek, twice repeated ; and he saw 
 that Miss Chetwynd had hold of the brass chain of the 
 steam-whistle. 
 
 " That is a signal to auntie : do you think she will hear ? " 
 she said — or shouted. 
 
 "Hear?" he answered. " They will hear it at New 
 York. I believe you have killed every curlew within six 
 miles of us." 
 
 Then to his unspeakable satisfaction, the great black- 
 headed creature with the big brass-iimmed spectacles came 
 on deck again, and assumed charge of the tiller, calling 
 Tim along to help at the same moment. It was evident 
 they were approaching the dreaded Narrows. Now and 
 again in the deep clear water some sudden flashes of golden 
 brown were seen — the long arms of the sea-weed. Far 
 ahead there were some strange-looking swirls, silver curl- 
 ings on the glassy blue, though no rocks were visible. 
 Moreover, as they drew nearer and nearer to this narrow 
 channel, it was very apparent that the tide was flowing 
 seaward like a mill-race. 
 
 " We should have started an hour before," said Miss 
 Chetwynd, looking rather apprehensively at the swirling 
 water. 
 
 '* At all events we can't turn and face that tide now/ 
 her companion observed. 
 
806 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 The Ghoul was paying heed, not to them, but to the 
 course of the water ajid the lay of the shore. Then he 
 shouted. 
 
 " Hard over, Tim ! " 
 
 Fitzgerald lent a hand too, and the iron tiller was 
 jammed over. Of course he looked to see the yacht swing 
 round. She did nothing of the kind. The current was 
 too much for her steering-way. There was a slight scratch 
 — a sort of grating sensation — only for the briefest possible 
 point of time. 
 
 Fitzgerald looked at Miss Chetwynd — with a natural 
 sort of inquiry ; for she knew more about this performance 
 than he did. He found she was regarding him and waitintj. 
 
 They had not long to wait. In fact, the whole thing 
 had happened before they had had time to think. Immedi- 
 ately following that grating scratch along the keel there was 
 a distinct and solid bump that shook the yacht from stem 
 to stern ; the Ghoul sprang forward to shut off the steam ; 
 there was the slightest tilting over of the boat ; and then, 
 after all this excitement and noise, the strangest imaginable 
 silence. Everybody stood still, doing nothing. The 
 Ghoul looked away astern in a reproachful kind of way. 
 Then Fitzgerald began to wonder whether she was 
 aground on rock, or on shingle, or on mud, and whether 
 she would remain upright. And then various examina- 
 tions and surmises and sujjsrestions resolved themselves to 
 this — that they were stuck here for five hours at least, with 
 the compensation that the summer day was beautiful, and 
 around them a perfect and delicious quiet. 
 
 " iTou know, Miss Chetwynd," Fitzgerald said at length, 
 " Tim and I might manage to get you ashore in the boat. 
 We should be whirled along a good bit, but that would 
 only give you another quarter of a mile to walk back to 
 the house." 
 
 "Would you have me desert the ship?" she said. 
 " What might become of Shell if he were left alone ? You 
 could never pull the boat back to the yacht again against 
 that current. Besides, when the tide rises high enough to 
 float the yacht again who knows what will happen ? " 
 
 " But five hours — " said he. 
 
 "Mr. Fitzgerald," said she, somewhat diffidently, "I — I 
 have something to tell you that — that won't take up five 
 hours, perhaps, but that will give you plenty to think over 
 for that time." 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 307 
 
 '* Not loo serious ? " he said. 
 
 " Oh no. Not at all. I hope not," she said. 
 
 So they had to set to work to make themselves com- 
 fortable during this enforced detention. Fortunately the 
 Black Sioan, when she ran into the bed of shingle and sea- 
 weed, fixed herself without much of a list ; and the deck 
 stools were quite serviceable. Shell Glanny had gone below 
 to bank up his fires and let off some of the steam ; and Tim 
 had accompanied him. These two, then, were practically 
 alone in this shining, silent world of sky and sea, with the 
 slow-sailing white clouds mirrored in the blue expanse of 
 water, and the slight hissing all around them of the currents 
 swirling between the rocks. 
 
 Mary Chetwynd's manner, as has already been said, was, 
 in ordinary circumstances, marked by a perfect ease and 
 self-possession ; she never seemed to have to think twice 
 about what she was going to say ; she always appeared to* 
 be on the most simple and friendly terms both with herself 
 and with everybody around her. Now, however, it was 
 clear that she was embarrassed. She remained silent for a 
 time ; her eyes were fixed on the deck ; once or twice she 
 opened and shut her sunshade aimlessly. And when she 
 did speak she jumbled nearly all the thing she had to say 
 together in a very incoherent way. 
 
 " Mr. Fitzgerald — I — 1 don't think you and I have been 
 quite fair to each other. I — I have been reading those 
 papers in the Daily Mirror — I did not know you thought 
 about such things — and then I am afraid you have not been 
 quite happy here — and auntie wants to give you the place 
 — and hopes you will stay here — and I want you to go 
 away." 
 
 Her fingers were trembling. 
 
 " It is so difficult to make explanations," she said. 
 " But I feel that it was inconsiderate of me to ask you to 
 come here — " 
 
 What could make her so timid and. almost distressed? 
 — she who ordinarily did not seem to know what nervous- 
 ness meant. 
 
 I hope you won't think of it," he said, hastily coming 
 to her rescue, and with an embarrassment about equal to 
 her own. "Yesterday you seemed concerned about it also. 
 Please don't think of it for a moment. I assure you it is a 
 very good thing for people to be alone sometimes ; it makes 
 them find out something about themselves. Surely it is not 
 
308 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 a trumpery matter like that that you want to speak about 
 for five hours, Miss Chetwynd ? I assure you I have en- 
 joyed the time tremendously since I was here — I don't 
 expect ever to have such a holiday again as long as I live. 
 But who told you I wrote those papers in the Mirror? " 
 
 " Who told me ? " she said, with her face brightening, 
 for now the awkwardness of beginning was over, and here 
 was a solid, practical subject that involved no danger. 
 " They did. Every line — though I don't think you ever 
 wrote quite in that way before. Auntie herself would 
 have led me to suspect, for she thought t})ey were like what 
 our poor Frank might have written, just as she thouglit 
 about the other papers in the Household Magazine. So 
 there must be some similarity ; but yet I see a great differ- 
 ence " 
 
 Here she flushed slightly, and immediately said : — 
 
 " I wonder, now, if you know here what an impression 
 they have made on the public ? 1 suppose not. Do you 
 know that every one is talking about them, as something 
 quite i\QW in literature. And the weekly papers have been 
 saying the nicest things about them, especially the Liberal 
 Heview. 
 
 " No, not the Liberal Review f " said he quickly. 
 
 " Oh yes, indeed. Again and again. Wlien you go 
 Dack to London you will find yourself quite famous." 
 
 That topic ought not to have been distasteful to a young 
 author, but he merely said : — 
 
 "I have had some letters about them. And invitations 
 to contribute elsewhere. One publisher, indeed, wants to 
 reprint them. If that were done, and if the public care to 
 read them in that form, I might be able, after all, to gain 
 some little footing in literature — enough for a beginner. I 
 had begun to despair. I was at it a long time, and of course 
 one does not like to confess one's self a failure ; and I should 
 like to have a definite way of earning a living, besides. But 
 don't bother about my affairs. Miss Chetwynd." 
 
 *' I must," she said, brightly, for she was glad the ice 
 was broken. " I have been intrusted by auntie with the 
 duty of telling you that she is more bent than ever on ask- 
 ing you to take over Boat of Garry " 
 
 " I remember. It is very kind of her, I am sure," he 
 said : " but in my circumstances it would be worse than use- 
 less." 
 
 " Yes ; so she understands," said his companion, calmly. 
 
"iHANDON BELLS, 809 
 
 ** You mean that you could not afford to keep up the place. 
 Every one must see that. But what auntie says is that 
 Avhen she presents a picture to any one she presents it 
 framed ; and of course she would see that you had enough to 
 keep up Boat of Garry properly. More than that — and this is 
 where my interest comes in — you would have quite enough 
 to have rooms in London besides, and you might spend as 
 m uch of the year there as you wished ; in fact, you would 
 have your entire time at your disposal." 
 
 He was regarding her with astonishment, almost with 
 incredulity. 
 
 " I do believe," she said, with a slight, humorous smile, 
 " tbat you think I am going to ask you for a subscription to 
 my charities." 
 
 •' JSTo," said he ; " I was wondering why your aunt should 
 be so kind to me. This is overwhelming " 
 
 " Oh, do you wish to know why poor old auntie is kind? 
 You had better leave that to the philosophers. It is a way 
 she has. And in this instance I don't oppose her. I hope 
 auntie will live many years yet : and I don't see the fun of 
 keeping up Boat of Garry for the benefit of Mr. McGee. 
 Now, Mr. Fitzgerald, as auntie doesn't talk any longer of 
 asking you to give up your name as a condition, I have no 
 doubt you will become the owner of Boat of Garry, and you 
 will be your own master, and have all your time at your 
 disposal. Very likely auntie may expect you to spend 
 most of the year here. I hope you will not. You will be 
 in a position to be of very great use in the world. Of what 
 use would you be here ? It would be all very well to use 
 Boat of Garry as a place of recuperation, after work done ; 
 but it would be selfish — at least so it seems to me — if you 
 were merely to settle down here to enjoy yourself, even in 
 the most innocent way, Avith those delightful rambles that 
 you describe. Mr. Fitzgerald," she said, after a second, " I 
 don't think you have been fair to me. You have met me 
 among some scientific people, and you think I care for 
 nothing but science. You think I am heartless. Well, let 
 that be as it may ; it is of no consequence ; but at all events 
 I think this : that those who are well off, and in a position 
 Avhere they enjoy the comforts of life in peace and security, 
 should remember how these things were made possible to 
 them — simply through the best people, century after cen- 
 tury, doing their best — and they ought to have some grati- 
 tude, and be willing to lend a hand at the same work, for 
 
810 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 the benefit of those who are in less favored circumstances. 
 I don't like to talk about what some of us are trying to do 
 among the poor in the east end of London ; for it isn't 
 very picturesque, and it does not appeal much to sentiment ; 
 and then it is so easy to impute motives. Well, I don't 
 care much wliat the motive is, if the result is the same. 
 Very likely doing charitable actions is only another form 
 of self-gratification ; and I suppose I consider myself a supe- 
 rior person ; but let us take the case of a sick woman who 
 can't stir from her bed to look after the poor room and 
 kitchen, and she is afraid her husband, when he comes home 
 at seven, will be discontented, and go away to the public- 
 house, and suppose you take one of your district nurses to 
 the place, and say to her, ' Well, never mind about the 
 physic ; she can help herself to that if the bottle is marked; 
 but you look round in the evening, between six and seven, 
 and give the place a bit of smartening up, and have hot water 
 for the husband's tea against his coming home and stir the 
 fire, and liave one or two illustrated papers about' — well, 
 perhaps, to see the look of gratitude on the sick woman's 
 face is only to flatter your self-love : I don't say it is not ; 
 but ask the poor woman what is her opinion — whether she 
 would have that done for her, or have the house left to its 
 discomfort and squalor, and her husband turn out and leave 
 her alone." 
 
 " I don't think," said he, slowly, " that I should be 
 quick to impute motives, if you would tell me what it is 
 you are doing there." 
 
 "Oh, but when I find a sympathetic listener," she said, 
 with a laugh, " I am dreadful. I know so many stories 
 that are interesting to me because I know the people : but 
 they can not be so interesting to others " 
 
 "You see. Miss Chetwynd," he continued, "short of a 
 miraculous rising of the tide, we are stuck fast here for 
 four hours and a half " 
 
 " And you would have four hours and a half description 
 of our lectures and entertainments, our Sunday services, 
 and district nurses, and open-air spaces, and our window 
 flower boxes, and all that? Oh no. Some other day, per 
 haps. At this moment, Mr. Fitzgerald, it has occurred to 
 me that you might ask whether there is anything that 
 might serve for lunch on board this shipwrecked boat." 
 
 " I believe there is a tin of biscuits," said he. 
 
 « That will do excellently." 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 311 
 
 « Shall I bring them now ? " 
 
 " If you please." 
 
 " Accordingly he went down into the little cabin, and 
 handed up, not only the biscuits, but also two bottles of 
 soda-water and two clean tumblers ; so that they had a 
 most wholesome, if fiomewhat simple, banquet on deck on 
 this fair warm summer day. And insensibly she began to 
 tell him something of her own troubles ; for it appeared 
 that those charitable people were not all of one mind ; and, 
 besides certain schemes and organizations of her own plan- 
 ning, it turned out that she belonged to one or two societies 
 of kindred intent. 
 
 "And I do so want somebody to back me up," she 
 said. " You must know I am a dreadful heretic and in- 
 novator, Mr. Fitzgerald — I am the champion of beer." 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said he. 
 
 " You know, it is easy enough to get on with the b oys' 
 entertainments ; all they want as a bribe is a biscuit or 
 two, with some apples, or nuts if it is not apple time. 
 And then we are doing good service to the country by 
 reading them patriotic poetry or stories of bravery at sea, 
 and showing them a bit of practical science by means of a 
 magic lantern, or even hinting that a boy should be too 
 proud to steal, and not refrain simply from fear of the po- 
 lice station. But the men ; what I say is, how can you expect 
 the Stepney workmen, or the coster-monger from Shadwell, 
 or the tired laborer from the docks, to come and sit out a 
 lecture on ventilation or some such thing, with nothing to 
 make him comfortable but a cup of tea, which gets cold 
 directly, and with his pipe in his pocket? I say it is ask- 
 ing too much. I say it is not common-sense. What harm 
 is there in letting each man have his pint of light ale — I 
 am afraid they would not take to the Bavarian beer, though 
 that would be the safest — and his pipe? I did not like it 
 at first ; but now I can stand a hall full of men smoking 
 pipes. One must not be too particular. I was amused not 
 
 long ago at the bravery of Lady , who came down to 
 
 see how we were getting along. She came to a boys' enter- 
 tainment, in a very low neighborhood — to tell you the truth, 
 Mr. Fitzgerald, I suspect about one third of them were 
 thieves ; but all the same she stood at the door as they 
 went out, and shook hands with each of them, and com- 
 plimented them on their good behavior. And the next 
 night I had got them together I thought I would tell them 
 
312 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 that Lady was a great friend of the Queen s ; and one 
 
 small chap said, immediately, ' Please, Miss, did the lady 
 ever shake hands with the Queen ? " You can see what 
 the poor little fellow meant — that he had shaken hands 
 with some one who had shaken hands with the Queen. 
 But there again, that shows the imprudence of allowing 
 strangers to come among us out of mere curiosity, for they 
 
 would call that snobbishness " 
 
 " What does it matter what they call it ? " said Fitz- 
 gerald, with some warmth. 
 
 "I thought it was very pretty of Lady to shake hands 
 
 with each of the boys ; and I take no shame to myself that I 
 told them she was a friend of the Queen's. It is very easy 
 to criticise when you don't have to face the actual circum- 
 stances. I know it took me some time before I could bear 
 the tobacco smoke. I tried a mean way of getting out of it 
 by presenting them with good tobacco ; but that was no use ; 
 they would not smoke mine: I suppose it was too delicate. 
 Oh, did you hear what Mr. Scobell did just before we left 
 London ?»' 
 
 " No, I think not." 
 
 " He sent me another three hundred filters ! — just think 
 of it ! So there will have to be another big lecture and a 
 distribution as soon as we get back." 
 
 Apparently this young lady with the clear eyes and the 
 bright smile had found a sufficiently sympathetic listener, 
 for the time passed quite unobserved as she described all 
 this work that was going on. They did not even notice that 
 the tide was now flowing in ; that one or two shallow banks, 
 where the heavy sea-tangle had lain exposed in the sun, 
 were now covered by the sea again ; and that the Ghoul 
 was watchful and anxious. 
 
 All at once the Black Swan was found to be moving ; but 
 it was only a list from one side to the other ; that was so 
 sharp, however, that it very nearly threw everybody into 
 the water. And then as the tide rose she gradually righted ; 
 Sheil Glanny. finding she was deep enough astern, ventured 
 upon backing her off ; there was just enough room to turn ; 
 and the next minute the Black Sioan was sailing right up the 
 creek again, while a shrill scream or two from tlie steam-whis- 
 tle would tell the Boat of Garry people of her return. And 
 then the throbbing and puffing and churning came to a sud- 
 den end ; in renewed quiet the little yacht cut its way through 
 the glassy water ; with the boat-hook Tim dexterously mad© 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 313 
 
 a grab at the moorings ; and presently the two voyagers 
 where on their way to the shore. 
 
 *' There, now, Mr. Fitzgerald," she said, as they walked 
 along the road together to the house. " have I been the whole 
 day talking to you about heaps of things that you can not 
 take any interest in, and all that I meant to say to you I have 
 forgotten. Except this — please don't stay at Boat of Garry 
 when it becomes yours — at least, not always. I am vei-y, 
 very sorry I asked you to come here : I would not have 
 done so if I had thought you were going to write about it 
 like that. I am very, very sorry — " 
 
 She was speaking in rather a low voice, with her eyes 
 downcast. 
 
 "But why?" said he, good-naturedly. "Any place is 
 solitary when one is alone ; and this place is most beautiful 
 — that is all the difference. But do you really think," he 
 added, more thoughtfully, " that these papers have made an 
 impression on the public ? " 
 
 "Most certainly," said he, with her face brightening. 
 "Who could doubt it? Or is there any wonder, that people 
 should be grateful for having it pointed out that the common 
 things of the world are far more beautiful than they had 
 fancied? Does it not make life a little richer?" 
 
 " But I had nothing to do with that," said he, absently ; 
 "I was only repeating John Ross — my artist friend, you re- 
 member. Miss Chetwynd : I was only pointing out what he 
 had shown me. No ; why I asked was with the fancy that 
 perhaps now I could earn something in literature. Pei-- 
 haps there might be a prospect forme now ; mdeed, I think 
 so myself, from one or two offers that I have received. 
 Pray forgive me. Miss Chetwynd." he added, suddenly 
 recollecting himself, " for talking about my affairs to you ; 
 but indeed I might say that you yourself are concerned — " 
 
 " I ? " she said, with something like a start. 
 
 " In a measure," he continued. " I should like to go back 
 to London soon, I think — " 
 
 "Oh I am glad of that !" she exclaimed, with very ob- 
 vious eagerness. 
 
 *' And if matters go well," he said — " you know you 
 hinted about a contribution to all these varied charities of 
 yours I say, if matters go well, you will perhaps allow me to 
 give you a contribution." 
 
 She laughed lightly. She did not think it was probable 
 he was so soon to become rich. 
 
314 SHANDON- BELLS, 
 
 "What will your contribution be?" she said, idly, as he 
 
 opened tlie big iron gate for her. 
 
 *' Well," said he, *' if your aunt would consent " 
 
 " My aunt ! What has she to do with it ? " 
 
 " Oh, a great deal," he continued, as they walked along 
 
 the gravel-path up to the house. " I was thinking, if she had 
 
 no objection, ray contribution ought to be " 
 
 "Not two hundred pounds a year?" she suggested, 
 
 rather jokingly. 
 
 " No," he answered, looking round at the beautiful place. 
 
 " I was thinking that my contribution ought to be — Boat 
 
 of Garry." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 PLANS AND DBEAMS. 
 
 " Now, auntie dear," said Mary Chetwynd, as she put 
 her hat on the hall table, and smoothed her hair, and went 
 into the room, " I know you are going to scold me." 
 
 " Indeed I am," said the old lady, with some astonish- 
 ment and indignation. " Where have you been ? To 
 Limerick? To Queenstown? Scold you, indeed! — no 
 wonder ! " 
 
 "Oh, but I don't mean about that," her niece said. 
 " That was unavoidable. We have been close by all the 
 time — stuck fast. I dare say you were afraid of the bull, 
 and came straight home ; but if you had only climbed up 
 the hill high enough, you might have had the pleasure of 
 contemplating us for the last five hours. Only another little 
 adventure: one gets used to them on board the JBlach 
 
 " How provoking, now ! " Mrs. Chetwynd exclaimed. 
 " The very first time that Mr. Fitzgerald goes to try the 
 yacht ! Of course he will think she is always getting into 
 trouble " 
 
 " Isn't she, auntie dear ? " 
 
 " What was Shell Glanny about ? " said the old lady, 
 angrily. 
 
 " Now, auntie, you need not quarrel with Shiel Glanny, 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 3 1 r5 
 
 Tlie real cause of the accident was yourself. You kept 
 pretending you wished to go, just to assure Mr. Fitzgerald 
 that nothing could be more delightful than a trip in the 
 Coalscuttle; and so we were late in starting, and at the 
 Narrows the current came after Shiel Glanny as if it wanted 
 to swallow him ; and then we found ourselves quietly shelved. 
 Now, auntie, tell me, as I have been talking to Mr. Fitz- 
 gerald for these five mortal hours, haven't I done my best 
 to make up for the silence he must have endured here ? 
 And what will he think about women's tongues after 
 that?" 
 
 " I have not the least doubt," said the old lady, peevishly, 
 " that you Avere all the time trying to make him discon- 
 tented with Boat of Garry." 
 
 " No, not quite so bad as that," said the young lady. 
 She was seated with her back to the window, and the after- 
 noon sun touched the outline of the prettily shaped head, 
 leaving the face in shadow. " But still bad enough to merit 
 a scolding. I am quite prepared for it. For indeed, auntie, 
 Mr. Fitzgerald seemed quite surprised when I told him what 
 a stir these writings of his had made ; and naturally he 
 wishes to get back to London, which is the proper place for 
 a literary man ; and no doubt he is ambitious " 
 
 " Yes, and jio doubt," said her aunt, " you encouraged 
 him in thinking of leaving Boat of Garry, the very place 
 where he found just such things as he could write about, 
 and you urged him to go to London, where he will have no 
 specialty at all." 
 
 " Auntie," said Mary Chetwynd, " a man who can write 
 like that, can write about anything ; it is not a question of 
 place or opportunity. Why, you know," she continued, 
 " that all that description of the sea, or of the night-time, or 
 salmon-fishing, or any occupation of the moment, is only an 
 excuse. Surely you can feel that there is something that is 
 behind all that — something that gets hold of people though 
 they can scarcely tell how. I will undertake to say he could 
 make a description of daybreak in Whitechapel as mysteri- 
 ous and wonderful and interesting as a description of day- 
 break at Killarney. Do you think he is going to lose his 
 eyes because he goes to London ? " • 
 
 Miss Chetwynd glanced outside to make sure there was 
 no one there. 
 
 " What the secret of it is I don't know," she said, " only 
 he seems to give you the sensation that all the inanimate 
 
316 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 things in the world are alive, and watching you, ana pa- 
 tiently sympathetic. Don't you remember^ auntie, Mrs. 
 Sims's solemn vow that never again would she put on her 
 table flowers that had been forced white in cellars? I told 
 that to Mr. Fitzgerald to-day, and he laughed and said it 
 was nonsense; but I thought it was a very pretty compli- 
 ment. I want to show him what we are doing in the East 
 End ; I think he would understand quick enough, and not 
 misjudge us. Mind, I will confess this; for a long time 1 
 thought he was merely a sentimental sort of person, 
 like " 
 
 *' Like me : go on,'' said the old lady, with a gracious 
 smile. 
 
 " No, not like you at all, but like the people who are 
 delighted to read pathetic stories of the poor, and who ad- 
 mire kindness in the abstract, but who wouldn't forfeit their 
 own dinner to keep a whole household from starvation, and 
 who would shudder with horror if they were asked to put 
 a sponge to a child's dirty face. Well, we all make mis- 
 takes, I suppose. Those papers showed me I was mistaken 
 about him, anyway. There is something deeper than senti- 
 ment in his nature. And — and — " continued the young 
 lady, with a certain embarrassment, for she seemed to be- 
 come conscious that she had been talking very frankly 
 " and I am glad he is going away from here — if only for a 
 time ; for I was uneasy about my share in his coming ; and 
 if he were once away, don't you see, dear auntie, he could 
 decide about coming back or not just as he pleased, and 
 that would be his own doing. Now I am ready to be 
 scolded." 
 
 " For what, then ? " 
 
 '' Oh, perhaps I have not come to the worst," said the 
 penitent. " You know you said I might tell him of your 
 kind intentions, auntie ; and he was very grateful — no won- 
 der ; and even astonished, for he asked why you should be 
 so kind, whereupon I referred him to the philosophei-s who 
 can explain why the sky is blue. But did I tell you how 
 interested he seemed when I told him all that is going on 
 down there in the East End? Did I? Very well; when 
 he began *o talk about his literary prospects, and of the 
 chance of his gaining an independent position that way, 
 what do you think he proposed? — to give me a contri- 
 bution ! " 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 317 
 
 ** After five hours' talking, what less could he do? I 
 think you deserved it." 
 
 " But his contribution, auntie dear — always with your 
 consent, mind — he said he should like to be Boat o£ 
 Garry." 
 
 "I don't understand you." 
 
 "He meant that — that, if you didn't mind, auntie — 
 he would give us Boat of Garry, or what it might fetch, 
 rather." 
 
 " He shall not ; he shall not," said the old lady, with 
 decision. "You may play ducks and drakes with your own 
 money, Mary ; but no one shall go and throw away 
 my poor Frank's place on Shadwell or Stepney. I won't 
 hear of it." 
 
 " But if you say not, then not it must be," remarked the 
 young lady, good-naturedly. " Of course he could not do 
 such a thing without your consent." 
 
 " I sliall not allow it. Why, the idea ! Is that all ho 
 cares for the place ? " 
 
 But here Miss Chetwynd grew alarmed. She knew not 
 what mischief she might not have done. 
 
 "Auntie, dear," she said, with some eagerness, "there is 
 no use to say another word about it. It was only a sugges- 
 tion. I think he deserves credit for entertaining such a 
 generous fancy, if only for a moment. Would you find 
 many young men — fond of riding and shooting and all that 
 — willing to part with such a place? And the idea that he 
 does not appreciate it, or recognize its beauties ! But I am 
 sure, auntie dear, you would not be the one to stand in the 
 way of a young man making a great reputation for him- 
 self? And that is why I think he ought to go away — at 
 least for a time — and establish himself in London. Give 
 him Boat of Garry, by all means, auntie, and the frame of 
 the picture too ; but you would not make the conditions too 
 rigorous ; you could not expect him to remain here always ; 
 no doubt he would be glad enough to come here from timo 
 to time — the winter shooting he says is excellent." 
 
 " Mary Chetwynd," said her aunt, with a severity that 
 was in great part assumed, " you are trying to throw me 
 off the scent. I can see what you are after. You wish me 
 to put Mr. Fitzgerald in the position of having independent 
 means, with no occupation — " 
 
 "I? Was it you or I who proposed that!" said the 
 young lady, with some warmth. 
 
818 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 ** Wait a moment : I see your scheme. You don t im- 
 pose upon me, Miss. Here you have a young man who isf 
 quick, intelligent, of a generous disposition ; and of course 
 when he lias a fair allowance of money, and absolutely 
 nothing to do, isn't he the very person — even supposing 
 that he is not allowed to sell Boat of Garry — to be carried 
 off and added to your Whitechapel gang? Oh, I sec the 
 whole thing clearly enough, though my eyes are not as good 
 as they once were. Here you have a clever young man for 
 your lectures, and Whitechapel swallows him up; no one 
 ever sees him again ; literature loses him, and Boat of Garry 
 is left empty and useless. So that is why we go and run a 
 valuable steam-yacht on to a rock ; and that is why we talk 
 for five hours ; and no doubt Whitechapel looks rather a 
 pretty sort of place — in a distant way — when you have a 
 smooth blue sea and picturesque mountains round you?" 
 
 The young lady flushed slightly ; but she retained her 
 accustomed good humor. 
 
 " You are quite mistaken, auntie," said she ; but now 
 she spoke in a lower tone, for Fitzgerald was standing on 
 the lawn outside, putting the pieces of his rod together. 
 " Mr. Fitzgerald has his own plans. He is not likely to be 
 led by either you or me. If either it would be you, natur- 
 ally ; for he is greatly indebted to you ; whereas he and I 
 are practically strangers. And I know he is anxious to 
 acquire a position in literature : and I should not wonder if, 
 when this book of his comes to be published, it were to 
 make him quite famous. No auntie," she continued, in a 
 lighter way, for Fitzgerald had started off, " I know what 
 will happen. Your kindness will enable Mr. Fitzgerald to 
 write just in the way that suits his own bent ; he will be 
 under no anxiety except to do his best work ; and of course 
 he will be grateful to you; and you will be able to produce 
 him at your dinner table as your own author. Think of 
 that ! You will have him all to yourself ; you alone will 
 know what he is working at ; a real, live, distinguished 
 author constantly on the premises. For no doubt you will 
 ask him to come and live in Hyde Park Gardens ; and then 
 you can get a study for him by turning me and my nine 
 inch telescope out of doors. Then his lordship, when ho 
 pleases, will come over here and shoot wild-duck ; and per 
 haps, auntie dear, you won't mind sending me a brace now 
 and again to my lodgings in the Mile-end Road, where 1 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 819 
 
 Bhall most likely be starving, after having sold my telescope 
 and my last pair of boots." 
 
 " Go away and tell thera to bring tea," said her aunt, 
 sharply; and so this discussion came to an end. 
 
 Meanwhile the object of all this diverse speculation was 
 making his way down through the meadows to the stream, 
 his long rod swaying over his shoulder. There was a con- 
 tented look on his face on this warm and pleasant afternoon. 
 The neighborhood of Boat of Garry seemed much more 
 cheerful since the arrival of these visitors. And yet he was 
 not paying much attention to the things around hira ; 
 rather he was amusing himself by drawing an imaginary 
 picture of what his life would have been had he been con- 
 tent to accept Mrs. Chetwynd's munificent offer in its sim- 
 plicity. He was thinking of himself as owner of Boat of 
 Garry; living a quiet, solitary, resigned life; taking what 
 care of the place he could, no matter into whose hands it 
 was destined ultimately to fall ; perhaps, through industrious 
 stewardship, being able to save something to send to Miss 
 Chetwynd's charities ; and then from time to time, in this 
 peaceful and uneventful existence, jotting down the impres- 
 sions of these silent hours, and so maintaining a sort of 
 relationship with the unknown friends over there in Eng- 
 land whom he should never see. He looked ahead, and 
 beheld himself as another person. A sensation of being 
 middle-aged came over him. It was in that character, in- 
 deed, that he had written the " Occupations of a Recluse." 
 There was a tone in them as of the thinking of one for 
 whom the eager interests of life were over. He had arrived 
 at the stage of contemplation ; the phenomena of the earth 
 around him were not of much importance, except i so far 
 as they suggested strange fancies, or became the secret 
 friends and confidants of his solitary walks by sea and 
 shore. 
 
 He was amusing himself with this fancy of what his 
 life might be. There was the possibility offered him. There 
 was no need for hira to hand over Boat of Garry to Miss 
 Chetwynd's charities ; more than that it was extremely 
 doubtful whether Mrs. Chetwynd would allow hmi. Indeed, 
 so busy was he with this dream of the future that when he 
 sat down on a low boundary wall, and placed his rod 
 beside him against the stones, and took out his fly-book, 
 he kept mechanically turning over the leaves and straight- 
 
820 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 ening here and tliore a bit of feather or fur, and did not 
 hear the footsteps behind him. 
 
 It was the boy that helped Murtougli in the stables; 
 and he bronght two letters. He glanced at the basket ; 
 but did not venture to ask his honor whether he had caught 
 anything ; then he reluctantly left. 
 
 These two letters made Fitzgerald's heart beat, and 
 caused his imagination to be fired with far other dreams 
 than that of spending an idle contemplative life out of the 
 world. The first was from the publisher who had already 
 proposed to issue the *' Occupations " in a volume ; and 
 who now put his offer in definite terms ; a considerable sum 
 — a sum that Fitzgerald had not dreamed of — to be paid 
 down, with a royalty on each copy after a certain number 
 had been sold. If Mr. Fitzgerald agreed, would he pro- 
 ceed with the revison of the papers forthwith? And did 
 lie happen to know of some capable artist who, in his 
 opinion, would be a fit person to illustrate the book? 
 
 " I think John Ross and I will have a little talk about 
 this," he said to himself. 
 
 But it was the second letter that he read and re-read 
 with far greater gratification. That was about money ; this 
 was a personal triumph. It ran as follows : 
 
 " Sloane, Street, Wednesday. 
 My Dear Sik, — You may remember that I had the 
 plensure of iiieeting you one evening at Mr. Hilton Clarke's, 
 when Mr. Scobell, who has obligingly given me your 
 address, was also present. I had heard a rumor to the 
 effect that the papers, * The Occupations of a Recluse,' were 
 by a Mr. Fitzgerald ; but I did not identify the name with 
 yourself until I accidentally met Mr. Scobell, who put me 
 right. It has since occurred to me that you migjit find 
 greater freedom as to choice of subject in the columns of a 
 weekly pai)er ;. although I must confess that Noel a})pears 
 to have given you a very wide discretion. His boldness 
 has been justified; the papers are well spoken of; they are 
 unusual ; they have the touch of a new hand. Of course I 
 do not say leave the Mirror and come to the Liberal 
 lievieio ; I do not consider that fair journalism ; but many 
 of the writers on the daily papers also contribute to the 
 weeklies ; and I merely say that if you happen to liave an 
 an occasional article you might find yourself, for example, 
 with a subject which would be somewhat too subtle and 
 
SHANDON BELLS. S2l 
 
 out of the way for the hurry of daily newspaper reading) 
 that you chose to send to us, I should be glad to have it ; 
 and as we have two rates of payment for different kinds cf 
 matter, I should be happy to put you on the most-favored- 
 nation scale. Yours faithfully, 
 
 "G. GlFFORD. 
 
 " To William Fitzgerald, Esq., 
 
 " Boat of Garry, by Bantry, Ireland." 
 
 His first, quick, proud thought was that he would walk 
 straight to the house and show this letter to Mary Chet- 
 wynd. 
 
 But why to her? She did not know the story. There 
 was no one now who knew the story; and his triumph was 
 useless. 
 
 He regarded these letters. There could be no doubt 
 that tliey shadowed forth prospects that ought to have been 
 alluring enough to a young man of literary tendencies and 
 aspirations. Indeed, as he looked at them, and guessed at 
 all they hinted at, that career seemed to him a more noble 
 and useful one than hiding himself away from the world in 
 tliis solitary place, and avoiding the cares and anxieties and 
 victoi-ies of life altogether. And so he was to become an 
 autlior at last — })erha])s even one who might win in some 
 small measure the, affection of the great many-eyed, and 
 many-hearted, and not ungrateful public? And to write 
 for the Liberal Review — that seemed almost as great a won- 
 der : not standing, as of old, at tlie foot of the little stair, 
 and anxiously awaiiing the fate of a timid essay about some 
 one else's work; but allowed to mount into his own small 
 ])ulpit, as it were, and deliver forth his own utterances, if 
 haply one here or there cared to listen to a whisper from 
 the hills or a murmur from the wide seas amid the jangle 
 of political life. It seemed a wonderful thing. He could 
 scarcely rest. He wanted to be away and begin at once. 
 The great world was calling him from these still solitudes ; 
 the picture was opening out before him ; to what possible 
 goal might he not attain? 
 
 And then somehow — as a sudden sob breaks the silence 
 of the night, and the hushed and hidden grief reveals itself 
 and all the darkness is shuddering with the old and cease- 
 less pain — just as quickly and terribly flashed across l»is 
 consciousness the words "Too late! too late! " The time 
 for these brave dreams was over now. A man docs not 
 
322 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 strive but toward an end ; does not light witnout hope of 
 reward ; does not strike for a great future if it is for liim- 
 self alone. " Too late ! too late ! " And he had pretty well 
 schooled himself by this time ; and knew when it was time 
 to give up thinking ; and was as well aware as any one of 
 the stupidity of idle regret. So he deliberately and calmly 
 put in his pocket the letters, and chose with patient care the 
 flies he wanted ; and went down among the tall weeds by 
 the side of the river. It was a pleasant afternoon ; the 
 water was in good condition ; he must not return to the 
 house without a sea-trout for dinner. 
 
 For a long time he had exceeding bad luck. The stream 
 abounded with small river-trout that would keep playing 
 with the big sea-trout flies, occasionally suffering for their 
 folly by finding themfeelves twitched into the air and then 
 floundering on the grass. This necessitated his fixing the 
 rod upright, and going and getting the diminutive beast off 
 the hook, while there was every probability that in flopping 
 about it had caught one of the other flies in the weeds. 
 And then again he had to be careful about restoring the 
 captive to its native element, for the flash and shoot of it 
 might alarm some more noble fish. But he worked away, 
 whij)ping industriously and mechanically, not thinking of 
 anytliing in particular except as to how to get the flies 
 lightly on the water, himself unseen, an^ hoAV to recover 
 them without catching up on the bank. 
 
 At last there was a sudden "flop *' that well he knew 
 the sound of ; but he struck too quickly or too sharply. 
 Again and again he dexterously dropped the flies over the 
 same bit of water, but there was no response : perhaps the 
 fish had been touched, and had learned caution. He was 
 beginning to think that he must return to the house empty- 
 handed, when, lower down, there was another " flop," in- 
 stantly followed by a sharp whir of the reel ; then again by 
 a deliberate '* sulk," during which time he rapidly got in 
 his line again, keeping on all the strain he dared. He was 
 now in an excellent position, for the fish had taken refuge 
 in a narrow deep little pool beyond some gravelly shal- 
 lows, and as it was at a bend in the river, he standing on 
 the neck of land, could have fair command of the fish 
 whichever way he went. However, he now knew pretty 
 well how many and how various were the accidents possi- 
 ble on this little stream, where there was no chance for that 
 fine, leisurely playing of the fish that can be indulged iu 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 828 
 
 on an open loch with impunity ; and so he kept on the ful| T y 
 strain of his tackle, ready for whatever might happen. 
 
 He had very little trouble, however. The fish made 
 one long rush up stream, but fortunately kept almost in 
 mid-channel. Then it leaped out of the water twice, but 
 without doing damage. Then it sulked again ; but it was 
 evidently growing weaker. Finally, after one or two slow, 
 quiet sailings u}) and down, it allowed itself to be gently 
 guided into the side, where a cautious and then quick 
 swoop of the landing net speedily deposited it on the grass, 
 — a beauty of a sea-trout of apparently about three pounds 
 weight. 
 
 Well, he thought that was quite enough, seeing it was 
 getting near dinner-time ; and Mrs. Chetwynd could not 
 bear unpunctuality ; while of course he had to exchange 
 his jacket and knickerbockers for a more suitable costume. 
 So he popped the fish into the basket, and was striding 
 home through the meadows that led up to the house, when 
 lie saw Miss Chetwynd coming to him through the trees. 
 She had evidently been expecting him. 
 
 " Have you caught anything? " she said pleasantly. 
 
 " A fairish sea-trout," he said, " about three pounds. I 
 am afraid it won't be in time for dinner." 
 
 " It won't," she said. " It is near dinner-time now. 
 Mr. Fitzgerald," she added, " I wanted to say a word to 
 you before going in. You hinted something about handing 
 over Boat of Garry to me, to help these various things of 
 mine. It was kind of you. But please don't even men- 
 tion such a project to auntie. She will not hear of it ; 
 when I spoke of it she was very nearly being angry in 
 earnest ; and that does not often happen. No ; you must 
 take Boat of Garry, and keep to her wishes ; you will find 
 them considerate and reasonable enough. 
 
 " But what kind of use could I put it to ? " said he, 
 rather bewildered at the moment. 
 
 They had reached the corner of the avenue, and the 
 house was visible. She regarded him for a second. 
 
 " That is hardly for me to say," she said, slowly. " But 
 I think if you were to take Boat of Garry, as my aunt 
 wishes to give it to you, you would be in a position in 
 which you could do a great deal of good to many, many 
 people." 
 
 lie could not stay to ask her to explain, even if she were 
 W^illing to explain ; for he had but little time in which to 
 
32'i SIIANDON BELLS. 
 
 get ready for dinner. During that brief operation, how- 
 ever, some odd fancies occurred to him. If certain things 
 were now no longer possible to him in the world, might not 
 others be ? Was it so necessary to human happiness that 
 life sliould be crowned by either love or ambition ? Look 
 at Mary Chetwynd, now. Her life seemed valuable enough 
 to her because she could make it valuable to othei-s ; it was 
 a beautiful life in its sweet serenity, its cheerfulness, its 
 atmosphere of frankness and kindness and content. Her 
 philosophy was perhaps not very profound ; but at least it 
 was practical : " We enjoy such things as we have through 
 the best people having done their best : let us try and do the 
 same ; and make the lives of those who have been borne 
 down in the struggle a little more tolerable." It was im- 
 possible to imagine a happier human being than she seemed 
 to be; fitting accurately and easily into her surroundings ; 
 full of cares that were scarcely anxieties , satisfied with her 
 place in the world ; a dispenser of light. It seemed strange 
 for this king's daughter to spend the best part of her life in 
 Whitechapel; but perhaps she could not be just quite 
 what she was if she did otherwise. At all events she had 
 found out something. That perfect serenity of content 
 could not be the fruit merely of nature and disposition ; it 
 must be the outcome of nature and disposition finding fit- 
 ting work and occupation. And if a woman's instinct had 
 found out a way of living which seemed to make the world 
 around her (in the eyes of all beholders) more sweet and 
 cheerful and wholesome, might it not be worth while in- 
 quiring what that was ? 
 
 Now no sooner had they sat down to dinner than the 
 old lady, with a trifle of enforced gayety to hide a certain 
 nervousness, began to unfold to him her designs. 
 
 " Mary and I have been having a dreadful quarrel about 
 you," she said. 
 
 " I am sorry for that," was his answer. " But it does 
 not appear as if much harm had been done." 
 
 " You must know that Mary and I have been sketching 
 out a career for you — only with a difference — and drawing 
 out plans. Of course the time is very appropriate ; for 
 one might almost regard you as making a new start in 
 life " 
 
 "I?" said he, in great alarm. Had she guessed, then, 
 of that mortal crisis through which he had come, when the 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 825 
 
 value seemed to go out of life altogether, and death to take 
 its place as the more desirable thing? 
 
 " Yes : with all the people talking ahoiit the new 
 writer. Of course you will be quite a different person 
 when you return to London. Do you think when you be- 
 come great and famous, that we shall expect you to come 
 and read accounts of murders to a j^oor old blind wo- 
 man ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I am not likely to become great and famous," 
 he said, honestly enough. " But I should like to earn my 
 living by literature. And I think I might be able to do 
 that; I have just had two letters that give me good hope. 
 But do you think that is any reason why I should prove 
 myself ungrateful for all your kindness? I may be able to 
 earn my living at literature, as I say ; and then I would 
 not ask you for the salary you have been kind enough to 
 give me — you might hand it over to Miss Chetwynd for 
 her charities ; but that need not prevent my coming to 
 read to you each afternoon just as before, if you will allow 
 me. For I know," he added, more lightly, " precisely 
 what you like in the way of literature and news; and I 
 would not hand you over to your niece again, who would 
 make you believe that the magazines and news|)aper8 con- 
 tained nothing but reports of Sanitary commissions and 
 things like that " 
 
 " Now I call that too bad," said Mary Chetwynd. " I 
 read to auntie for years, and never got * Thank you ; you 
 read for a few months, and she gives you Boat of Garry ! 
 And then to have insult heaped upon me as well " 
 
 " But, Mr. Fitzgerald," interrupted Mrs. Chetwynd, with 
 some little agitation^ " you speak of handing over something 
 to Mary's charities and Mary said you had made some sugges- 
 tion. Now you must understand this — do not think I am un- 
 reasonable — but you must really understand that any propo- 
 sal of that kind with regard to Boat of Garry is out of the 
 question. I will give you the place. I will give you enough 
 to keep it up, and a surplus for your own expenses. But 
 either let or sold or mortgaged Boat of Garry shall not be." 
 
 " But, auntie dear," said Mary Chetwynd, in her soft, 
 persuasive voice, " Mr. Fitzgerald understands that ! I 
 told him. It was only a chance suggestion of his — gen- 
 erous but impracticable. You need not worry yourself 
 about it, more especially as you can easily put it out of 
 the power of any one to sell the place. Only I would not 
 
326 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 have you make any one a present with any doubt remain- 
 ing in your mind. Mr. Fitzgerald won't sell Boat of Garry." 
 
 " If it were handed over to me like that," said he, simply 
 enough, " surely I could not do less than consider I held 
 in on trust. It should be done with entirely and merely as 
 3'^ou wished." 
 
 " I would rather make it binding on your honor than 
 leave it to the lawyers," said she in a calmer way. " what 
 I should like would be to have the place kept exactly as it 
 is, and to be well looked after, so that if you should at any 
 time think of asking us to come and look at it, it would 
 be really coming to the old place again, and seeing it jiist 
 as it was when — when my poor boy was so proud of it. 
 For why should you not be proud of it too ? It is a pretty 
 place — " 
 
 " Mrs. Chetwynd," said he, '* you speak as if something 
 were needed to make your splendid offer acceptable to me. 
 I don't think you can understand what it is to a young 
 fellow of my age to be made independent — for that is what 
 it would come to ; to have his place in the world made 
 sure for him, and that place a most attractive one. I have 
 been near starvation once or twice — and not so long ago. 
 And now you offer me an assured income, and all kinds of 
 luxuries, and yet you imagine %hat I don't quite appreciate 
 your kindness, or might be so ungrateful as to do with the 
 property something not according to your wishes. I don't 
 think you need have much fear." 
 
 " I will trust to your honor, and not to the lawyers," 
 she said. "I will make no conditions when the transfer- 
 ence is drawn out. I won't ask you to take our name, as 
 I had thought of doing ; it will be enough if you do what 
 I want with the place. And if the money is not enough, 
 there will be more. But about the name : I will ask you 
 to let me call you Willie when you come to see me in Lon- 
 don — if you do not mind." 
 
 " Oh no ; it is only another part of your kindness." 
 
 " It is a bargain, then ? " 
 
 <* If you wish it to be, Mrs. Chetwynd," he was saying, 
 rather doubtfully, for he was wondering whether she would 
 always approve of what she had done, and perhaps was 
 thinking of asking her to take time to reflect. But he 
 caught the look of Mary Chetwynd's face. There was a 
 touch of surprise there — almost of reproach. She seemed 
 to say, " Why do you hesitate ? Is that the way to accjep t 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 827 
 
 Bucli a gift ? " So he only said, *' If I only kuew how to 
 thank you ! " 
 
 " Never mind that," said the old lady, good-naturedly. 
 " It is a bargain, then ? Shake hands on it ! " 
 
 So he rose and went round, and they shook hands to 
 seal the covenant, as it were ; and then he kissed her hand 
 in mute token of gratitude, and went back to his seat. 
 The ceremony was a brief one ; but after that she never ex- 
 pressed any anxiety as to what might become of Boat of 
 Garry. 
 
 " And now about yourself — " She hesitated for a sec- 
 end, and flushed a little. Evidently she had tried to call 
 him " Willie," and had failed. " Tell me what your plans 
 are. Mary says you would like to go back to London." 
 
 " I was thinking I should like to get back for a short 
 time ; but it is of little consequence ; I will remain here if 
 you prefer it." 
 
 " Oh, but that won't do at all. I did not buy you into 
 slavery like that. The landlord of Boat of Garry must do 
 as he pleases. You shall go back to London to-morrow if 
 you wish." 
 
 "I could not do that either," said he, with a smile. 
 "For I was thinking, if you did not object, I would ask 
 my artist friend John Ross to come over here and make 
 some sketches. They talk of putting illustrations into the 
 volume they are going to publish for me ; and if Mr. Ross 
 were to come to Boat of Garry — I mean if you didn't mind 
 it — I could show him where to make his sketches, and 1 
 suppose they could transform them into woodcuts." 
 
 "Bless the boy! "the old lady said, with her pretty 
 laugh. " Is he asking for permission to invite a man to 
 come to his own house ? " 
 
 " He is rather a wild sort of colt, and not easily led," 
 Fitzgerald said, doubtfully. 
 
 " For my part," said Mary Chetwynd, who had not 
 spoken for some time, " whoever goes back, I must, very 
 soon." 
 
 " Mary, there is not a soul in London ! " her auntie ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " Is there not, auntie? I can assure you that my friends 
 about the Mile-end Road don't go to Biarritz or Mentone— i 
 not as a rule." 
 
 *' Why, now, I wanted Mr. Fitzgerald to go back with 
 
828 SHANDON- BELLS. 
 
 us — after a Jittlc while — just to have evorytfting put 
 Btraight— " 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind waiting here for a little while yet,*' 
 Mary Chetwynd said at once. "I think 1 have earned a 
 little longer holiday ; and as for you, auntie, as you are a 
 good-for-nothing, it does not matter where you are." 
 
 "And I tliouijht w.e might make the homeward journey 
 in part a driving excursion — going round by way of Killar 
 ney. Wouldn't tlmt be charming ? " 
 
 " Killarney ?" said Fitzgerald, with a quick catching of 
 the breath. And he could only add : " Oh, do you think 
 so?" 
 
 " Don't you ? " she said, regarding him with astonishment. 
 "Have you, an Irishman, anything to say against Kil- 
 larney?" 
 
 "Oh no," he said, rather under his breath. And then 
 he stammered : " No doubt Killarney is very pretty — oh, 
 yes, })retty enough. But — but it is scarcely anything more, 
 is it ? Perhaps I am not just to it. But I don't care about 
 fresh- water lakes-j-the mysterious association of the sea is 
 BO wonderful a thing. Do — do you really think it would 
 be worth while taking all the time to drive round by 
 Killarney." 
 
 ''Then what do you say to Inisheen ? " 
 She did not notice that the blood forsook his face for 
 a second. But Mary Chetwynd noticed it, and said, 
 quickly : — 
 
 " Auntie, I declare to you I am not going to waste my 
 time in driving excursions. These are for idle people. 
 And Dan and Wellington always get fidgety when they 
 are put up in strange stables : do you mean to have our 
 necks broken ? " 
 
 " My dear, I wanted Mr. Fitzgerald to show us some of 
 
 the wonderful places he has described " 
 
 " But you can see them all around here," said her neice. 
 " There is far more of Boat of Garry than of Inisheen — if 
 it is Inisheen — in the papers. And what we ought to do 
 is to give all the time we can spare to Mr. Ross, so that we 
 shall have Boat of Garry glorified and made as famous as 
 the book is sure to be. So I, for one, vote against both 
 Killarnev and Inisheen; those on the other side may hold 
 tiicir right hands — their right hand — up." 
 
 " Well, you always have your own way, Mary," her 
 aunt said, contentedly. 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 329 
 
 I' 
 
 " And indeed, auntie, you liavc not yet .asked Mr. 
 Fitzgerald wliethcr he would prefer to go with us or rather 
 clioosc his own time. It isn't every one who cares to go 
 travelling with women. Now what I consider would be 
 the reasonable and sensible plan would be this " 
 
 " Whatever agrees with your own wishes, Mary, is 
 always the reasonable and sensible plan," said her aunt, 
 with a smile. 
 
 '* Well, but listen. The opposition can hold up its 
 right hand when the proper time comes. Mr. Fitzgerald 
 ouglit to go back to London shortly to arrange about his 
 literary affairs there. I must go back for there are too 
 many of us away at this time of the year. Now we will 
 assume that Mr. Fitzgerald will either be, or pretend to be, 
 content to be burdened with us two women, and take oui 
 tickets and all the rest of it, and get grumbled at if we lose 
 anything; and so what I say is, let us have a little longer 
 holiday here, not bothering about any Killarnoy or Inisheeii ; 
 then, let us all go back to London ; then let Mr. Fitzgerald, 
 when his affairs there are put in proper train, come back 
 liere, along with Mr. Ross, for the shooting. What a pity 
 it would be to miss the shooting " 
 
 •' Well, you are right there, Mary," said the old lady, 
 eagerly ; for was she not anxious that Fitzgerald should 
 appreciate all the advantages of the place she liad given 
 him. 
 
 '' And of what use are women in a house at such a 
 time? After a hard day on the hill, the men always go to 
 sleep after dinner. Then, according to my plan, there 
 Avould be no hurry ; and jMr. Jloss could do his sketches at 
 his own leisure, and do justice to the scenery ; and we 
 should all be very ])leased to have such a nice souvenir of 
 the place. For who knows what turn affairs may take, 
 and who knows whether Mr. Fitzgerald may be inclined 
 to ask us ever again to visit Boat of Garry? I was going 
 to suggest that he might invite us for Christmas; but 
 Christmas is too busy a time with me." 
 
 " I was going to say, Mrs. Chetwynd," said Fitzgerald, 
 who had been sitting with his eyes fixed on the table — and 
 he spoke rather slowly, and with a trifle of embarrassment 
 — " that if you would prefer driving round by Killaruey, 
 I should be most happy to go that way with you ; and to 
 Inisheen also, if you wished." 
 
 "Oh, I wash my hands of the whole affair," the cheer. 
 
330 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 fill old lady said. "I have nothing to do with it. She 
 arranges everything. Settle it between you. I am nothing 
 but a doll in her hands." 
 
 " But then you are such a pretty doll, auntie dear," her 
 niece said, " and such a gentle and well-behaved doll, I have 
 never the least trouble with you. Now come outside, before 
 it gets too dark, and we will have coffee there. AH the 
 evening sounds are so soft and quiet just before the night 
 comes on ; and you will have a thick shawl wrapped 
 round your head and shoulders, auntie ; and we will wait 
 for the new moon, and turn over all the silver in our 
 pockets. Poor old Boat of Garry — it has gone away into 
 the hands of strangers ; but we will have one more quiet 
 evening outside the porch, listening to the streams, until 
 the moon comes up behind the acacia, and then it will bo 
 time to get indoors again." 
 
 It was a peaceful night— a night to be remembered. To 
 one of them there it seemed as if some haven might bo 
 reached, after all — of content, and affection, and gratitude. 
 The darkness gathered over hill and shore ; the moon rose 
 into the clear heavens behind the trembling acacia leaves ; 
 the stream murmured down there beyond the lawn ; the air 
 was soft from the sea. A gracious night. There was 
 hardly any need for speaking ; it was enough to sit and 
 watch the moon slowly rise, and the faint light tell on the 
 grass and the gravel. Then there was a stirring of leaves 
 around, and the air felt colder. It was with something of 
 a sigh that they got up, and took their things with them, 
 and went indoors, leaving the slumbering world and th3 
 scarcely breathing sea to the silence and the stars. 
 
 When Fitzgerald went up to his room later on, after 
 having bade them good-night, and also having made another 
 sort of effort to let the old lady know that he was fully sen- 
 sible of her great generosity toward him, he found a half- 
 sheet of note-paper placed somewhat prominently on the 
 dressing-table, and at the first glance he recognized the 
 clear, pretty handwriting to be that of Mary Chetwynd, 
 There was no message or explanation, only these words : 
 *•'' I hereby promise to contribute twenty pounds a year to 
 the fund for providing toys for hospital children^ 
 
 Well, he sat down and contemplated these words, 
 knowing very well what they meant. It was an invitation 
 to him to give to those poor children some small portion of 
 the bounties that had been heaped on him. And the moi'e 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 83J 
 
 he thought of it, the more he was conA^inced that it would 
 be a very strange thing if his literary efforts could not pro- 
 duce a yearly sum as great as that, or even considerably 
 greater. As for the monetary arrangements that; Mrs. 
 Chetwynd might be disposed to make, he knew nothing 
 about them as yet ; but he understood that practically lie 
 was to have an income that would render him independent. 
 Surely, then, literature might enable him to do as much as 
 this, or more ? So he went and got a pen, and scored out 
 the word " twenty^'' and inserted the word '"''fifty^'' adding 
 his signature in full — William Fitzgerald. And then he 
 enclosed this document in an envelope, which he addressed 
 to Miss Chetwynd, thinking he would leave it on the 
 breakfast table for her in the morning, without another 
 word. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE BOOK. 
 
 Well, in due course of time — that is to say, about the 
 end of October — the original " Occupations of a Recluse," 
 along with numerous additions, and with a series of illus- 
 trations taken from sepia drawings by John Ross, were 
 given to the public in book form, and almost instantly com- 
 manded a very large sale indeed, and were widely talked of. 
 The publishers happened to be masters of the art of doing 
 a good thing well, and had spared neither trouble nor cost 
 in getting these sepia drawings transformed into a set of 
 admirable woodcuts, while many people who had read the 
 "Occupations" in a fugitive way as they appeared in the 
 Daily Mirror were glad to have them in this permanent 
 form. Moreover, the reviewers received the book favor- 
 ably, although one or two rather complainingly asked 
 how they could be expected to classify this amorphous 
 hotch-potch of philosophy, poetry, and snipe-shooting, as if 
 there were any necessity that they should classify it at all ; 
 while the Liberal Beview said that, although the writer of 
 these papers was a contributor to their own columns (editors 
 are but human, and cannot avoid these little touches), they 
 did not see that was any reason why they should not praise 
 
332 SIIANDON BELLS, 
 
 good work when they found it. And when the Liberal 
 llcwew people set about praishig a book, they do it. 
 
 In tlie circumstances it was not likely that Mr. Scobell 
 should miss his opportunity, and forthwith he made his way 
 down to the Fulham Road. Fitzgerald still occupied the 
 long low-roofed room there, for the sake of auld lang syne 
 but now there was a heavy j^or^iere shutting off the bedroom 
 end, and there were some comfortable chairs, and more 
 cheerful-looking rugs, while over the fireplace stood two 
 brilliant Chanak-Kalesi jugs that Miss Chetwynd had given 
 him, and that were the sole ornament of the room. Mrs. 
 Chetwynd, indeed, had begged of him to take some better 
 looms in one of the streets leading from Piccadilly, but he 
 asked to be excused, for he had no mind to spend much 
 money on himself. In fact, he was living pretty much in 
 his old way ; although, on one occasion, when both uunt and 
 niece weni down to his humble lodging to have afternoon 
 tea, he went to the extravagance beforehand of purchasing 
 a modern Japanese tea-set and a few pots of flowers. It 
 was then that Miss Chetwynd said the room looked too 
 bare, and promised him the two green and scarlet jugs. 
 
 " My dear f lah, ' said Mr. Scobell, laying his hat and cane 
 on the table, and taking off his- yellow gloves, ''let me con 
 gratulate you ! You have done it at a bound — at a bound. 
 It is the only book talked of at every dinner table you go 
 to. By Jove, sir, when I told them last night at Lady 
 Lampley's that I knew every inch of your career, I found 
 everybody listening. And I knew it ; I predicted it : I said so 
 to Gifford. I said to him when I met him, ' Gifford, my 
 dear f'lah, you don't know what people are talking about ; 
 you are in your own set. You keep among a literary set 
 and don't know what society is talking about. Why don't 
 you get Fitzgerald to write for you ? Why should he write 
 only for the Mirror — a tradesunion Methodistical Republi- 
 can rag like that? ' Not that I approve of the politics of 
 \\\Q, Liberal Review either; you can't ex])ect me ; but what 
 I say is that the Liberal liemew is a gentlemanly sort of 
 paper, after all : you see it in good houses; when I go into 
 my club I find it lying about." 
 
 All this while he was looking around. 
 
 " My dear f'lah, this won't do at all. When a penniles>N, 
 su))crcilious good-for-nothing like that fellow Hilton Clarke 
 Bticks himself up in the Albany — " 
 , " Poor chap, ho is no longer in the Albany." 
 
SIIANDON BELLS 833 
 
 " — I say, why should you be living in a bunk like this? 
 Damme, sir, you Kliouldhave rooms in Curzon Street, and a 
 private hansom, and a hack for the Park ! I am told that 
 Mrs. Chetwynd makes you a very handsome allowance." 
 
 " She does. But, you know, literature is best cultivated 
 on a little oatmeal. And I find enough to do with my spare 
 cash in another way." 
 
 " Oh, but, my dear f 'lah," said Mr. Scobell, with a lofty 
 smile " you are throwing away your chances. You miglit go 
 everywhere — you might go to the very best houses. I'll tell 
 you what now, — my wife shall send you a card for one of her 
 At Homes ; and you ought really to come, don't you know ; 
 you'll meet some of the very best people, I give you my 
 word. What's more, I want you, like a good f 'lah, to give 
 me a night for a little dinner at my club ; it isn't a big club 
 it isn't one of the big swell clubs, isn't the Abercorn ; but 
 you'll meet a very good class of men there, I can tell you. 
 And I'll ask old GiSord, if you like, and anybody else you 
 like, and we'll have a little bit of a celebration, don't you 
 know ; for I tell you what it is, Fitzgerald, old f 'lah, I feel as 
 if I had had a finger in the pie, don't you know, and — and 
 damme if I'm not proud of it, and precious glad that you've 
 made such a hit!" 
 
 There was really some fi-ank good-nature mixed up 
 with tlie man's vanity. He took out his note-book. 
 
 " What night shall it be ? " he said. " Let it be a Satur- 
 day, the 15th or the 22d, and we'll have a house-dinner ; and 
 you'll see if the Abercorn can't give you as good a dinner 
 and as good a glass of wine as any club in London." 
 " Either night you like, then." 
 
 " We'll say the 22d, to give more time. What I say 
 is, do a thing well. A man has no right to ask me to dine 
 at his club, and give me the sort of dinner you'd get at a 
 
 common restaurant. When I ask a man to my club I 
 
 want him to have the best that's in the kitclien and the cel- 
 lar ; and I'm not above taking trouble about it. What I 
 say is, do the thing well. There's a lot of people, don't you 
 know, nowadays, who pretend to be above all that ; being 
 particular about good dinners and good wines and good 
 cigars is beneath their high mightinesses' notice ; they pre- 
 tend they prefer water to a claret that cost you a hundred 
 shillings a dozen. Rubbish — all rubbish. What I say is, 
 the good things of this life wouldn't be there if they weren't 
 to be used ; and I suppose Providence knews as much about 
 
384 """' SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 -what's good for you as any of the scientific swells. There s* 
 a good deal of tliat sort of nonsense goes on at the Chet-' 
 wynds' ; but the Chetwynds are not in fault. Upon my 
 soul, I don't tliink it's respectful to your hostess to nibble a 
 bit of bread and a cutlet, and drink a glass of water, and 
 call that your dinner ; I don't think it's nice ; I call it bad 
 form, I do ; if any fellow did that at my table, I'm hanged 
 if he'd find himself there again. The 22d, seven forty-five, 
 good." 
 
 This was the ti ue object of his visit ; and he clasped 
 his note-book together again with a satisfied air. Then he 
 took up his hat and gloves. 
 
 " You made a suggestion — you were kind enough — " 
 said Fitzgerald, timidly. And then he frankly said, " 1| 
 wish you would ask my friend Ross too, who made the 
 sketches, you know." 
 
 " Delighted I My dear f'lah, a thousand thanks for the 
 hint. Delighted ! " 
 
 He took out his note-book again. 
 
 " Give me his address, and I will write to him at once. 
 Delighted, I assure you. A deuced clever fellow that ; the 
 landscapes Mrs. Chetwynd has of his are excellent — I call 
 them firstrate." 
 
 " But he lives just below," Fitzgerald said, looking at 
 his watch. " And he will probably be at work now. Will 
 you go down and see him ? " 
 
 " By all means." 
 
 They went down the stairs, and knocked at the door of 
 the studio, and were admitted apologizing for their intru- 
 sion. 
 
 "Not a bit," said John Ross, who had his pipe in his 
 fingers. *' Come in. I was painting the portrait of the 
 collie there, and he's not a good sitter; he was continually 
 falling asleep, and I got tired ©'whistling the poor creature 
 awake, and was having a glint at the newspaper." 
 
 Mr. Scobell looked strangely around at the big, hollow- 
 sounding studio. And then, with much roundabout phrase- 
 ology and compliment, he explained the object of his visit ; 
 Ross's reply being briefly, — 
 
 " Yes, I will." 
 
 But Mr. Scobell did not stop there. He began to make 
 a round of the studio, and to offer remarks ; while John 
 Ross became a trifle peevish. 
 
 " Now I'll tell you what I'll do, Mr. Ross," said he, in 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 335, 
 
 his grand manner. " I don't see that an artist who can 
 paint like that should not be known. I'll tell you what I'll 
 do ; I'll ask Sydenham to come to this very dinner." 
 
 Mr. Sydenham was a very distinguished painter and 
 Academician; the husband, indeed, of the lady whom Fitz- 
 gerald had on one occasion taken down to supper, and who 
 had politely declined to be bribed by sandwiches. 
 
 " Sydenham's a good fellow, a deuced good fellow; and 
 a word from him would do you no harm. Now that is a 
 mistake of so many of you artists and authors, don't you 
 know ; you keep hidden away among yourselves, and you 
 don't go about and get to know the people you ought to 
 know. I dare sav now, you never met an Academician in 
 your life?" 
 
 " The Academy and I are not likely to become great 
 friends," said Ross, dryly. " I am a heretic. I will not 
 conform. I like to paint in my own fashion, and they let 
 me ; and they go their way, and I go mine, and there is no 
 quarrel between us. Indeed, I am not sure but that they 
 try to do me a favor when they put anything I send them 
 near the roof — the effect of distance, ye see, may soften the 
 things down a bit." 
 
 " But you don't mean to say, now," remarked Mr. Sco- 
 bell, coming to a dead pause before a rough sketch that was 
 ])ropped up on the mantelpiece — a very rough sketch, in- 
 deed, of a farmyard, with one or two cattle and a heap of 
 straw warm in sunlight, "that they would not give a good 
 place to a picture like that? Now I call that uncommonly 
 good. I have seen a good many pictures in my time. I 
 have been to half the galleries in Europe — and precious 
 sick of them I got sometimes, I can tell you. I don't profess 
 to be a judge, but I know a good picture when I see it; 
 and I say that calf is as well painted a calf as anybody 
 could want. Rough," said he, waving his hand slightly, 
 "a little rough. Wanting in finish, don't you know. But 
 a first-rate sketch ; what I call an uncommon good sketch, 
 I should not mind having that hung up in my hall. But 
 the gable of the house is a Uetle tumbled-over, isn't it — I 
 would suggest — " 
 
 lie took the canvas down, and held it out at arm's- 
 length, examining it critically. 
 
 " It is nothing — it is a daub," said John Ross, rather 
 impatiently, and he got the canvas out of his hands and 
 put it up again, with its face to the wall. 
 
836 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 But Mr. Scobell resumed possession of it, and again 
 held it out at arm's-length. 
 
 *' No, no," he said, patronizingly ; " it has merit. It is 
 well balanced. I call the light and shade of that sketch 
 very well balanced indeed. And I am not afraid to trust 
 my own judgment. 1 never give an opinion without being 
 ready to back it with money. My notion is that a man 
 should buy pictures that please himself ; why should he 
 care what other people think? No, what I say is, that's a 
 very good sketch ; an uncommon good sketch it is ; very 
 well balanced light and shadow ; and the long and the 
 short of it is, Mr. — Mr. Ross, that I will buy it. I should 
 not be at all ashamed to have that sketch hung up in my 
 hall— '» 
 
 But now the red-bearded artist became very angry, and 
 got hold of the unlucky sketch, and sent it spinning to the 
 end of the studio, where it unhappily hit the sleeping collie, 
 that forthwith sprang up with a howl, and slunk into a 
 further corner, with its tail between its legs. 
 
 " I would not have such a thing go out of the place," 
 said he, briefly. 
 
 But he soon recovered his temper ; and when at last Mr. 
 Scobell, after much more encouraging and soothing advice 
 and criticism, had left, all that John lloss said to his friend 
 about the visitor was merely, — 
 
 " Man, he's a bletherer, tliat one." 
 
 They went to the dinner, however, at the Abercorn 
 Club ; and a very sumptuous affair it was. They had the 
 Strangers' Dining-room to themselves, and it was bril- 
 liantly lit, and the table was magnificently decorated with 
 flowers. Of the gentlemen present Fitzgerald only knew 
 his host, his companion Ross, Mr. Gifford, and, by sight 
 Mr. Sydenham ; but he was introduced to the others by 
 Mr. Scobell with a series of pompous little compliments, 
 the ordeal not being the less severe that these portly middle- 
 aged persons regarded him with such a silent, blank, lack- 
 lustre-eyed scrutiny that he was on the point of saying, 
 " Upon my soul I don't bite." lie wondered what manner 
 of men these were ; and the mystery was not rendered loss 
 inscrutable when, after they had sat down, Mr. Scobell 
 remarked to him in an undertone, — 
 
 " There's four millions at this table." 
 
 According to Fitzgerald's way of counting, there were 
 
SITANDON BELLS, 337 
 
 only ten persons ; so he was more hopelessly in a fog than 
 ever. 
 
 " Four millions, if there's a farthing," continued Mr. 
 Scobell, in the same low tone. "And as you and your 
 friend Ross and Sydenham and 1 have little enough, you 
 may imagine what the other sir have amongst them. Tho 
 man opposite me and his right-hand neighbor are Directors 
 of the Bank of England." 
 
 Then FitzEjerald bes^an to see. No wonder these s^entle- 
 men were grave if they had the responsibility of owning 
 four millions of money weighing on them ; and there was a 
 business-like seriousness in the way they attacked their 
 dinner, not turning aside for frivolous pleasantries, but 
 keeping a sharp eye on the successive dishes. In course of 
 time, however, the severity of their demeanor abated ; the 
 staccato remarks about the probability of another European 
 war, which hitherto had represented their conversation, 
 developed into a unanimous abuse of the foreign policy of 
 the then French Government ; and then again one funny 
 man at the end of the table would succeed in getting his 
 next neighbor to laugh (when not too busy). John Koss 
 and the great Academician appeared to have become friends 
 at once, and were talking in an animated fashion ; Mr. 
 Gifford v/as rather in an absent frame of mind ; while Sco- 
 bell, at the head of the table, beamed and shone upon his 
 guests in silence. 
 
 " Well, Fitzgerald," said Mr. Gifford at length, " since 
 we last dined together one of the little group has rather 
 dropped under." 
 
 "Do you know anything about him? Do you know 
 where he is ? " said his neighbor, knowing well whom hff 
 meant. 
 
 *' In Paris. Not very well off, I fear. He married Lady 
 Ipswich after the decree nisi was made absolute ; and 
 I believe her friends made some small provision for her : 
 but Clarke had always careless and expensive habits, and ] 
 am afraid he is a little given to borrowing. But they have 
 a pretty house, I am told, just outside the Marble Arch." 
 " The Arc de Triomphe^' his neighbor suggested. 
 " Well, yes : what did I say ? I hope his book will be 
 successful; but the subject has so little interest for the 
 
 general public " 
 
 « His book ? what book ? " 
 
338 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 "It came to the office the day before yesterday, I think. 
 The Laws and Limitations of Art ^ it is called." 
 
 " Oh, I wish you would let me review it ! " Fitzgerald 
 exclaimed, with an eagerness that made his companion re- 
 gard him with a quick look. 
 
 " No," said Mr. Gifford, with an odd kind of smile ; *' we 
 could not have one of our own reviewers abused in our own 
 reviewing columns." 
 
 "Your columns?" said Fitzgerald, in bewilderment. 
 " Does Hilton Clarke write for you ? " 
 
 " Sometimes," was the answer. " The Weekly Gazette 
 got tired of him long ago, and he appealed to me. There 
 are one or two things he can do very well. I am sorry for 
 the fellow. I hope his book will be successful, but I doubt 
 it." 
 
 " Why won't you let me review it, then ? " said Fitz- 
 gerald, who was on pretty familiar terms with the editor. 
 "You had some squabble with him, hadn't you, about the 
 Household Magazhief" said Mr. Gilford, with his piercing 
 eyes regarding him. "I gathered from Scobell that he had 
 treated you rather badly. Well, that is nothing new ; but 
 still—" 
 
 "Oh, if you mean that," Fitzgerald said, hastily, "you 
 are quite mistaken. It is quite the other way. I meant 
 to say everything I could for the book. He did owe me 
 some money ; but then, on the other hand, I owe him some- 
 thing. But for liim I dare say I should at this moment be 
 the sub-editor of the Cork Chronicle, I should like to 
 23raise the book." 
 
 "That is quite as bad a temper," said Mr. Gifford. 
 "We will get some more impartial person — but some 
 friendly person, I hope. And why should you want to 
 write reviews ? Scobell tells me you are now the owner of 
 an estate in Ireland, and have a handsome income besides." 
 
 " I want to make all the money I can," Fitzgerald said, 
 ^* for I know i)lenty of uses for it. And as for the Irish 
 estate, I consider myself only the steward of it ; though X 
 get shooting and fisliing for nothing, and also the most de- 
 lightful quiet when there is a chance of running over. Ask 
 your neighbor — oh, let me introduce you: Mr. Ross, Mr. 
 Gifford — ask him — he is an artist — what he thinks of Boat 
 of Garry." 
 
 Mr. GLfford thereupon turned to John Ross, and Fitz- 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 839 
 
 gerakl was left unoccupied, whereupon Mr. Scoboll, who 
 had overheard some chance phrase, said, — 
 
 " I say, my dear f lah, what did you mean by that dedi- 
 cation ?* Upon my life I don't know whether the dear old 
 lady was more pleased by it or more indignant. She did 
 not speak to you about it perhaps. 
 
 " Yes she did. She thanked me; that was all. What 
 was there to be indignant about?" 
 
 " ' My dear Mr. Scobell,' she said to me — you see, Fitz- 
 gerald, I have known the Chetwynds for many years ; they 
 have always been in our set — ' my dear Mr. Scobell,' she 
 said, ' what does the lad mean by describing me as of Boat, 
 of Garry ? Won't he take it when I give it to him ? He 
 wanted to give it to Mary to squander away ; and now he 
 wants to saddle me with it. Can't I get rid of it anyhow? " 
 
 " Oh, but that is all right," said Fitzgerald. " Tliut is 
 quite settled and understood. Mrs. Chetwynd and I un- 
 derstand the position perfectly ; and so also does M — Miss 
 Chetwynd.". 
 
 So the banquet went on ; the talk becoming generally 
 louder; with gushes of laughter here or there; and per- 
 haps nothing occurred particularly deserving of mention 
 except that one tall and portly gentleman, of a most severe 
 and repellent countenance, who had been boring everybody 
 to death about his travels in America, was heard to re- 
 mark, in the most innocent manner, of a well-known states- 
 man whom they were discussing : " Well, all I can say is 
 that he is a man of very strange fancies — very strange fan- 
 cies indeed. He took a most unaccountable dislike to my- 
 self. A most singular thing. Yes, and he showed it too — 
 damme he showed it." And also that Master Willie, by a 
 base and unworthy subterfuge, obtained a triumph over liis 
 enemy of former days. For he began to talk to Mr. Giff- 
 ord about familiar quotations; and in the most naive man- 
 ner observe<I that few were better known than 
 
 " De par k Roi, defense a Diou, 
 D'ope'rer miracle eu ce lieu." 
 
 * This was the dedication in question, prefixed to the little vol- 
 ume: 
 
 To my friend and henefaclresSf 
 Mks. Algernon Chetwynd, 
 qf Hyde Park Gardens, and Boat of Garry, Ireland, this collection qf 
 idle papers is most r€sp€QtfuUy dedicated, _. ■ 
 
340 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 The editor fell into the trajD headlong. 
 
 " Defaire miracle — defaire miracle^ I think," said he, 
 politely. 
 
 '* fyopcrer I think it is," said Fitzgerald, gi-aciously. 
 
 " Pardon me, I am sure you are wrong. It is a most 
 familiar quotation. Defaire miracle^ en ce lieu." 
 
 " I would not contradict you ; for, as you say, the coui> 
 let is so well known." 
 
 " Oh, there is not a doubt of it — not a doubt of it. 
 Every schoolboy knows it. Defaire miracle, of course." 
 
 " My authority for cVojyerer,^^ continued his foe, in an 
 absent and indifferent kind of way, pretending to be very 
 busy in examining the constituents of a mysterious-looking 
 Bweet, " is not very absolute. I found it in the notes of an 
 old edition I have of Voltaire's Pucelle, along with a little 
 history of St. Paris. The date of the edition is 1773, and 
 the couplet is spoken of as being familiar. But perhaps it is 
 a misquotation." 
 
 " Perhaps, perhaps," said Mr. Gifford ; but he lightly 
 changed tlie subject, and wanted Fitzgerald to tell him l»o\v 
 the Game Laws affected the poorer tenantry in the south- 
 west of Ireland. And Fitzgerald im])arted to him what in- 
 formation be could on that subject, without recalling lo him 
 the fact that they had had a dis])ute about the same couj)lct 
 in former days when they did not meet on quite such equal 
 terms. 
 
 At last the bounteous feast came to an end ; and there 
 was mucli hand shaking on the steps of the Abcrcorn Club. 
 As far as Fitzgerald was concerned, it very soon a])])eared 
 that this big dinner might, if ho chose, be regarded as only 
 the beginning of a quite indefinite series of similar repasts, 
 though perhaps of a more domestic kind, for the little book 
 made its way in a remarkable manner ; and probably there 
 was something in its contents that made people curious about 
 the personality of the author; and no doubt he might have 
 figured at a great many afternoon teas, and dinner ])arlies, 
 and midnight receptions. But, as it turned out, he found 
 his life far too full of occuj^ation for anything of the kind. 
 When he dined at all in the evening, ho went to, or stayed for, 
 Mrs. Chetwynd's table cV hohe ; and it is more than ])rol)ablo 
 that he would have earned the contemjU of Mr. Scobell by 
 liis indifference to the good things of this world, or such of 
 them as. appeared on the dinner table. But it was a liuo^ 
 thing, this co^QStant- and busy.occu|*ation 5 -this finding that) 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 3 il 
 
 both time and money were inadequate to the calls made 
 upon him. The " old, hysterical mock disease" got in a man- 
 ner jostled out of existence ; there was no longer any room 
 for it. That was all left behind now ; except, alas ! when 
 the wonder-world of sleep was opened, and again he was 
 walking with Kitty on the sunny Sunday mornings along 
 the hawthorn lanes outside of Cork, or rowing her home in 
 moonlight, she singing the while, past the silent quays of 
 Inishecn. 
 
 chapteh XXXI. 
 
 IX THE EAST. 
 
 It may easily be surmised in what direction Fitzgerald 
 was now spending what time he could spare from his literary 
 labors and what money he could save from his stewardship, 
 as he considered it, of Boat of Garry, At first he accom- 
 pained Miss Chetwynd on one or two of her eastern expedi- 
 tions with far more of curiosity and interest than of hope ; 
 for it seemed to him, as it probably would to any outsider, 
 that to seek to alleviate the distress and misery of this vast 
 population with any such means as were at their command 
 was about as sanguine as to try to drain an Irish bog with 
 a sponge. Moreover, it was not very picturesque — as she 
 had forewarned him. Very rarely was the wretchedness 
 tragic : it Avas merely mean and commonplace : existence 
 in these foul-smelling lanes and desolate grimy squares 
 seemed a lacklustre kind of thing; occasionally the people 
 were suspicious rather than grateful, and always they mis- 
 placed their A's. But by and by, as time went on, and as 
 he saw further into the mechanism of the various organiza- 
 tions, he could not help admiring the patient heroism of 
 those voluntary missionaries who, not deterred by the vast- 
 ness or the diflficulties of the task, busily and cheerfully set 
 to work to do what tiiey could ; and began to see the ap- 
 preciable fruit of their labors, even if it were only a touch 
 of light and color added here and there to those poor ignoble 
 liv.9.s— :a^H,0^<?frbpx Jn a .window-sill;; a drinking fountain* 
 pefh^I^V an exhibftlon' 'of 'jsictitres ; a bi^t of'grceu thrown 
 
342 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 open to the children, with a swing or two. Then the free 
 libraries, with books, magazines, and newspapers ; cool in 
 summer, and well-warmed in the winter, with coffee at a 
 penny a cup ; and the lectures and readings and entertain- 
 ments, now putting some inkling of sanitary requirements 
 into the heads of the grown-up people, again teaching the 
 boys and lads something of the qualities that built up En- 
 gland : and the invaluable district nurses, carrying notions of 
 cleanliness and kindliness into these poor homes ; and so 
 forth, and so forth ; all this busy, silent, unobtrusive work, 
 not appealing loudly for subscriptions, and not claiming for 
 its authors any title to martyrdom, seemed to him a very 
 noble thing. The sympathy led to practical help. At the out- 
 set he rather wished to act merely as assistant and safeguard 
 to the niece of his benefactress ; but he soon found there 
 was no need for that. She had no fear, and there was noth- 
 ing to fear. In another way, however, he was of use to her. 
 Mary Chetwynd was very much at home in dealing with 
 " her poor people," as she called them, directly ; and she 
 had an admirable self-possession on the platform, whether 
 she was demonstrating to an assemblage of men and wo- 
 men the awful effects of drinking unfiltered London water, 
 or reciting patriotic poems to an audience of Whitechapel 
 youths ; but at the council board of the society she was some- 
 what diffident. It very soon appeared, however, that when 
 Mr. Fitzgerald was in course of time elected to this board, 
 the new member held very strong opinions about the rights 
 of minorities^especially when the minority was Mary 
 Chetwynd. Arguments and grumbling were alike thrown 
 away upon him. No, there he was ; there he would stay. 
 And at last, upon the burning question of beer, matters 
 came to a final issue. 
 
 " Very well," said he, when he and Miss Chetwynd had 
 been entirely outvoted, *' we need not quarrel. You may 
 go your way, but you can't hinder me from going mine. 
 As I said, I don't think a glass of ale can do any harm — if 
 not given to the boys ; and I don't think it fair to ask 
 these men to come and spend a long evening without giving 
 them that small amount of indulgence. Now I mean to 
 try it- — " 
 
 There was a kind of murmur of protest at this. Was 
 he going to ignore such a solemn thing as a vote ? 
 
 " But you may have it either of two ways. Either I 
 will resign altogether^ and be free to act that way, or \ will. 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 843j 
 
 remain a member of the society, making any entertainments^ 
 I get up my own affair — at my own expense, I mean — so 
 that for them tlie society will not be responsible. That 
 will take away the reproach of beer from you ; it will be 
 my doing alone." 
 
 There was a little further grumbling ; but the second 
 alternative was eventually chosen. They did not wish to 
 get rid of Fitzgerald altogether, for he was an active sort 
 of fellow, and he hjid time and money at his disposal ; and 
 they had seen how well he got on with the men and boys 
 at these meetings, keeping order in a good-humored, 
 hectoring way. Besides, they had had one or two news- 
 paper squabbles, and he had been found to be an efficient 
 champion in that direction. 
 
 But when they got outside, Mary Chetwynd said to 
 him, regarding him with eyes that seemed frightened and 
 laughing at the same time. 
 
 *' Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, what have you done? " 
 
 " Nothing dreadful, I hope," he said, with a smile. 
 
 " When you said ' I,' of course you meant * we ' ? " 
 
 "Well, then?" 
 
 " But how do you expect you and me to do all that by 
 ourselves ? Think of the expense. Auntie will be furious. 
 She does not mind about me ; but she says I am ruining 
 you, and that you are getting no pleasure in life " 
 
 " Didn't I promise to go over to* Boat of Garry in July ? 
 and you and she, I hope, will come over and stay there 
 too." 
 
 " And I have some remorse also," she continued. " You 
 would never have raised the beer question if I had not told 
 
 you about it in Ireland. Then that little Theatre costs 
 
 £8 10s. a night, without any beer. If I could pay for 
 everything, I should not mind. Or if you would have a 
 hack and ride every day in the Park, as Mr. Scobell sug- 
 gests, then auntie would be more satisfied, and I should be 
 sure you had some kind of — of " 
 
 "But do I look so unhappy?" he asked, with a laugh. 
 " However, your mention of Mr. Scobell is most opportune. 
 I think I ought to plunder Mr. Scobell " 
 
 " Oh no ; after the filters " 
 
 " But he has friends. At a dinner last year he told me 
 six of them at the table were worth four million. Now if 
 w© could get Mr. Scobell to squeeze them a little, what 
 
344 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 would it matter about the Theatre costing £8 lO*. a 
 
 night?" 
 
 " You know best," she said simply ; and I hope we have 
 not undertaken too much." 
 
 But indeed, whether he or she knew, or whether botli 
 were ignorant, what interested him in that work down 
 there, and what was a constant delight to him, so that the 
 various pursuits or pleasure on which he might have spent 
 the very liberal income he enjoyed were not even to be 
 thought of, was the mere spectacle of herself in her relations 
 Avith these poor people. The beautiful, quiet serenity of 
 her nature seemed to shine tliere, amid all that turmoil of 
 want and care and ignorance and crime. Wherever she 
 went, peace surrounded her. Sickly and ailing women, 
 inclined to succumb altogether to the hard pressure of fate, 
 drew strength from the self-reliant character of this mere 
 girl, and struggled on anew. Many a one of them told 
 Fitzgerald tliat none of the district nurses could bring such 
 clieerfulness into a house as she could. He grew to think 
 of her what they thouglit of her. He lieard their stories of 
 lier; he saw lier througli their eyes — tliis king's daughter, 
 witli the outstretched hands, blessing and comforting 
 wherever slie went. 
 
 " Willie," said Mrs. Chetwynd to him one evening be- 
 fore tlie guests arrived for the table d'hote^ " why did you 
 not read me tliat article* in the Liberal lleview about be- 
 nevolence — about the reaction of oenevolence on one's self 
 — what was it called ? — ' Benevolence as an Investment ? ' " 
 
 " I saw the article," said he, evasively. 
 
 "Yes, and you w-rote it?" 
 
 "Why, how should you think that?" said he. 
 
 " Because Mrs. Sims was here this afternoon, and she 
 read it to me, and both of us agreed that you had been 
 describing our Mary." 
 
 " I — I hope you don't think there is anything that 
 would annoy — that would be too personal — if Miss Chet- 
 wynd were to see it?" he stammered. 
 
 *' Well," said the bright little old lady, " considering 
 that you give her all the virtues of an angel, with half a 
 dozen other womanly ones, I don't think she ought to ob- 
 ject. And indeed, you know, although she is my niece, I 
 must admit that the portrait is recognizable." 
 
 So the time pas'se'd; aiid Mary Chetwynd was very 
 proud of the success of the new venture that Fitzgerald 
 
SIIANDON BELLS. 345 
 
 had started (though whether that success was due to the 
 merits of the lectures and the efficiency of her stage-man- 
 ager and body-guard, or simply to beer, it would be un- 
 necessary to discuss), and there was no great difficulty about 
 funds, after all. Then Fitzgerald and Mrs. Chetwynd and 
 her niece went over to Boat of Garry in the July of that 
 year; and John Ross went with them, being commissioned 
 to reproduce one or two of his sepia sketches in oils ; and 
 they had a pleasant stay there until the end of August. 
 Altogether their life, either there or here in London, was 
 an uneventful one, full of cheerful activities and kindli- 
 nesses ; and there seemed no reason why any one should 
 wish it changed. 
 
 But accidents happen. One evening, after they had 
 come back, Miss Chetwynd had arranged to have her fol- 
 lowing of youths and lads assemble in the little theatre be- 
 fore referred to, to have displayed to them, by means of a 
 series of magic-lantern projections on a large screen, some 
 portraits of great Englishmen, with occasional remarks by 
 herself. Ordinarily, on such occasions, Fitzgerald was there 
 at the marshalling of the lads, ready with a good-natured 
 cuff to preserve manners, if need be ; but the truth was 
 that as long as " the lady " was present they were very 
 well behaved indeed. On this evening, however, there 
 was some serious business elsewhere about a poor wretch 
 who had purloined a book from one of the free libraries, to 
 buy (as lie said) a loaf of bread; and so Fitzgerald did not 
 get along to the tlieatre, until the lecture or entertainment, 
 or whatever it might be called, was well on its way. He 
 slipped into a corner of the pit (there were neither stalls, 
 gallery, nor boxes in this little theatre) and sat down. 
 
 The lecturess seemed very self-possessed and familiar 
 with her audience, talking to them as she selected this or 
 that slide, and occasionally coming to the foot-lights to ad- 
 dress them directly. 
 
 " Now," she said, as she was stoo])ing over the table to 
 pick out the proper slide, " I suppose some of you read 
 Jones's Journal?^'* 
 
 This was a wretched little local print, which did a good 
 deal of mischief down there. Her audience, perhaps think- 
 ing that the portrait of the great Mr. Jones was about to 
 appear on the screen, stamped their feet a bit. On that 
 she rose erect, and faced them w^ith some astonishment. 
 
 " Oh ! " she said, " is that the kind of paper you ad- 
 
346 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 mire ? I hope not. I hope not, indeed ! Perhaps some 
 of you think that when Mr. Jones is denouncing the Gov- 
 ernment, and saying they have done this, that, and the 
 otlier thing, he could do it better liimself ? Would you 
 like to see him try ? Is he likely to know more about gov- 
 erning a country — is he likely to be more honest — than 
 men who have been educated all their lives for it, many of 
 them very rich men, who, if they had chosen, might have 
 spent all their time in amusing themselves with horse-races 
 or yachts, but who, instead, go through an amount of labor 
 and drudgery that the hardest-worked among you don't 
 know anything about, only to find themselves called swin- 
 dlers and pickpockets by gentlemen like Mr. Jones ? Well, 
 now, I know something that will enable -^ow to judge of 
 Mr. Joues. I know that he has been twice before the mag- 
 istrate for drunkenness, and was fined each time ; and I 
 know there was an execution in his office not very long ago ; 
 and I put it to you whether a man who manages his own 
 affairs like that would be likely to be able to manage the 
 affairs of the country ? " 
 
 This argument, though somewhat crude, and even verg- 
 ing upon libel, was, at all events, easily understood. 
 
 " No ! no !'* was the general response. 
 
 "Well, now, I am going to put before you the portrait 
 of a great Conservative statesman, a most able and distin- 
 guished man. Perhaps I am not a Conservative myself; 
 but that is neither here nor there ; I want you to believe 
 that the men who govern England on both sides in politics 
 are trying to do their best ; and that the man who tries to 
 stir up people to lawlessness and discontent is doing his 
 worst, and making nothing but mischief. Don't you 
 believe that the rich have stolen the money they have ; in 
 most cases it has been brought together by their fathers and 
 grandfathers being sober, industrious, and able men ; and 
 when these people try to make good laws you ought to be 
 glad of it, instead of howling at them as if they were 
 tyrants. It is the interest of everybody to preserve law and 
 order. Why, if it was not for law and order, how could 
 your mothers and sisters go along AVhitechapel Road on a 
 Saturday night, looking at the shop^, and buying things for 
 the Sunday dinner ? It is the law that protects them from 
 being pushed down and their money taken from them. And 
 60 far from regarding the police as your natural enemies, or 
 the eaemies of anybody, you ought to think of what Stepney 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 847 
 
 or Whitechapel would be without them, and you ought to 
 be precious glad to lend them a helping hand when you see 
 a thief bolting, or when you see a band of roughs coming 
 along the pavement, hustling the women off and annoying 
 peaceable people." 
 
 She put the selected slide into the magic lantern ; the 
 man in the *' wings " lowered the gas of the footlights, and 
 when the large, visionary, colored figure of this Conserva- 
 tive statesman appeared on the screen, it was greeted 
 (despite all the tirades of Joneses Journal) with a murmur 
 of approval. But just at this moment something else hap- 
 pened. One amongst the audience whose eyes had wan- 
 dered away from the large circle of light on the screen had 
 noticed a flickering of another sort of light along the edge 
 of a portion of the curtain ; and thoughtlessly he called out 
 " Fire !" There was an instant of dead silence, every one 
 looking all around ; and then, as the red light up there at- 
 tracted their eyes, there was a universal rush and clamor. 
 Fitzgerald jumped to his feet and called to them to sit 
 down ; but he might as well have called to the sea. There 
 were no shrieks or screams, for there were no women pres- 
 ent ; but a wild struggle to reach the doors, and a conse- 
 quent wedging up of the excited crowd. They could not 
 squeeze through. Then the black mass — or a great portion 
 of it — seemed to turn; frightened faces looked here, there, 
 everywhere; then the stage was charged. Fitzgerald 
 caught the first one that made by him, and jammed him 
 down on to the form. 
 
 " Sit down, you fool ; there is no danger !" 
 
 But he might as well have tried to put his hands on a 
 pack of wolves. They swarmed up and over on the stage ; 
 seeing which, Fitzgerald leaped up there too ; shoved them 
 aside, and made for the spot where Miss Chetwynd was 
 standing, her face somewhat aghast. She was not regard- 
 ing the flames overhead ; she was looking at the rushing 
 crowd that was now hurrying wildly toward the narrow 
 passage leading from behind the stage. He caught her 
 hand — or rather it was her wrist — and held it tight. 
 
 "Do not be afraid," said he, glancing up at the smoul- 
 dering curtain, and then at the disappearing people. " There 
 is no danger. They will all get out." 
 
 " I am not afraid, so long as you are by me," she said, in 
 a rather proud kind of way. 
 
 He turned and looked at her eyes ; and her eyes met his. 
 
348 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 "For alwnys, then?" 
 
 Sho did not speak ; but she placed her hand over liis 
 hand that held her wrist; and so they remained, waiting for 
 the wild surging mass to get free away, while the red light 
 overhead grew more distinct. 
 
 It was a strange situation ; but he seemed to have no 
 fear. He remembered afterward that he was trying to cal- 
 culate how many more seconds it would take for the last of 
 the crowd to get through ; also wondering when the fire- 
 men would arrive, and whether the theatre had been left 
 altogether without attendants ; and at the same time watch- 
 ing quite calmly the progress of the flames. They did not 
 proceed rapidly. It was some little time before the wood- 
 work caught fire anywhere; for at first it slowly blackened 
 and frizzled, as it were ; then a pale thin blue fire became 
 visible here and there along its surface; ihen a quicker glow 
 of crimson gleamed up. 
 
 "Shall we go now?" he said — for the loud cries for 
 Dick and Harry and Jack and Bill had grown fainter and 
 fainter. 
 
 " When you please," said she, with firm lips. 
 
 There was no trouble or danger about the matter. Just 
 as they were leaving, a loud splash and hissing was heard 
 overhead and a shower of heavy drops of water came over 
 the stage. They made their way along the " wings " and 
 out by the stage-door, and found a large crowd assembled 
 in the street, kept back from the fire-engines by the police. 
 In ten or twelve minutes the whole affair was over, and it 
 only remained for Fitzgerald to get hold of the gas-man 
 from among the crowd (the rascal had been among the first 
 to bolt) to have the gas turned off, so that there should be 
 no explosion ; while, by the light of some candles, and with 
 the aid of a few of the boys, he got the magic-lantern ap- 
 paratus collected and carried to a four-wheeled cab outside, 
 m which Mary Chetwynd was awaiting him. 
 
 When at last they had driven away from the dense 
 crowd that still lingered about the place there was a better 
 chance for speaking ; but silence seemed to be enough. At 
 length she said : — 
 
 "You once offered me Boat of Garry. And now you 
 give your life to me. W^hat next ? " 
 
 "It will become worth something when you take it," bo 
 answered. 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 349 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 IK A GALLERY. 
 
 And now we must let a few years go by, and come to a 
 certain private view day at the Hanover Gallery, Hanover 
 Square. This gallery, which was intended to be an ad- 
 junct rather than a rival to the Royal Academy, had been 
 opened for the first time the year before, and had pro- 
 voked a good deal of animadversion, favorable and other- 
 wise. For while some declared (with more insistence than 
 was at all necessary) that its chief characteristic was an 
 affected imitation of the manner of the early Florentines, 
 but with the beauty and light and gladness of the old 
 painters replaced by a sickly languor and distortion and 
 decay; that the decorative character of the classical designs 
 in nowise served as a cloak for obvious ignorance of anat- 
 omy and consequent bad drawing of the human form; and 
 .that the landscapes were less remarkable for a reverential 
 study of nature than for an impertinent audacity, there 
 were others who maintained (with a touch of personal in- 
 jury in the tone of their remonstrances) that this Hanover 
 Gallery collection was a welcome relief from the inanity 
 of the common run of exhibitions: that at all events it 
 drove people to think; that a seeking after the highest in 
 art, with whatever shortcomings, was better than the com- 
 placency of mediocrity; that, in short, anything was desir- 
 able that could help to get rid of the simpering curate sort 
 of stuff that had for so long told its commonplace and silly 
 little stories on the walls of British galleries. It needs 
 only be added here that among the most vehement of the 
 admirers of this new institution was John Ross. Whether 
 dissatisfaction with the Royal Academy's continued neg- 
 lect of him may have had anything to do with this feeling 
 it is unnecessary to inquire, for human motives are mixed 
 things; but at all events his championship of the new gal- 
 lery was so uncompromising that Mrs. Ohetwynd, who was 
 always on the lookout to do little kindnesses in this way, 
 contrived a meeting between Sir Cyril Smith, who was 
 the director of the place, and the Scotch artist, which had, 
 as it turned out, sufficiently important results for one of 
 them. 
 
850 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 So on this summer-like day in spring there was a large 
 and fashionable assemblage circulatiEg through the rooms, 
 or congregated in groups here and there, chatting, or re- 
 garding their neighbors' costumes, which, among the young 
 maidens at least, tended rather to sadness of hue and 
 quaintness of design. But there was one group there of 
 which a tall, bright-eyed young lady was a conspicuous 
 member; and certainly her gown, if there was a sugges- 
 tion of mediasvalism about the shape of it, was not lacking 
 in boldness and richness of color. It was a velvet gown, 
 of the color of the very darkest sort of wall-flower — a deep 
 ruddy purple; and it was trimmed with lace, or what ap- 
 peared to be lace, of a dusky yellow — not the yellow of 
 primroses, but rather of daffodils. It was more the cos- 
 tume of a young matron than of a girl; but, indeed, when 
 you looked at this person, it was not her dress that first 
 attracted notice, but the grace and self-possession of her 
 bearing, and the bright, frank laugh of her eyes. 
 
 A tall, elderly, handsome man made his way through 
 the crowd to her. 
 
 **My dear child," said he, taking her hand, *'I have- 
 been hunting for you everywhere. I was told you had 
 come. And how well you are looking! And your dress, 
 too — they say it is the prettiest in the room. Very pretty 
 -.—very pretty!" 
 
 "But you need not praise me for it. Sir Cyril," said she, 
 **nor my dress-maker either. My husband chose the 
 coloi's. Wae not that obedient of me? I told him I dressed 
 only to please him, and that he might as well choose what 
 colors he liked best. Was not that sweet of me?" 
 
 "Ah!" said he, "young wives are always like that, at 
 lirst— " 
 
 " Young wives, indeed! And my boy will be four years 
 old next June!" 
 
 " And your boy will have very little to thank you for if 
 you go catching another fever, and have to winter in Italy, 
 leaving the poor little fellow at home. Where is your 
 husband?" 
 
 "Oh, he's away with John Ross somewhere — fighting, 
 no doubt. They're always fighting now — ever since we 
 came back from Italy." 
 
 " Have you been round the rooms yet?" he asked, glanc- 
 ing at the little group of friends from whom he had 
 slightly separated her. She forthwith introduced him. 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 351 
 
 ^' No," she said. *' It is a little too bewildering yet— to 
 me at least. All one's friends seem to be here; and it is 
 so difficult to remember all you want to say at the moment 
 that one has no time for the pictures. It is more exciting 
 than sitting on a terrace at Sorrento, or in a veranda at 
 Capri, watching the tourists climbing up the steps on the 
 donkeys. We went to Ischia after you left us. Now 
 don't stop talking to me. Sir Cyril, for you Jiave all your 
 friends to receive — " 
 
 **And the whole day to do it in," said he, lightly. 
 *'No; but I am coming back to you. You must not go 
 away anywhere for lunch. I will come for you at one. 
 Mind you have got hold of your husband and Mr. Koss; 
 there is something very nice and quiet prepared in a cor- 
 ner — an invalid's luncheon, you know. Now go and get 
 a seat; don't stand about all day; but indeed I never saw 
 you looking better in my life." 
 
 He was going away, when he suddenly turned. 
 
 ** Bless my soul!" he exclaimed — '*I was almost forget- 
 ting to ask how your aunt is — better, I hope?" 
 
 **0h, I think so. I think she is almost quite better. 
 But she likes perfect rest, and seems disinclined for the 
 trouble of going out; she says she won't go with us to Boat 
 of Garry this year." 
 
 " But she is not ailing now?" 
 
 '* Oh no, scarcely at all; the warm weather suits her, 
 and all she suffers from now, she says, is an incurable 
 laziness." 
 
 *'One o'clock, then, mind." 
 
 Almost immediately after Fitzgerald came hurrying 
 along. 
 
 *^ Have you heard? -Has any one told you?" he said, 
 eagerly. 
 
 *^I have heard nothing in particular," she said — ^'but 
 why did you put on that shabby old shooting-coat?" Every 
 one else has a frock-coat and gloves. Where are your 
 gloves? This isn't Capri." 
 
 ** Every one says that Eoss's pictures are the feature of 
 the exhibition," he said, in the same rapid way, not in the 
 least minding her remarks about his clothes. ^' They have 
 given them the place of honor at the head of the next 
 room — all five in a row. Come along and see them. Gif- 
 ford — " Here he turned to Mr. Gilford, who, with his 
 wife, a tall and stately dame, was now examining some of 
 
353 SHAN DON BELLS. 
 
 the pictures close by — " Gifford, come and sec some pic- 
 tures in the next room. I told you they would make their 
 mark." 
 
 *' Your friend Ross's, I suppose?" s 
 
 **Yes. Come and judge for yourself. Mind you, I 
 mean to praise them, friend or no friend; so if you are 
 afraid of the reputation of the Liberal Revieiv, you'll have 
 to get somebody else. Or we will appeal to an impartial 
 authority, if you like." 
 
 No doubt Mr. Gifford, as the little party together made 
 their way up to the head of the next room, considered 
 that he himself was quite sufficient of an impartial au- 
 thority; and, as it turned out, he was much struck by the 
 series of landscapes. Or, rather, there was only one land- 
 scape, treated under five different atmospheric conditions. 
 The subject was the stretch of meadow, water, hill, and 
 sky visible from the window of the dining-room at Boat 
 of Garry; the first showing the calm, clear dawn aiising 
 in the east, the world being quite still and silent and life- 
 less; in the second was all the variety of a windy summer 
 day — masses of white cloud and shadow, the trees blowing, 
 the work in the fields going on, and over at the horizon 
 an ominous rising of purple; then, in number three, a 
 desolation of rain, everything gray and blurred and hope- 
 less; number four showed the afternoon clearing up some- 
 what, with a golden mist beginning to tell as the sunlight 
 got through the moisture; and finally, the peace of a clear 
 moonlight night. 
 
 "A most excellent idea!" exclaimed Mr. Gifford, at 
 once. **Why, that is how one becomes familiar with a 
 place! Why has no one done that before? No one wants 
 any more variety than that — indeed, it shows all the more 
 what skill the artist has when he can do without fresh 
 materials. My dear fellow, you may praise those as much 
 as ever you like. They are the best things I have seen in 
 the exhibition yet, except your wife's portrait. Praise 
 them as you like; I sha'n't interfere with you." 
 
 '^But, you know," Fitzgerald said, "there will be a 
 scrimmage among the critics, just as there was last year. 
 Now don't let the Liberal Review in for anything rash. 
 I'll tell you what I'll do; suppose we appeal; suppose we 
 take the opinion of a thoroughly skilled artist — " 
 
 " Not a bit. On that theory you would have me allow 
 poets to review other pcets' poems, and novel-writers to 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 353 
 
 review other people's novels, and so on. Would tliat be 
 fair? We have set our faces against it since ever the Lil- 
 eral Review was started/' 
 
 " And yet it seems to me the only opinion worth hav- 
 ing," Fitzgerald ventured to say, " if you can make sure 
 it is without bias. Who can decide anything about any- 
 art who has not shown that he has mastered its techni- 
 calities? Surely the valuable opinion is that of a man 
 who knows the art; who is himself a proficient; and who 
 is so far above everybody else that jealousy or envy is out 
 of the question — " 
 
 '* And do you expect the Libei'ol Review to pay men 
 like that?" 
 
 " Oh, I was not talking about writing at all," Fitzgerald 
 said, with a laugh. ** I was talking about these pictures. 
 Now I would take the opinion of Sydenham before any 
 other. He is far beyond rivalry; he can paint landscape 
 just as well as portraits, and nobody can come near him 
 in cither." 
 
 ^^Ile is too good-natured; he finds good in every- 
 thing," Mr. GiSord objected. **I have walked round 
 the Academy with Sydenham. Not a word of objection 
 anywhere; always the best points picked out; the diffi- 
 culties explained to you; always praise, especially if the 
 picture is by one of the younger men; always encourage- 
 ment — very good-natured, but not criticism. No; I 
 propose that if there is to be any appeal it will be to your 
 wife, for she knows the place. Mrs. Fitzgerald, we want 
 your opinion of Mr. Ross's landscapes." 
 
 '* Oh, don't ask me," said the tall young lady in the 
 wall-fiower and daifodil gown; ** I want to buy them, 
 and can't afford it." 
 
 "" Well, that is an honest criticism," Mr. Gifford said. 
 "I think, Fitzgerald, you may let the Liberal Review 
 speak well of the Boat of Garry studies. But where is 
 Ross himself?" 
 
 ^' He won't come into this room. He says it is like 
 having himself put into a frame, and people examining 
 him with a microscope." 
 
 But now they had to set to work to go through the gal- 
 leries systematically and seriously, though that was often 
 interrupted by the arrival of a fresh batch of friends who 
 were all of them anxious to see the portrait of Mary Ohet- 
 wynd (as some of them still called her) which had been 
 
354 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 painted by Mr. Sydenham, and which was supposed to be 
 the chief ornament of one of the rooms. They were 
 joined by Mr. Eoss, moreover, whose remarks, if some- 
 what disjointed and dogmatic, were generally to the 
 point. 
 
 "That fellow?" he said, regarding the work of an artist 
 who had obviously spent an enormous amount of care in 
 constructing an allegory (buc the conundrum was difficult 
 of solution until you turned to the title in the catalogue). 
 ** That fellow? Look at the thrawn necks; look at the 
 sham sentiment! That fellow? he would get painted tin 
 flowers to put on his mother's grave. There," said he, 
 turning to the full-length portrait of Fitzgerald's wife 
 that hung in the middle of the room; "look at that now. 
 That is painted by a man who knows that it is his busi- 
 ness to paint, and no to bother his head with the twelfth 
 century or the fifteenth century or any other. Long ago 
 he shook oif the corpse-cloths; you canna bind a giant in 
 spider-webs. There's just nothing that man cannot 
 paint: put it before him — a young lady's face, a bit of 
 moorland, a collie dog — no matter what it is — put it 
 before him, and then you find the master-hand getting it 
 on to the canvas with a power and a carelessness that has 
 grown out o' tlie anxiety and hard work of a lifetime — 
 the details that tell ^V^, the details tliat are of no use out. 
 Look at that fan for color, now — the sharp line in the 
 dusk of the dress. Look at the eyes: they're no saying 
 " What do ye think of me? Am 1 looking my best? J^ 
 I standing right?" They're saying " Heie I am. I Im 
 in the world as well as you. I could speak to you if I 
 liked." People think he is careless; I say that he is care- 
 less about what is non-essential; but many a hard strug- 
 gle it took him to find out tliat. Would they like him to 
 labor the thing, so they could count the pins in the pin- 
 cushion — " 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Fitzgerald," said a voice behind them, 
 '^ I must really beg and entreat of you to come away." 
 
 They turned and found before them Mr. Sydenham 
 himself, and also his pretty wife, whom Fitzgerald had in 
 bygone days endeavored to bribe with sandwiches. 
 
 "Is it fair?" said he. "Is it the act of a Christian 
 woman, to stand opposite my paint, and show people the 
 difference? And you just back from Italy, too, with the 
 Neapolitan sun on your cheeks I" 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 855 
 
 *'I was listening to a lecture, Mr. Sydenham/' said she. 
 *' Mr. Ross was delivering a lecture; and you would have 
 been pleased if you had heard." 
 
 "Is it to be 'claw me, and Fll claw thee,' then?" said 
 the famous Academician, with a good-natured smile. 
 *' There's nothing in these rooms to beat your fine Irish 
 sketches, Mr. Ross." 
 
 *' It's no a claw I want from ye, sir," said John Ross, 
 grimly. *' It's a * scratch,' when some decent fellow some 
 day puts me up for an Associate. It is what everybody 
 looks for, I suppose; though I jalouse there'll be more gray 
 nor red in my beard by that time." 
 
 *'You shall have my 'scratch' and welcome; and I 
 hope long before theu," said the Academician; and then 
 again he begged Mrs. Fitzgerald to come away from the 
 neighborhood of her portrait, which she was not loath to 
 do, for she was very hungry, she said, and one o'clock had 
 arrived. 
 
 Presently Sir Cyril Smith appeared and carried the 
 party off in a body, John Ross alone seeming shy or re- 
 luctant. But he was very soon put into a pleasant humor 
 by his neighbor at table, who happened to be Mrs. Syden- 
 ham, who said she imagined he must be the friend on 
 whose behalf Fitzgerald had endeavored to bribe her with 
 sandwiches. 
 
 ''That was no use," said he, bluntly. 
 
 " No, I should think not," said this pretty woman, 
 with a charming smile. "I should think not, indeed. 
 Not sandwiches. At my time of life one knows better 
 than to eat sandwiches — " 
 
 "I wasna thinking of that, mum," said Ross; "I was 
 thinking your husband ought not to be bothered with 
 any such things. A man that can paint as he can paint 
 should have nothing in the world to interfere with his 
 time or attention; if he wastes a day, the country loses 
 just so much — " 
 
 "Oh, but he takes great interest in the younger men. 
 And I am very glad he thinks so highly of your pictures 
 — it was not to you alone he said that; and — and, of 
 course, you must be proud of the place they have got — " 
 
 "Oh, ay," he said, "the tod will find a hole some- 
 where — " 
 
 " I beg your pardon!" 
 
 But as he did not answer — or did not hear — she went 
 
356 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 on to say that she understood he was again going to Ire- 
 land with the Fitzgeralds; and they were going early this 
 year, were they not? and had he been allowed to see any- 
 thing of the volume of poems — or poetical dramas — that 
 Mr. Fitzgerald was understood to have finished in Italy, 
 and that was now on the eve of publication? John Ross 
 answered as best he could; but he was getting rather dis- 
 contented, for there was nothing to drink at this needlessly 
 sumptuous repast but thin, cold wine. At last, however, 
 he said to the servant, who was in vain tempting him with 
 various decanters, 
 
 " I say, my man, could you get me a wee droppie o' 
 whiskey?" 
 
 **Yes, sir; certainly, sir." 
 
 And after that Mr. Ross proved a far more pleasant 
 companion; and gave Mrs. Sydenham such a picture of 
 the life at Boat of Garry, and such gi-aphic accounts of 
 the exploits of himself and his friends there, that she said 
 that nothing but his description of the demon steam- 
 yacht deterred her from begging for an invitation there 
 and then. 
 
 After luncheon there was a movement to return to the 
 pictures, and Fitzgerald seized the opportunity to bid 
 them good-day. 
 
 "Where are you off to now?" his wife asked. 
 
 "I want to overhaul one or two of the libraries, if 
 there's time before dinner." 
 
 " Let me go with you." 
 
 '^In that dress? You would be a pretty spectacle in 
 Shoreditch." 
 
 '^I could remain in the hansom." 
 
 '^Get away with you! You are off duty; you are a 
 helpless invalid, though you don't look it. Stay with 
 Mrs. Sydenham and see -your friends. My shooting-coat 
 isn't swell enough for that." 
 
 *' Very well," she said. " When shall you be home?" 
 
 " At a quarter to seven, whatever happens. I left word 
 there would be an enormous toMe d'hote; .^o you can seize 
 hold of all the nice people. Don't forget John Ross; 
 don't lose sight of him. We will make John Ross the 
 occasion; and we will get him to make a speech." 
 
 "You will do nothing of the kind; I won't have any- 
 body tortured. Shall I ask the Giffords?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 357 
 
 '•' And the Sydenhams?" 
 
 *' If they have not had enongh of us to-day alread3\ 
 Ask anybody you like who happens to be disengaged. It 
 is John Ross's day, let him have a triumph in the even- 
 ing." 
 
 And in a couple of minutes thereafter he was in a han- 
 som, making for Commercial Road East, and striving to 
 extract a few items of intelligence from that morning's 
 newspaper, whicli he had not before had time to glance 
 over. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 AT IJSTISHEEN^. 
 
 An"D again we will let a few m*ore years go by, bringing 
 us to quite the other day, in fact. At the window of a 
 room in the Imperial Hotel at Inisheen a small boy, ap- 
 parently about eight or nine, is standing, regarding the 
 carriage and pair below, which are being led olf to the 
 stable-yard. He is a good-looking little lad, with large, 
 soft, pensive eyes, a square forehead, and curly hair — u 
 healthy-looking little chap, too, though one foot is off the 
 ground, and he is supporting himself with a stick. To 
 him enters his father. 
 
 '* Well, Master Frank, shall you be able to amuse your- 
 self while I go out for a stroll? You see what comes of 
 climbing after wood-pigeons' nests." 
 
 " A good Job, too," remarked the small boy, with com- 
 placency. 
 
 *MVhat is? spraining your ankle?" 
 
 *^ Yes. You wouldn't have brought me with you if it 
 hadn't been for that, papa. Mamma said you were very 
 busy, and I wasn't to interfere with you. I was to take 
 great care not to be a trouble to you, she said, for you 
 liked to be alone when you were finishing a book, and I 
 wasn't to mind if you left me by myself. And I don't 
 mind a bit." 
 
 He glanced round the room. " And is this really the 
 inn that your papa kept?" 
 
 " Yes, it is; perhaps you don't think much of it?" 
 
858 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 *' Well," said the small boy, with delicacy, not wishing 
 to wound his father's feelings, *' ifc isn't very swell, is it?" 
 
 ^' When I was a boy, my lad, it was the only hotel in 
 Inisheen, and it was regarded as a place of imjDortance. 
 See, here are your books. You'd better sit down for a 
 while and give your foot a rest." 
 
 ** I like the stories you tell» better than those in the 
 books," remarked Master Frank, regarding the volumes 
 with anything but favor, " only mamma says I ought 
 never to believe them." 
 
 "Which, though?" 
 
 *^ The stories you tell. Mamma says you are alwa3^s 
 making a fool of people. Was it true, papa, about the 
 man who went to India?" 
 
 '^ Really there are so many people go to India that I 
 have forgotten." 
 
 " But the man who went out to India, and he pre- 
 tended to have a sunstroke; and then, when he came 
 back, he was allowed to do anything he liked, for his 
 friends were afraid of bringing it on again, and the police 
 always let him off because he had been mad; and he lived 
 such a merry life. Was that true, papa?" 
 
 ** Well, if it had not happened, how would people have 
 known anything about it?" was the evasive reply. 
 "Now take a book; and put your foot up on a chair, 
 while I go and see if there's anj'body in the place I know 
 now. I don't suppose there will be, since Andy the Hop- 
 per — do you remember the sketch of him that Mr. Ross 
 made for you one night?" 
 
 "Oh yes, papa." 
 
 '* Well, he is away at Tramore now, they say; and I 
 doubt whether there is a human being I know now in the 
 town." 
 
 And yet when he went out into the sunlight this older 
 part of Inisheen did not seem to have changed much dur- 
 ing the last seven years. If there was any difference, it 
 lay rather between the Inisheen that he was accustomed 
 to dream about and this present, every-day, rather com- 
 monplace Inisheen. This was the second time he had 
 visited the little town since finally he had left it for Lon- 
 don, and on each occasion the same rectification had to be 
 made. Yes, there were the quiet, respectable-looking 
 houses, and the shops, and the Town-hall; the wharves 
 and quays, with tar-barrels and coals; the barks and brig- 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 859 
 
 antines stranded on the mud; and the broad waters of the 
 bay; and the sunny green of the hills beyond. To get a 
 wider view he climbed up the face of the steep slope on 
 which the town is partly built; there were cottages here 
 and there apparently clinging hazardously to the ascent; 
 fragments of old ruins cropping up; cocks and hens flut- 
 tering among the dust or'hiding among the nettles; chil- 
 dren clambering over walls, topped Avith marjoram; and 
 an old gentleman, in a jacket without sleeves, fast asleep 
 in a damp and shady angle of a garden-wall which Avas 
 profuse with moss and hart's-tongue fern. Then he came 
 to the enclosures round the houses of the richer people on 
 the summit of the hill, amid gardens and lush meadows; 
 and from this height he could look down on the pictur- 
 esque little harbor, and the rippling green waters of the 
 bay, and the wide sand-banks left exposed by the tide, 
 and also on the far expanse of sea, pale and blue in the 
 hazy sunlight, with one or two dots of ships apparently 
 making slowly in for the tiny port before a gentle southerly 
 breeze. 
 
 He felt so much of a stranger here. No doubt, if he 
 were to go through the shops down there he might dis- 
 cover this one or that who would perhaps recognize Master 
 Willie; and no doubt if he were away up over the hills 
 there ("the mountains" they called them) he could find 
 a cabin or two where he would be welcomed by some 
 aguish old crone, with many a "^^ Glory be to God!" But 
 of his old intimates, as he had learned from time to time, 
 there was scarcely one left. His father had died many 
 years before. Why, even the Corlc Chronicle, which the 
 Inisheen people used to take in chiefly because Master 
 Willie put his poetry about Inisheen, and his songs and 
 palaverings about the Inisheen girls, into it, existed no 
 longer. When he drove up to the Im^^erial, the very 
 hostler who took the horses had never heard of the Fitz- 
 geralds who once had the place. And yet, as he looked 
 at the quays and the houses and the harbor, Inisheen did 
 not seem to have changed so much. It was he who was 
 changed; and something else — was it his youth, or a re- 
 membrance of his youth, that, whether he thought of it 
 or not, was always haunting him, and making Inisheen 
 look strange? — seemed now far away. 
 
 He wandered down from this height, thinking he would 
 go and have a look at the newer Inisheen that faced the 
 
860 SHANDON BELLS, 
 
 sea. As he was walking along the main thoroughfare of 
 the older town — perhaps not noticing much — and passing 
 one of the side streets leading to the quays, he heard an 
 exclamation behind him — 
 
 " The Lord be marcif ul to us!" 
 
 He turned instantly and recognized old Molly, who for 
 innumerable years had sold nuts and apples and oranges 
 to the boys of Inisheen. The old woman struggled up 
 from the barrel on which she was sitting. 
 
 "Och, God help us all, 'tis yourself, Masther Willie!" 
 she said, and she seized his hand with her long skinny 
 fingers. " Och, 'tis the great gintleman you are now, wid 
 your horses and your carriages riding through the town. 
 Shure I thought 'twas yoursilf, Masther Willie; and then I 
 thought 'twas nansinse: and shure you're come to take 
 the place your father had before ye — his sowl's in glory, 
 amin! Oh, wirasthrue, but me back is broke Avid the 
 could nights! And yer honor's coming back to the Im- 
 payrial now — and you'll have a good word for ould Molly 
 wid the sarvints?" 
 
 He had to explain to the ancient Molly — whose aspect, 
 by the way, would have been more venerable had her gray 
 hair been less dishevelled, and had she worn a dress more 
 appropriate to her age and sex than an old soldier's jacket, 
 the scarlet of which had got sadly faded through exposure 
 to wind and weather — that he had no intention of re-es- 
 tablishing the Fitzgeralds in the Imperial Hotel; and then 
 he presented her with all the silver he could find in his 
 pockets, and passed on. 
 
 How often he had walked along this very road, in the 
 far bygone days, with "the eager ambitions and wild de- 
 sires of youth busy with the future! And now that he 
 had attained to almost everything he had dreamed of — iu 
 certain directions to far more than ever he had dreamed 
 of — to what did it all amount? Well, he had made many 
 friends, known and unknown; and that was pleasant; and 
 he strove to remain on kindly terms with them; and to do 
 what little he could, in the way of writing, if that might 
 be of any service to them, in as thorough and honest a 
 fashion as was possible. But, so far as he could see, there 
 was not anything in life much better than showing a pic- 
 true-book to a sick child, or some such simple act of be- 
 nevolence or charity; and in this respect he had entirely 
 adopted the views of his wife. Neither he nor she was 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 3G1 
 
 concerned about the motives that might be imputed to 
 tliem. If it was a hixury, they could atford it. If it was 
 self-gratification, at least it did not harm others. If it 
 was outraging the principles of political economy, the 
 principles of political economy would have to look out for 
 themselves. In short, both he and she, as it turned out, 
 found themselves with so many things to do that they 
 really had no time to sit down and construct analyses of 
 the Moral Faculty. 
 
 This newer Inisheen out-fronting the sea was more 
 changed than the older part of the town, for a number of 
 new-looking villas had been added — most likely the sum- 
 mer residences of the Cork people. But it was pleasanter 
 for liim to turn his back on these, and find before him 
 the old familiar picture — the spacious view that he was in 
 the habit of conjuring up before his mental vision when- 
 ever he wanted to introduce a sense of light and width — ^ 
 perhaps a touch of solitariness — into his writing. Solitary 
 enough it was. Nothing but the level miles of pale-brown 
 sand; and the vast extent of glassy pale-blue sea; and be- 
 tween these the long thin lines of the ripples that came in 
 and in, darkening in shadow, until suddenly there was a 
 gleam of silver, thin as the ^^ga of a knife, and tben a 
 curling over of white foam sparkling in the sun, and the 
 protracted ^'hs-ss-ss'' as the wave broke along the shore. 
 A pale and placid picture; perhaps a trifle sad also; for 
 with such a faint and fair background the mind is apt to 
 set to work to put in figures — and these would be walking 
 along the sand, naturally; and they might be young; and 
 dreaming dreams. 
 
 Then he recollected the poor chap with the sprained 
 ankle; and so he turned and walked leisurely back to the 
 hotel; discovering, when he got there, that Master Frank 
 had been engaged the while in carving his name, in bold 
 letters, on one of the window-shutters. 
 ' ^* When I grow up, papa," said he, contemplating this 
 tentative effort at immortality, ** I hope I shall be famous 
 like you." 
 
 ^'' Who told you I was famous?" his father said, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 ** Mamma. I wish I could get such nice letters from 
 people you don't know; from America, and Canada, and 
 as far away as where Robinson Crusoe lived. Sometimes 
 
362 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 mamma reads them to me. What did yoa do to make the 
 Queen call you ^ well-beloved ' ?" 
 
 " What nonsense has got into your head now?" 
 
 ''No, it is not," said Master Frank, pertinaciously. 
 *' Mamma read it out of a big book. The Queen said you 
 were 'trusty and well-beloved.' " 
 
 " Oh, that is nothing. Don't you know, when the 
 Queen appoints you a Royal Commissioner to inquire into 
 anything, that is the phrase she uses. I suppose your 
 mamma had got hold of that Blue-book — " 
 
 '* But the Queen would not say so unless she meant it. 
 She doesn't tell lies, does she?" 
 
 " AVhy, of course not. Well, Master Frank, until you 
 arc older we Avill postpone the subject, and in the mean 
 time we will have some tea. I suppose you are aware that 
 you may have late dinner with me to-night?" 
 
 " Just as you please, papa. Mamma said I was not to 
 trouble you — " 
 
 " And you have remembered your lesson very well. In 
 consideration of which I will tell you a story — " 
 
 "Oh, will you?" and immediately the small lad hob- 
 bled across from the window to his father's knee, looking 
 up with his big girlish-looking eyes full of expectation; 
 for the stories his papa told were far more wonderful than 
 anything to be found in books. 
 
 " Not only that — but it is a story of a bull!" 
 
 "A very wild one?" 
 
 ^^ K fearfully wild one." 
 
 There was a sort of sigh of delight. 
 
 "Well, this bull used to roam about just behind this 
 very town of Inisheen; and it is very open there — plenty 
 of bog-land — and he could see you from a great distance; 
 and he'd come stalking along the road, right in the mid- 
 dle, and allow no one to pass. And he was especially sav- 
 age with boys; and you wouldn't believe the roundabout 
 ways we had to take — " 
 
 " Oh, Avere you one of them, papa?" 
 
 " I was alive then," the story-teller continued, evasive- 
 ly, "and I may have looked on and seen what the other 
 boys did. But the terrible business about this beast was 
 that he could hop over a wall with the greatest ease; and 
 it was no use shutting a gate on him, if he meant to be 
 after ^-ou. He was a terror to the whole district — espe- 
 cially to the boys; and we used to get angry — I mean they 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 363 
 
 used to get angry, and wonder wh^^ they wonld do to the 
 bull if only they could get the chaiiieo. Then at last one 
 of us — one of them hit on a plan. They went carefully 
 along the road and picked out a place where the bog came 
 close up, and where there were just two or three clumps 
 of moss, so that you could cross over if you went lightly 
 and watched your footing. Of course you remember what 
 Bruce did at Bannockburn?" 
 
 **He dug pits and covered them over — " 
 
 *' Precisely. Well, then, this was a sort of ambuscade 
 like that. I don't think ambuscade is the right word; 
 but it's good enough for a bull. Well, then, the next 
 thing the boys did — " 
 
 " But you were one of them, papa?" 
 
 "I might be looking on. I might have gone round by 
 the bog that day. At all events, they went to a person 
 called Andy the Hopper, that I've often told you about; 
 and Andy was a curious-minded creature, who always 
 liked to have red sleeves when he could afford it to his 
 jacket; and they got the loan of an old jacket with the 
 red sleeves; and they spread that out on two sticks; and 
 away they went along the road. And there, sure enough, 
 was the bull. He didn't say anything; he only looked. 
 Then they went on, cautiously, until they were within a 
 certain distance; and there they stopped. The bull didn'fc 
 move. Then they began to retreat a little — and you must 
 know. Master Frank, that a bull always understands that 
 as an invitation for him to come and chivy you. The 
 bull came on a bit; stoj^ped for a second; then gave a loud 
 bellow; and then came on faster. This was precisely what 
 those wicked boys wanted. For now they turned and took 
 to their heels; and the bull came careering after them, 
 and then at the spot they had marked they left the road, 
 and went hopping across the bog, that was very wet at 
 that time, for there had been much rain. Very well, 
 then, you see, when the bull came tearing along, he had 
 no notion of a strategy or an ambuscade or anything of 
 that kind; and he did not stop to consider that he was far 
 heavier than a boy, and that his sharp hard feet would 
 sink where theirs would just touch the little dry clumps; 
 and so in he went with a splash and a struggle — and an- 
 other splash and a struggle — and another splash and an- 
 other struggle — always getting deeper and deeper into the 
 thick black mud, and bellowing and roaring with rage. 
 
864 SHAN DON BELLS. 
 
 You iieTcr saw anything like it. Mind you, when wo 
 stopped and looked, I won't say we weren't a Jittle bit 
 frightened; for if one of his fore-legs had got hold of a 
 ]iiece of good solid ground, we might liave had another 
 I'un for it, and he'd have knocked the whole town to 
 smithereens before he'd have stopped. After a long time, 
 however, he gave it up. He found his struggles useless; 
 and when he bellowed, it wasn't * Wait till I catch you;' it 
 was, * Who's going to get me out?'" 
 
 ** Papa," said Master Frank, though tfull}', " could you 
 have got near him then?" 
 
 ** Oh yes, I dare sa}^ He was stuck fast." 
 
 '* You could have got near him in safety?" 
 
 ** Oh yes, I think so," answered the father, not doubt- 
 ing that the boy, who had been taught to be kind to all 
 animals, had imagined some way of getting the poor bull 
 out of his troubles. 
 
 '*Then didn't you get a big stick and beat him over 
 the head?" said Master Frank, eagerly. 
 
 ** Well, no," said the papa, a little disappointed. " But 
 I'll tell you what happened — it took nearly half the peo- 
 ple of Inisheen to get that bull out; for they were all 
 afraid to go and fasten the ropes; and when it did get on 
 to dry land again it seemed anxious to reduce the pojnila- 
 tion of the neighborhood. I don't think I saw that," the 
 narrator added, demurely. 
 
 "You didn't wait to see it hauled out?" said Master 
 Fj-ank, with staring eyes. 
 
 " No; you see, Frankie, there were a lot of wicked boys 
 about tiie place; and the people suspected they had in- 
 veigled the bull into the bog; and supj)osing I had been 
 about just at that time — looking on, you know — well, 
 they might have thought I had had a hand in it, and one 
 might have got into trouble. It's always the best plan to 
 keep away when you see a scrimmage going on. The 
 most innocent people are sometimes susjiccted. Never 
 you go near crowds." 
 
 Master Frank thought over this story for some time, 
 and then he said in an absent kind of way, 
 
 "' I believe it was you yourself, papa, that teased the 
 bull into the bog." 
 
 They had late dinner together in the evening, and no 
 doubt it was that circumstance that provoked Master 
 Frank into unusual animation and talkativeness, in the 
 
SHAN DON BELLS. S65 
 
 course of which he unlocked many a dark and secret cup- 
 board of his mind, where he had stored away subjects or 
 remarks for subsequent examination. He startled his 
 father, for example, by suddenly, and aproj)os of nothing, 
 asking him how it was possible for a man to have three 
 grandmothers. 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," his father said. 
 
 " Why, don't you remember, papa, the organ -gi'inder 
 coming to Hyde Park Gardens, and playing ^ The Last 
 Eose of Summer'?" 
 
 '^No, 1 don't recollect that remarkable circumstanee. 
 I suppose he -didn't remain very long," 
 
 *' But don't you remember you asked mamma what sort 
 of a man he could have been who first twisted the air 
 about with variations; and then you began and told me all 
 that you hoped liad happened to him when he wa-s alive?" 
 
 '^ Well, I don't remember that either." 
 
 '' And you said you hoped he had three grandmothers, 
 and never knew what his name was, because they kept 
 bothering him — " 
 
 ^* I am not quite sure; but I think we must have been 
 talking nonsense, Frankie." 
 
 *^And mamma said you had invented enough evil 
 things for him, and you might turn to the men who were 
 cutting the tails off cattle and. shooting at people here in 
 Ireland." 
 
 " The less you say about that the better. Master Frank, 
 for in this part of the country walls have ears." 
 
 "I know," said Master Frank, confidently, *Hhat mam- 
 ma will be very glad when you have done with the fishing 
 and we all go bfick to England again." 
 
 "Nonsense!" 
 
 "But I heard her say so, papa!" 
 
 " She was having a little joke with you. Master Frank. 
 You don't understand these deep questions yet, my lad. 
 Don't you know that I am not a landlord, nor an English- 
 man, nor one who pays rent? So you see I can't do any- 
 thing wrong; and we are as safe at Boat of Garry as in 
 Hyde Park." 
 
 "I know mamma does not like }^ou to go away fishing 
 by yourself," said Master Frank, doggedly. 
 
 "' But do I ever go away fishing by myself — or did I 
 ever go away fishing by myself until you must needs set 
 about spraining your ankle? And supposing there were 
 
866 SHAN DON BELLS. 
 
 any of these rascals about Boat of Garry, whicli tlierc are 
 not; and supposing they were coming stealing along on 
 tiptoe when I wasn't watching; and supposing you were 
 standing by, with a gaff in your hand, and a gaff with a 
 remarkably sharp steel point, what then? What would 
 you do? You can lay hold of a salmon or a sea-trout 
 smartly enough. Could you catch one of Captain Moon- 
 light's men by the ear?" 
 
 The boy did not answer that, for he was eyidently con- 
 sidering something with much care. At last he said, 
 meditatively, 
 
 "I wish you were the king, papa, and then you would 
 show the rascals something." 
 
 " But how? What should I do?" 
 
 *'Kill the whole lot!" was the prompt answer. 
 
 '*Well, that would teach them a lesson, wouldn't it?" 
 
 Dinner over, Fitzgerald drew in his chair to the lire — 
 more by custom than for warmth, for the night was mild 
 — and lit a cigar, and proceeded to look over a newspaper. 
 This last performance was a sore trial for the patience of 
 Master Frank, who doubtless considered that it would have 
 been much more sensible to devote the time to a discus- 
 sion of the affairs of the country between two congenial 
 minds. As for himself, he scorned to seek refuge in 
 books. Kot having two legs that he could twist about the 
 chairs in his usual fashion, he put the one at his disposal 
 into every conceivable attitude, until he nearly succeeded 
 in tilting the table over with his foot; then he tied a bit 
 of string to a teaspoon, and twitched, to see if it would 
 spin like a six)on-bait; then, he got out his pocket-knife 
 and slowly and carefully sharpened the edge on the boards 
 of a book, finishing up by carving his initials thereon, just 
 to try the point, as it were; and then, as time went on, 
 he grew suspicious. 
 
 " Papa," said he, **you are not going out, are you?" 
 For, indeed, Fitzgerald had once or twice gone to the 
 window and glanced outside. 
 
 "If I do," his father said, *'it won't make any differ- 
 ence. It will soon be time for you to be off to bed. I may 
 go out; but I shall not be long; and you will be sound 
 asleep." 
 
 [Nothing more was said for a while; Master Frank being 
 engaged in drawing a portrait of Balbus on the title-page 
 of his Latin Grammar. Then he said. 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 367 
 
 " Is it a beautiful night, papa?" 
 
 '^ Oh yes." 
 
 Then again — 
 
 " Is it a very beautiful night, papa?" 
 
 "The moon must be getting higher now," his father 
 said, going to the window, and pushing the blind aside. 
 ** Oh yes, it is a fine enough night." 
 
 The boy got hold of his stick and hobbled across the 
 room. 
 
 ** Let me look, papa. Oh, isn't it a beautiful night! 
 What a pity it is we can't see the sea." 
 
 "Frank," said his father, putting his hand on the boy's 
 head, " would you like to go with me?" 
 
 He looked up with a bright, eager look of assent and 
 gladness; but instantly, with a great deal of bravery, he 
 shook liis liead. 
 
 "I promised mamma not to bother you," he said, 
 slowly. "And — and besides, papa, I can't walk." 
 
 He hung down his head a little, to hide the tears of 
 disappointment that would rise to his eyes. His father 
 was looking out of the window, and did not notice. But 
 presently he said, 
 
 " Poor chap, you've had rather a dull afternoon! Look 
 here, Frankie, I'll tell you what we'll do — as sure as ever 
 was. The horses have' done almost nothing to-day; sup- 
 posing we were to get the carriage round? What do you 
 say to that? We'll go for a drive, my lad; and then you'll 
 not only see the sea in moonlight, but the bay also, and 
 a wooded glen I was going to. What do you say to 
 that?" 
 
 "Mamma won't be angry?" suggested Master Frank, 
 doubtfully — but it was clear from his face that he regarded 
 the proposal with immense delight. 
 
 " We will buy her something, Frankie, to pacify her, 
 when we get back to Ban try. Now you go and sit down, 
 and I will get hold of Muribough; and as soon as we can 
 we'll have the carriage ready for you. But I can tell you, 
 my lad, that wasn't how I was treated when I was a boy — 
 there were no late dinners for me, or a carriage to take me 
 out for a drive in the moonlight. I really don't know what 
 this generation is coming to." 
 
 " But, papa, if you could have got it you would have 
 taken it," said the boy, looking up. 
 
 " That's neither here nor there," his father said, as he 
 
368 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 put on liis hat and coat. " That's neither here nor there. 
 What I say is that boys nowadays are spoiled; and espe- 
 cially boys that are allowed to come to Boat of Garry when 
 they ought to be at their school at Campden Hill; and 
 still more especially boys whose mothers buy for them a 
 twelve-foot trout-rod before they've even got the length of 
 omnis Gallia. Now don't you attempt to go down those 
 stairs till I come and fetch you." 
 
 Fitzgerald seemed in the lightest and pleasantest of hu- 
 mors when finally he and his small boy had got themselves 
 ensconced in the open landau, with an abundance of rugs 
 over their knees. He had, indeed, been loath to leave the 
 little chap for a second time that day, even though it was 
 not very far from his bedtime; and he was glad to give him 
 this unexpected trip as some compensation for thedulness 
 of the afternoon. Moreover, the night was fine; the air 
 was mild; the skies clear; Inisheen and its wide, still 
 waters looked quite picturesque in the moonlight. 
 
 '*And what would you say now, Master Frank," his 
 papa asked, as they drove out from the town into the 
 silence of the country, **if I wei-e to tell you that I had 
 a tryst with the fairies in the wooded glen I told you 
 about?" 
 
 The boy looked up; he seldom knew whether his father 
 was joking or in earnest. 
 
 *' I did not think there were any fairies nowadays," 
 was the answer. 
 
 *' Well," his father continued, "if you ever make a 
 tryst with Don Fierna and his little people to come and 
 visit them once in every seven years, you will find it more 
 and more difficult, as you grow older and older, to listen 
 hard enough to hear them coming, and to look hard 
 enough to see the sides of the glen opening and the long 
 procession appearing. When you are young perhaps it is 
 a little easier. Do you remember how they stole away 
 Burd Helen into Elfin-land?" 
 
 **0h, yes. You told me about that." 
 
 *^Then you remember that Childe Rowland was the 
 youngest of all her brothers. Do you think any of the 
 older ones could ever have found o-ut the dark tower, no 
 matter how Merlin helped them? If Childe Rowland had 
 not had the eyes of youth he never would have found his 
 way, and I believe i3urd Helen would have been in the 
 dark tower still." 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 369 
 
 ** I have never seen any," was the small lad's practical 
 remark. 
 
 '^Well, that is strange. But in any case you won't 
 mind waiting a little while in the carriage, when we get 
 to the glen, and I will go down by myself, and if I hear 
 or see anything I will come back and tell you." 
 
 ''Ob, but I know better than that, papa," said the boy, 
 shrewdly. ''You are not going to look for any fairies. 
 When you go away by yourself, it is to Avatch rabbits and 
 other things, and write about them. I know very well. 
 Whenever mamma sees you go out alone, without your 
 fishing-rod, she always calls us back." 
 
 "Oh, indeed. But then, you see, Frankie, you were 
 never at Inisheen before; and strange things used to hap- 
 pen about here, many years ago, when I was young; and 
 I don't know what may not be seen in that glen. So you 
 will remain in the carriage for awhile, when we get there; 
 and if I spy out the fairies down in the hollow, with their 
 glowworm lamps, you know, I sha'n't say a single word to 
 Siem, but I'll come back to the road at once and whistle 
 for you. Do you understand?" 
 
 "That's all nonsense, papa. I don't believe there are 
 any." 
 
 "Wait and see." 
 
 At length they arrived at a portion of the road that 
 was shadowed over by a double row of elm-trees; and here 
 Fitzgerald called on Mur tough to stop, and got out, leav- 
 ing Master Frank in the carriage. 
 
 "Now, you listen, Frankie," said he, "and when I 
 whistle make ready." 
 
 '' I could not go down into that glen with my sprained 
 ankle, papa," the boy said. 
 
 " People never know," said he, as he went up and over 
 the little bank by the roadside, " what they can do when 
 they see fairies coming along. It is quite an event in 
 one's life." 
 
 Indeed, it was Avith no great heaviness of heart, no very 
 acute anguish of remembrance, that he now, for the second 
 time, and in middle-age — that is to say, at seven-and- 
 thirty — went to keep the tryst he had made at three-and- 
 twenty. It was with a brisk enough step that he crossed 
 the open glade, and then more cautiously made his way 
 down the steep bank, through the brushwood, until once 
 more he stood by the little scooped-out hollow in the rock, 
 
370 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 into which the water fell with a continuous murmur. 
 The place was quite unaltered. It might have been yes- 
 terday that he and Kitty had stood there, with their 
 hands clasped, before he roAved her away back to Inisheen. 
 It might have been yesterday that he had gone back to 
 the place only to find himself standing there alone, con- 
 juring up phantoms, and not then quite so reconciled to 
 the fate that had befallen him. 
 
 Yes; that former visit, seven years before, had been a 
 sharper tiling. It seemed to him that then, for the first 
 time, he had realized what this separation meant. Our 
 other griefs and miseries over the loss of our loved ones 
 who go away from us through the sad portal of death, 
 keen as they may be, are in time solaced by a wistful hope 
 of reunion. What is that but a temporary separation, if 
 they are awaiting us yonder, with light on their faces? 
 But this separation from one who, as we think, is to be 
 linked Avith us through this brief life, and in death, and 
 in the farther life beyond — that seemed to him the true 
 separation, and the breaking down of faith, and a hope- 
 lessness for ever and ever. Something of the old misery 
 had come back on him; the old pain had stirred again at 
 his heart; the quick, sudden agony of the discovery of her 
 falsehood had throbbed again, even after these years. It 
 was so strange — his standing here on one side; on the 
 other a vacant space, a voiceless air, a darkness where the 
 light of her eyes ought to have been. That night was one 
 not easily to be forgotten. 
 
 But now, seven years later, all that was over for the 
 most part; and he sought out a bit of rock which afforded 
 him a kind of seat, and sat down and listened to the mo- 
 notonous gurgling and rushing of the water. He was 
 scarcely sorry now that all that had happened in the olden 
 time. It was a kind of pretty picture, mostly. Or, rather, 
 it was a kind of well of romance and sentiment that he 
 could dip into Avhen he pleased for literary purposes. 
 Nay, to tell the truth, had not this very journey been 
 partly undertaken with some such purpose? It was like 
 renewing one's youth to get into this realm of imagination 
 again. That may have been the moral of his remarks to 
 Master Frank about the increasing difficulty of finding 
 out where the fairies were. 
 
 And yet, while he was thus convincing himself that he 
 was a highly matter-of-fact person, and striving to regard 
 
SHAN DON BELLS. 871 
 
 that episode in his youthful life as something apart from 
 him, and inclined to wonder what influence on his writing 
 these occurrences and despairs and all the rest of it may 
 have had, some foolish fondness for the bygone days stole 
 over him; and he would have been glad to know that 
 Kitty was well, and looking pretty, and enjoying content. 
 He had heard of her once or twice, but in the vaguest 
 way. He did not know where she was living now. And 
 indeed the only regret that possessed him at this moment 
 was about the final portion of that vow that he and she 
 had taken together. Why should there have been any 
 hatred or revenge in these promises made by two young 
 people who could know so little of what was before them?" 
 Kitty herself had begged of him to make it a love-night. 
 He remembered the imploring look of her eyes; the very 
 tone of her voice (and how sweet and soft and musical 
 that was!). ^^ Oh, Willie, not that,^^ she had said; '^ let 
 this he a love-night P' Did he wish ^' grief to he a guest 
 in her house, and sorrow to dwell in her house forevef'i 
 Surely not. 
 
 Kitty had made his life very beautiful for a time. 
 Supposing that lie had never met her at all — in these early 
 years? Could he ever have understood quite so well that 
 nameless witchery that makes so much of the wonder and 
 joy of human existence and is the cause of so much of its 
 misery? Could he have known quite so intimately what 
 all the poets have been talking about since ever Helen 
 came to Ilion's towers — with *^ her young eyes still wound- 
 ing where they looked"? He never would have known 
 how keen the blue of the speedwell was, had not she and 
 he together found it on those far uplands, that now seemed 
 to him as if they must have been very near the sky, so 
 clear and vivid was the light over them. Poor Kitty! 
 Did she ever sing now '' Then farewell, but whenever you 
 welcome the hour"? Had she ever come to Cork again, 
 and climbed up to Audley Place, and thought of the old 
 days? There was no reason why she should not have 
 made such a pilgrimage; her husband was well off; Kitty 
 would have a maid of her own now; and she used rather 
 to like travelling about. 
 
 The night was just as still as that on which he and 
 Kitty had come there; there was not a breath of wind 
 stirring the bushes overhead; the only sound was the prat- 
 tling of the streamlet in the silence. 
 
373 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 " It sounds like laughing," he was thinking. *' Per- 
 haps it has listened to all the nonsense that has been 
 talked by the different lovers who have come here; and it 
 may have understood all the time, and gone on chuckling. 
 It does sound as if it was laughing. To think of all the 
 secrets it has heard; and the vows; and never a word of 
 warning as to what it knew of the results. Is it malicious, 
 or only sardonic — that chuckling down there? But it is 
 better to make a joke of it. Everything gets laughed 
 away in time." 
 
 All that bygone period seemed far away — and beautiful 
 in a fashion, now that the pain of parting wiili it was 
 over. It had enriched his life; there were innumenible 
 pictures he could conjure up — always with Kitty smiling 
 and pleasant as the central figure; perhfips, too, it had 
 given him a key to unlock some of the scciots and mys- 
 teries of existence. Was there any need to think harshly 
 of poor Kitty, or to speak of betrayal or falsehood? We 
 do not quarrel with the dead. She was as one dead to 
 him; and the memory of her was not tragic, or even pa- 
 thetic, but rather pretty, with a vague and poetical charm 
 around it. It had been pathetic and tragic enough, and 
 darkened with terror and pain and the wrestlings of de- 
 spair; but now, when he thought of her, he saw a laugh- 
 ing and pleasant Kitty, rather inclined to be impertinent, 
 and wandering carelessly in sweet woodland ways. It was 
 never for Kitty to rise to the level of this other and beau- 
 tiful nature that he knew; that was linked with his; that 
 provoked his wonder and admiration the farther that he 
 saw of its nobleness and simplicity, No ; Kitty was a 
 charming little coquette; tender in a way; not without 
 her good points, and a very fitting heroine for love-verses 
 in the Corh Chronicle, 
 
 And yet — and yet — there was a kind of tremulousness 
 about those pictures that rose before him; he could not 
 quite coldly regard them, and ticket off their literary 
 value; sometimes a trace of the nameless fascination and 
 glamour of youth came wandering down through the years 
 — a memory of something that he had seen in Kitty's eyes. 
 Was it the night in the South Mall; the streets all swim- 
 ming with mud and rain; the gas-lamj^s shining golden 
 on the pavements; these two under one umbrella, and 
 Kitty suddenly turning her face to him? Or was it the 
 Sunday morning up by the barracks; a spring morning. 
 
SHAN DON BELLS. 373 
 
 with tlie rooks cawing, and the air sweet; and Kitty, not 
 knowing he was there, and going by him, and then raising 
 the tear- filled eyes with astonishment and a quick glad 
 light of love? Kitty had pretty eyes in that olden time; 
 and a pretty voice, too, whether she was laughing, or 
 singing about the Bells of Shandon, or only teasing poor 
 old Miss Patience. 
 
 He rose. To look over one's life in this way, however 
 satisfied one may be with the existing result, is a sad kind 
 of thing; and the stream down there in the semi-darkness 
 seemed no longer chuckling and laughing at the follies 
 and dreams of youth, but rather saying something of a 
 farewell as it hurried away to the sea. ^' Farewell— far e- 
 loelir So lives pass to the unknown and are forgotten. 
 
 He laid hold of one of the bushes, and clambered up 
 into the moonliglit again, and crossed the open space to 
 the wall; then for a second he turned and glanced up and 
 down the little valley, that lay there so white and still. 
 He was glad it had chanced to be so beautiful a night. 
 This was a peaceful picture that he would carry away in 
 his memory. In bygone years he had looked forward to 
 a solitary keeping of his tryst with a shuddering dread; 
 but what was there to dread about it? It was a pretty 
 place; and he had awakened some recollections that had a 
 sort of half-pathetic poetic fancy about them. That Avas 
 all. He wished he could paint the glen as it looked now; 
 but he thought it would be difficult to convey the sense 
 of solitude and remoteness that the perfect silence pro- 
 duced. 
 
 He mounted the wall and leaped down into the road. 
 
 '^Well, Master Frank," said he, lightly, *'I am sorry 
 to have kept you waiting so long; I almost think you'll 
 want some supper when you get back." 
 
 But he found the boy standing up in the carriage, and 
 looking wonderingly along the road behind them. 
 
 " Papa," said he, with an expression almost of alarm 
 on his face, *^ did you see her? Did you see the lady?" 
 
 Fitzgerald stopped for a moment: he was just about 
 entering the carriage. 
 
 •' What lady?" he said, in a perfectly calm voice. 
 
 ^•' Didn't you see her? A lady in mourning," the boy 
 said; and now he seemed to be more reassured. *'I 
 don't know who she is. I don't know her; but she came 
 up and spoke to me." 
 
874 SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 His father regarded him, apparently unable to say any- 
 thing; his hand still grasping the door of the carriage. 
 
 *^She said, *Is your name Willie?' I said *No; my 
 name is Frank.' Then she said, 'But it is Fr-ank Fitz- 
 gerald, is it not?' I said *Yes.' Then she said, * Will 
 you let me kiss you?' and she was crying when she lifted 
 her veil. And then she went away along the road back 
 there." 
 
 Fitzgerald glanced along the road; there was no one 
 visible. Then, with every appearance of composure, he 
 stepped into the carriage, shut the door, and said, briefly, 
 
 *'Home, Murtough." 
 
 "Papa," said the boy, presently, "who was she?" 
 
 "How can I tell? Don't bother me — not at present." 
 
 There was a strange look on his face as they drove on 
 in silence. Frank remembered his mother's injunctions; 
 when his father seemed disinclined for talking, he could 
 keep his mouth shut. And indeed they were near to Ini- 
 eheen before Fitzgerald again spoke. 
 
 "Don't you see, Frankie," he said, carelessly, "it is 
 the most natural thing in the world? Of course there are 
 plenty of visitors alwaj^s coming down from Cork to the 
 sea-side — to the villas I showed you; and on such a beau- 
 tiful night why should not any one go out for a walk? 
 Or the lady who spoke to you may belong to some house 
 in the neighborhood; there is a little village, Carrigha, 
 not more than a quarter of a mile farther on. Why, it's 
 the simplest thing in the world. It is just the night for 
 any one to come out for a stroll. But I am beginning to 
 doubt whether there was any such person. You were 
 thinking ofthe fairies, Frankie — wasn't that it?" 
 
 " Murtough saw her, papa." 
 
 " Oh well; a visitor in the neighborhood, no doubt," 
 he said, absently. 
 
 " But how did she know my name?" said the boy, still 
 wondering. 
 
 " That's what she didn't know," said his father — 
 though he seemed to be talking about one thing, and 
 thinking about another. " As for guessing at Fitzgerald 
 —that is nothing. It is simple to make a guess like that. 
 Every one about here is a Fitzgerald or a M'Carthy. 
 That is nothing. No doubt she belongs to Carrigha. 
 What was she like, did you notice?" 
 
 He spoke with indifference, but did not look at the boy. 
 
SHANDON BELLS, 375 
 
 "N — ^no/' tlie small lad said, doubtfully, ''for she was 
 crying — and — and I was frightened." 
 
 "But she kissed you?" 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 His father was silent for some time. 
 
 "Perhaps the lady has lost a little boy of about your 
 age," he said, by and by. 
 
 " Perhaps that is it," Master Frank said, thoughtfully, 
 "for she was dressed all in black." 
 
 Then they rattled through the streets of the little town, 
 and drew up at the door of the hotel. 
 
 "Now, Master Frank," said his father, when they were 
 both together in the sitting-room, "you must be up early 
 to-morrow, for we have to drive all the way to Cappoquin, 
 and we ought to be there as soon as Mr. Eoss." 
 
 "To-morrow? So soon as that? I would like to have 
 stayed some days at Inisheen, papa," said Master Frank, 
 wistfully. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " To see all the places you have told me about. I would 
 like to have seen the cabin where Jerry the tailor's hawks 
 are; and — and the place where the bull went into the bog; 
 and mamma said I was to be sure to cut her a piece off the 
 haw thorn- tree." 
 
 " What hawthorn-tree?" 
 
 "The one you used to climb up — and the branches 
 spread out at the top; and you used to have a seat there, 
 and a book, and no one could see you — " 
 
 " Do you know. Master Frank, that cutting memorial 
 bits off trees and carving your name on window-shuttei'S 
 are among the most heinous of crimes? And it would be 
 no use your remaining in Inisheen, and trying to see all 
 these places, for you can't get about easily at present, poor 
 chap! No; some other time we will have a longer stay 
 here; and perhaps we will come over in the winter; and 
 then you might go out with me for a night after the wild- 
 duck; wouldn't that be fine?" 
 
 "Oh yes, papa." 
 
 "And meanwhile we must get away at once from Ini-* 
 sheen, so as not to keep Mr. Ross waiting at Cappoquin or 
 Lismore. When I was at your age I could easily get read^ 
 to start by seven." 
 
 "Do you mean seven to-morrow morning, papa?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
STB SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 '* Very well. I will be ready by seven." 
 
 And still he lingered about the room, without saying 
 good-night. 
 
 '*Papa," said he at length, ^* when I told you about the 
 lady, why did your face turn so white?" 
 
 His father was sitting at the fire, staring into it, and 
 did not hear. 
 
 ** Come and say good-night, my lad," he said, presently, 
 " and I will call you at half-past six if you are not up. 
 You are sure you won't have any supper? Very well, 
 good-night." 
 
 " But I was asking you, papa — " 
 
 ** Asking me what?" 
 
 ** Why did your face turn so white when you were in 
 the road, and I told you I had seen the lady?" 
 
 "Nonsense — nonsense! Your head has got filled with 
 fancies to-night, my lad — you were too close to Elfin-land, 
 perhaps. Good-night; and don't dream of Don Fierna." 
 
 " Good-night, papa." 
 
 The next morning was again fine; and they had every 
 prospect of a'beautiful drive along the banks of the richly- 
 wooded river. And when Ma-ster Frank, seated in the 
 landau, and .having his sprained ankle carefully propped 
 and cushioned, understood that he was to see something 
 more of the Blackwater, he almost forgot his disappoint- 
 ment over missing the various places at Inisheen he had 
 expected to visit. 
 
 ** Of course, papa," said he, "you'll show me the very 
 spot where you fell in and lost the salmon?" 
 
 "We shall go near there, anyway," said his father, as 
 they started, and drove away through the town. 
 
 "And you'll show me the moor-hen's nest, won't you?" 
 
 "What moor-hen's nest?" for, indeed, this boy's mem- 
 ory was wonderful. 
 
 "Don't you remember, papa, you told me about a 
 moor-hen that had got a bit of wicker-work by chance and 
 had pieced it into her nest? I should like to see that." 
 
 " Bless the boy! do you imagine that the nest is in ex- 
 istence yet? All these things that I have told you about 
 happened years and years ago." 
 
 They were now away from the houses; and he rose in 
 the carriage, and turned to have a last look at the place 
 they were leaving. Inisheen looked fair enough in the 
 
SHANDON BELLS. 377 
 
 early liglifc. The shallow gi-een waters of the bay, the 
 boats by the quays, the Town-hall with Its golden cock, 
 and the terraced hill with its gardens were all shining in 
 the morning sun; and far beyond the harbor tlie pale-blue 
 sea was broken here and there with sharp glints of white, 
 for there was a fresh breeze blowing in from the south. 
 When he sat down again there was an absent look on his 
 face. 
 
 ''That moor-hen's nest, Master Frankie," said he, re- 
 garding the thoughtful eyes of the boy, '' belongs to a 
 time long gone by — and things change. Poor lad! that 
 is a lesson you will have to learn for yourself some day." 
 
 THE E]S"D. 
 
YOLANDE. 
 
 V^ILLIAM BLACK. 
 
 Author of "A Princess op Thule,*' " Strange Adventures of a Phaeton, 
 '•A Daughter of Heth," Etc. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 1883. 
 
YOL ANDE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EELEASED FROM CHATEAU COLD FLOORS. 
 
 Latb one evening in April, in the private sitting-room 
 on the first floor of a hotel in Albemarle Street, a member 
 of the British House of Commons wsls ^y^^S t>ack in an easy- 
 chair, having just begun to read, in an afternoon journal, 
 an article about himself. He was a man approaching fifty, 
 with what the Scotch call " a salt-water face " ; that is to say 
 a face tanned and reddened with wind and weather, sharp 
 of feature, and with hair become j^rematurely quite silver 
 white. At a first glance jie seemed to have the air of an 
 imperative, eager, aggressive person ; but that impression 
 was modified when by any accident you met his eyes, which 
 were nervous, shrinking, and uncertain. Walking in the 
 street, he rarely saw any one ; perhaps he was too pre- 
 occupied with public affairs ; perhaps he was sensitively 
 afraid of not being able to recognize half-remembered faces. 
 When sitting alone, slight noises made him start. 
 
 This was what the man wuth the thin red face and the 
 silver white hair was reading :— 
 
 " By his amendment of last night, which, as every one 
 anticipated, was defeated by an overwhelming majority, the 
 member for Slagpool has once more called attention to the 
 unique position which he occupies in contemporary politics. 
 Consistent only in his hopeless inconsistency, and only to be 
 reckoned on for the wholly unexpected, one wonders for 
 
3 YOLANDE. 
 
 what particular purpose the electors of Slagpool ever thought 
 of sending Mr. Winterbourne to Parliament, unless, Jndeed, 
 it were to make sure that their town should be sufficiently 
 often heard of in the councils of the nation. A politician 
 who is at once a furious Jingo in foreign affairs and an ultra- 
 revolutionary at home ; an upholder of the divine rights 
 and liberties of the multitude, who at the same time would, 
 if he could, force them to close every public-house in the 
 country, alike on Sunday and Saturday ; a virulent oppo- 
 nent of Vivisection, who nevertheless champions the Game 
 Laws, and who is doubtful about the Abolition of Capital 
 Punishment, probably because he would like to reserve to 
 himself the right of hanging poachers : it may be conceded 
 that such a member of Parliament if he is not to be counted 
 on by any party, or by any section or sub-section of any party 
 — if, indeed, he is ordinarily a good deal more dangerous to 
 his allies than to his enemies — may at least do some service 
 to his constituents by continually reminding the country of 
 their existence, while ministering on the same occasions to 
 his own inordinate vanity. For it is to this — it is to an in- 
 ordinate vanity, spurred on by an irritable and capri- 
 cious temper — that we must look for the cause of those 
 spasmodic championships and petulant antagonisms, those 
 erratic appearances and disappearances, those sudden al- 
 liances, and incomprehensible desertions, which have made 
 of the member for Slagpool the very whirligig and teetotum 
 of modern English politics." 
 
 When he had got thus far he stopped. 
 
 " It sounds like the writing %i a young man," he was 
 thinking. '* But perhaps it is true. Perhaps that is what 
 I am like. The public press is a mirror. I wonder if that 
 is how I appear to Yolande ? " 
 
 He heard a footstep outside, and immediately thrust 
 away the newspaper from him, face downward. The next 
 moment the door of the room was opened, and the frame- 
 work of the door became the framework of a living picture. 
 Mr. Winterbourne's face lightened up with pleasure. 
 
 The picture framed by the doorway was that of a young 
 girl of eighteen, singularly tall and strikingly fair, who stood 
 there hesitating, timid, half laughing. 
 
 " Look," she said. " Is it your idea ? " 
 
 *' Is it your idea I " he repeated, peevishly. " Yolande, 
 you are getting worse and worse instead of better. Why 
 don't you say, 'Is this what you meant?' " 
 
YOLANDE. 3 
 
 "Is this what you meant?" she said, promptly, and 
 with a slight foreign accent. 
 
 His eyes could not dwell on her for two seconds together 
 and be vexed. 
 
 "Come to the mirror, child, and put on your hat, and 
 let me see the whole thing properly." 
 
 She did as she was bid, stepping over to the fireplace, 
 and Rtanding before the old-fashioned mirror as she adjus- 
 ted the wide-brimmed Rubens hat over the ruddy gold of 
 her hair. For this was an experiment in costume, and it 
 had some suggestion of novelty. The plain gown was of a 
 uniform cream white, of some rough towel-like substance 
 that seemed to cling naturally to the tall and graceful 
 figure ; and it was touched here and there with black velvet, 
 and the tight sleeves had black velvet cuffs : while the 
 white Rubens hat had also a band of black velvet round 
 the bold sweep of the brim. For the rest, she wore no 
 ornaments but a thick silver necklace round her throat, and 
 a plain silver belt round her waist, the belt being a broad 
 zone of solid metal, untouched by any graver. 
 
 But any one who had seen this young English girl 
 standing there, her arms uplifted, her hands busy with her 
 hat, would not have wasted much attention on the details 
 of her costume. Her face was interesting, even at an age 
 when gentleness and sweetness are about the only charac- 
 teristics that one expects to meet with. And although no 
 mere catalogue of her features — the calm clear brow ; the 
 wide-apart gray-blue eyes ; the aquiline nose ; the unusu- 
 ally short upper lip and beautiful rounded chin ; her soft 
 and wavy hair glistening in its ruddy gold ; and her com- 
 plexion, that was in reality excessively fair, only that an 
 abundance of freckles, as well as the natural rose-color 
 of youth in her cheeks, spoke of her not being much 
 afraid of the sun and of the country air — although no mere 
 enumeration of these things is at all likely to explain the 
 unnamable grace that attracted people to her, yet there was 
 at least one expression of her face that cpuld be accounted 
 for. That unusually short up})er lip, that has been noted 
 above, gave aslight pensive droop to the moutii whenever her 
 features were in repose; so "that when she suddenly looked 
 up with her wide wondering, timid, and yet trustful 
 eyes, there was something pathetic and wistful there. 
 It was an expression absolutely without intention ; it was 
 inexplicable, and also winning ; it seemed to convey a sort 
 
4 YOLANDE. 
 
 of involuntary unconscious appeal for gentleness and friend- 
 ship, but beyond that it had no significance whatsoever. It 
 had notliing to do witli any sorrow, suffered or foreshadowed. 
 So far the girls existence had been passed among the rosea 
 and lilies of life ; the only serious grievance she had ever 
 known was the winter coldness of the floors in the so-called 
 chateau in Brittany where she had been educated. And 
 now she was emancipated from the discipline of the Chateau 
 Cold Floors, as she had named the place ; and the world 
 was fair around her ; and every day was a day of gladness 
 to her from the first " Good-morning *' over the breakfast 
 table to the very last of all the last and lingering " Good- 
 nights " that had to be said before she would let her father 
 go down to put in an appearance at the House. 
 
 This must be admitted about Yolande Winterbourne, 
 however, that she had two very distinct manners. With 
 her friends and intimates she was playful, careless, and not 
 without a touch of humorous wilfulness ; but with stran- 
 gers, and especially with strangers abroad, she could assume 
 in the most astonishing fashion the extreme coldness and 
 courtesy of an English miss. Remember, she was tall, fair, 
 and English-looking; that, when all the pretty, timid trust- 
 fulness and merriment were out of them, her eyes were wide 
 apart and clear and contemplative ; and further, that the 
 good dames of the Chateau Cold Floui's had instructed her 
 as to how she should behave when she went travelling with 
 her father, which happened pretty often. At tlie table 
 d'hote^ with her father present, she was as light-hearted, as 
 talkative, as pleasant as any one could wish. In the music- 
 room after dinner, or on the deck of a steamer, or anywhere, 
 with her father by accident absent, she was the English 
 miss out and out, and no aside conversations were possible. 
 " So proud, so reserved, so English," thought many an 
 impressionable young foreigner who had been charmed with 
 the bright, variable, vivacious face as it had regarded him 
 across the white table cover and the flowers. Yolande'a 
 face could become very calm, even austere on occasion. 
 
 " Is it what you meant ? '*' she repeated, turning to him 
 from the mirror. Her face was bright enough now. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said he, rather'reluctantly. " I — I thought 
 it would suit you. But jou see, Yolande, — you see — it is 
 very pretty — but for London — to drive in the Park — in 
 London — wouldn't it be a little conspicuous ? " 
 
YOLANDE. 5 
 
 Her eyes were filled with astonisliment ; his rather wan- 
 dered away nervously to the table. 
 
 " But, papa, I don't understand you ! Everywhere else 
 you are always wishing me to wear the brightest and 
 lightest of colors. I may wear what I please — and that is 
 only to please you, that is what I care about only — any- 
 where else : if we are going for a walk along the Lung' 
 Arno, or if we go for a drive in the Prater, yes, and at Oat- 
 land Park, too, I can not please you w^ith enough bright 
 colors ; but here in London the once or twice of my 
 visits — " 
 
 "Do speak English, Yolande," said he, sharlply 
 **Don t hurry so." 
 
 "The once or twice I am in London, oh, no ! Every- 
 thing is too conspicuous ! Is it the smoke, papa. And this 
 time I was so anxious to please you ! — all your own ideas ; 
 not mine at all. But what do I care ? " She tossed the 
 Rubens hat on to the couch that was near, " Come ! What 
 is there about a dress ? It will do for some other place, 
 not so dark and smoky as London. Come — sit down papa 
 — you do not wish to go away to the House yet ! You have 
 not finished about Godfrey of Bouillon." 
 
 •' I am not going to read any more Gibbon to you to- 
 night, Yolande," said he ; but he sat down, all the same in 
 the easy-chair, and she placed herself on the hearthrug be- 
 fore him, so that the soft ruddy gold of her hair touched his 
 knees. It was a pretty head to stroke. 
 
 " Oh, do you think I am so anxious about Gibbon, then ? " 
 she said, lightly, as she settled herself into a comfortable 
 position. " No. ISTot at all. I do not want any more Gib- 
 bon, I want you. And you said this morning there would 
 be nothing but stupidity in the House to-night." 
 
 " Well, now. Miss Inveigler, just listen to this," said he, 
 laying hold of her by both her small ears. " Don't you think 
 it prudent of me to show up as often as I can m the House — 
 especially when there is a chance for a division — so tliat my 
 good friends in Slagpool mayn't begin to grumble about my 
 being away so frequently ? And why am I away ? Why do 
 I neglect my duties Why do I let the British Empire glide 
 on to its doom? Why, but that I may take a wretched, 
 schoolgirl — a wretched, small-brained impertinent, prattling 
 schoolgirl — for her holidays, and show her things she can't 
 understand and plough through museums and picture- 
 jj^aileries to filla mind that is no better than a sieve? Just 
 
6 YOLANDE. 
 
 think of it. The British Empire going headlong to the mis- 
 chief all for the sake of an empty-headed schoolgirl ! " 
 
 " Do you know, \ apa, I am very glad to hear that," she 
 said, quietly. 
 
 " Glad are you ? " 
 
 " Yes," said she, nestling closer to him ; " for now I 
 think my dream will soon be coming true." 
 
 "Your dream?" 
 
 ** My dream — the ambition of my life," said she, serious- 
 ly. " It is all I wish for and hope for. Nothing else — noth- 
 ing else in the world." 
 
 " Bless us all ! " said he, with a touch of irony. " What 
 wonderful ambition is this? " 
 
 *' It is to make myself indispensable to you," she said, 
 simply. 
 
 He took his hand from her ears and put them on her hair, 
 for there were some bits of curls and semi-ringlets about her 
 neck that wanted smoothing. 
 
 " You are not indispensable, then ? " said he. 
 
 " Listen now, papa ; it is your turn," she said. " Surely 
 it is a shame that you have wasted so much time on me, 
 through so many years, always coming to sec me and take 
 me away, perhaps not a week between, and I am glad enough, 
 for it was always expectation and expectation, and my things 
 always ready, and you, poor papa, wasting all your time, 
 and always on the route ; and that such a long way to 
 Rennes. Even at Oatlands Park the same — up and down, 
 up and down, by rail, and then long beautiful days that were 
 very good to me, but were stupid to you when you were 
 thinking of the House all the time. Very well, now, papa; 
 I have more sense now; I have been thinking: I want 
 to be indispensable to you ; I want to be in London with 
 you always ; and you shall never have to run away idling, 
 either to the Continent or to Oatlands Park ; and you shall 
 never have to think that I am wearying for you, when I am 
 always with you in London. That is it now ; that I wish 
 to be your private secretary." 
 
 Iler demand once made, she turned up her face to him ; 
 he averted his eyes. 
 
 " No, no, Yolande," he said, hastily, and even nervously. 
 " London won't do for you ; it — it wouldn't do at all. Don't 
 think of it even." 
 
 "Papa,"sriid she, "what other member of Parliament, 
 with so much business as you have, is without a private 
 
YOLANDE, 1 
 
 secretary? Why should you answer all those letters your 
 self ? For me, I will learn politics very quickly ; 1 am 
 studying hard ; at the chateau I translated all your speeches 
 into Italian for exercises. And just to think that you hav«3 
 never allowed me to hear you speak in the House! When 
 I come to London — yes, for five minutes or half an hour at 
 a time — the ladies whom I see will not believe that 1 have 
 never once been in the — the what is it called ? — for the 
 ladies to listen in the House ? No, they cannot believe it. 
 Thoy know all the speakers ; they have heard all the great 
 men ; they spend the whole of the evening there, and have 
 many come to see them — all in politics. Well, you see, 
 papa, what a burden it would be taking off your hands. 
 You would not always have to come home and dine with 
 me, and waste so much of the evening in reading to me — no, 
 I should be at the House, listening to you, and understand- 
 ing everything. Then all the day here, busy with your 
 letters. Oh, I assure you I would make prettier compli- 
 ments to your constituents than you could think of; I 
 would make all the people of Slagpool who write to you 
 think you were the very best member they could choose. 
 And then — <>hen I should be indispensable to you." 
 
 "You are indispensable to me, Yokinde. You are my 
 life. What else do I care for? " he said, hurriedly. 
 
 " You will pardon me, papa, if I say it is foolish. Oh, to 
 think now ! One's life is more important than that, when 
 you have the country to guard." 
 
 " They seem to think there," said he, with a sardonic 
 smile, and he glanced at the newspaper, " that the country 
 would be better off without me." 
 
 It was too late to recall this unfortunate speech. He 
 had thrust aside the newspaper as she entered, dreading 
 that by accident she might see the article, and be wounded 
 by it; but now there was no help for it; the moment he 
 had spoken she reached over and took up the journal, and 
 tound her father's name staring her in the face. 
 
 " Is it true, Yolande ? " said he, with a laugh. " Is that 
 what I am like ? " 
 
 . As she read, Yolande tried to be grandly indifferent — 
 even contemptuous. Was it for her, who wished to be of 
 assistance to her father in public affairs, to mind what was 
 said about him in a leading article ? And then, in spite of 
 her^el^ tears slowly ros»3 ni)d filled the soft gray-blue eyes, 
 ihouL'h she kept her he/id dour), vainly trying to hide them 
 
S YOLANDS, 
 
 And then mortification at her weakness made her angry, 
 and she crushed up the paper twice and thrice, and hurled 
 it into the fire ; nay, she seized hold of the poker and thrust 
 and drove the offending journal into the very heart of the 
 coals. And then she rose, proud and indignant, but with 
 her eyes a little wet, and with a toss of her pretty 'lead, she 
 said : — 
 
 " It is enough time to waste over such folly. Perhaps 
 the poor man has to support a family ; but he need not 
 write such stupidity as that. Now, papa, what shall I play 
 for you ? " 
 
 She was going to the piano. But he had risen also. 
 
 "No, no, Yolande. I must be off to the House. There 
 is just a chance of a division ; and perhaps I may be able to 
 get in a few words somewhere, just to show the Slagpool 
 people that I am not careering about the Continent witli my 
 schoolgirl. No, no ; I will see you safe in your room, 
 Yolande ; and your lamp lit, and everything snug ; then — 
 good-night." 
 
 " Already ? " she said, with a great disappointment in 
 her face. " Already ? " 
 
 " Child, child, the affairs of this mighty empire — " 
 
 " What do I care about the empire ! " she said. 
 
 He stood and regarded her calmly. 
 
 " You are a nice sort of a person to wish to be private 
 secretary to a member of Parliament ! " 
 
 " Oh, but if you will only sit down for five minutes, 
 papa," she said, piteously, " I could explain such a lot to 
 you — " 
 
 " Oh yes, I know. I know very well. About the tem- 
 per madame was in when the curls fell out of her box.*' 
 
 "Papa, it is you who make me frivolous. I wish to be 
 serious — " 
 
 " I am going, Yolande." 
 
 She interposed : 
 
 " No. Not until you say, ' I love you.' '* 
 
 " I love you." 
 
 " ' And I forgive you.'" 
 
 *' And I forgive you." 
 
 " Everything ? " 
 
 '' Everything." 
 
 "And I may go out to-morrow morning, as early as ever 
 I like, to buy some flowers for the breakfast table? " 
 
 But this was hard to grant. 
 
YOLAN^DE. 9 
 
 "I don't like your goincf out by yourself, Yolande," said 
 he, rather hesitatingly. "You can order tiowera. You 
 can ring and tell the waiter — " 
 
 " The waiter ! " she exclaimed. " What am I of use for 
 then, if it is a waiter who will choose flowers for your break- 
 fast table, papa ? It is not far to Convent Garden.'* 
 
 " Take Jane with you, then." 
 
 «0h yes." 
 
 So that was settled ; and he went upstairs with her to 
 see that her little silver reading-lamp was properly lit ; and 
 then he bade her the last real good-night. When he returned 
 to the sitting-room for his hat and coat there was a pleased 
 and contented look on his face. 
 
 "Poor Yolande ! " he was thinking ; " she is more shut 
 up here than in the country ; but she will soon have the 
 liberty of Oatlands Park again." 
 
 He had just put on his coat and hat, and was giving a 
 last look round the room to see if there was anything he 
 ought to take with him, when there was a loud, sharp crash 
 at the window. A hundred splinters of glass fell on to the 
 floor ; a stone rolled over and over to the fireplace. J fe 
 seemed bewildered only for a second ; and perhaps it was 
 the startling sound that had made his face grow suddenly 
 of a deadly pallor; the next second — noiselessly and quickly 
 — he had stolen from the room, and was hurriedly descend- 
 ing the stair to the hall of the hotel. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SHADOW BEHIND. 
 
 The head waiter was in the hall, alone, and staring out 
 through the glass door. When he heard some one behind 
 him he turned quickly, and there was a vague alarm in his 
 fee 
 
 " The — the lady, sir, has been here again." 
 Mr. Winterbourne paid no heed to him, passed him 
 hastily, and went out. The lamplight showed a figure 
 standing there on the pavement — the figure of a tall woman, 
 dark and pnlc, who bad astranore, dazetl look in her eyes. 
 
10 YOLANDE. 
 
 " I thought Fd bring you out ! " she said tauntingly, and 
 with a slight laugh. 
 
 " What do you want? " he said, quickly, and under iiis 
 breatli. " Have you no shame, woman ? Come away. 
 Tell me what you want." 
 
 " You know what I want," she said sullenly. " I want 
 no more lies." .Then an angrier light blazed up in the im- 
 passive, emaciated face. " Who has driven me to it, if I 
 have to break a window ? I want no more lies and hidings. 
 I want you to keep your promise ; and if I hare to break 
 every window in the House of Commons, I will let every- 
 body know. Whose fault is it ? " 
 
 But her anger seemed to die away as rapidly as it had 
 arisen. A dull, vague, absent look returned to her face. 
 
 *' It is not my fault." 
 
 " What madness hare you got hold of now ? " he said, 
 in the same low and nervous voice ; and all his anxiety 
 seemed to be to get her away from the hotel. " Come 
 along and tell me what you want. You want me to keep 
 my promise — to you, in this condition?" 
 
 " It is not my fault," she repeated, in a listless kind of 
 way ; and now she was quite obediently and peaceably 
 following him, and he was walking toward Piccadilly, his 
 head bent down. 
 
 " I suppose I can guess who sent you," he said, watch- 
 ing her narrowly. " I suppose it was not for nothing you 
 came to make an exhibition of yourself in the public streets. 
 They asked you to go and get some money? " 
 
 This seemed to put a new idea into her head ; perhaps 
 that had been his intent. 
 
 " Yes. 1 will take some money if you like," she said, 
 absently. *' They are my only friends now — my only 
 friends. They have been kind to me : they don't cheat me 
 with lies and promises ; they don't put me oft* and turn me 
 away when I ask for them. Yes, I will take them some 
 money." 
 
 And then she laughed — a short, triumphant laugh. 
 
 " I discovered the way to bring some one out," she 
 said, apparently to herself. 
 
 By this time they had reached the corner of Piccadilly, 
 and as a four-wheeled cab happened to be passing, he 
 stopped it, and himself opened the door. She made no re- 
 monstrance ; she seemed ready to do anything he wished. 
 
 " Here is some money. I will pay the driver." 
 
rOLANDE. 11 
 
 She got into the cab quite submissively and the man was 
 given the address, and paid. Then the vehicle was drive¥ 
 off, and he was left standing on the pavement, still some- 
 what bewildered, and not conscious how his hands were 
 trembling. 
 
 He stood uncertain only for a second or so ; then he 
 walked rapidly back to the hotel. 
 
 ** Has Miss Winterbourne's maid gone to bed yet ? " he 
 asked of the landlady. 
 
 " Oh no, sir ; I should think not sir," the buxom person 
 answered : she did not observe that his face was pale and 
 his eyes nervous. 
 
 " Will you please tell her, then, that we shall be going 
 down to Oatlands Park again to-morrow morning? She 
 must have everything ready, but she is not to disturb Miss 
 Winterbourne to-night." 
 
 " Very well, sir." 
 
 Then he went into the coffee-room, and found the head 
 waiter. 
 
 ** Look here," said he (with his eyes averted) ; " I sup- 
 pose you can get a man to put a pane of glass in the window 
 of our sitting-room — the first thing in the morning ? There 
 has been some accident, I suppose. You can have it done 
 before Miss Winterbourne comes down, I mean ? " 
 
 He slipped a sovereign into the waiter's hand. 
 
 " I think so, sir. Oh yes, sir." 
 
 " You must try to have it done before Miss Winter- 
 bourne comes down." 
 
 He stood for a moment, apparently listening if there was 
 any sound upstairs ; and then he opened the door again 
 and went out. Very slowly he walked away through the 
 lamp-Ht streets, seeing absolutely nothing of the passers-by, 
 or of the rattling cabs and carriages : and although he bent 
 his steps Westminister-ward, it was certainly not the affairs 
 of the nation that had hold of his mind. Rather he was 
 thinking of that beautiful fair young life — that young life 
 go carefully and tenderly cherished and guarded, and all 
 unconscious of this terrible black shadow behind it. The 
 irony of it ! It was this very night that Yolande had 
 chosen to reveal to him her secret hopes and ambition : she 
 was to be always with him : she was to be " indispensable " ; 
 the days of her banishment were to be now left behind ; and 
 these two, father and daughter, were to be inseparable com- 
 panions henceforth and forever. And his reply ? As he 
 
12 YOLANDE, 
 
 walked along the ha^f-deserted pavements, anxiously revolv* 
 mg many things, and dreaming many dreams about what the 
 future might have in store for lier, and regarding the trouble 
 and terrible care that haunted his own life, the final sum- 
 ming up of all his doubts and fears resolved itself into this : 
 If only Yolande were married ! The irony of it ! She had 
 besought him, out of her love for him, and out of her grati- 
 tude for his watchful and unceasing care of her, that she 
 should be admitted into a closer companionship ; that she 
 should become his constant attendant, and associate, and 
 friend ; and his answer was to propose to hand her over to 
 another guardianship altogether — the guardianship of a 
 stranger. If only Yolande were married ! 
 
 The light was burning on the clock tower, and so he 
 knew the House was still sitting ; but he had no longer any 
 intention of joining in any debate that might be going for- 
 ward. When he passed into the House (and more than 
 ever he seemed to wish to avoid the eyes of strangers) it 
 was to seek out his friend John Shorthands, whose rough 
 common-sense and blunt counsel had before now stood him 
 in good stead and served to brace up his unstrung nerves. 
 The tall, corpulent, big-headed iron-master — who also rep- 
 resented a northern constituency — he at length found in the 
 smoking-room, with two or three companions, who were 
 seated round a small table, and busy with cigars and brandy 
 and soda. Winterbourne touched his friend lightly on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 '' Can you come outside for a minute? " 
 *' All right." 
 
 It was a beautiful, clear, mild night, and seated on the 
 benches on the Terrace there were several groups of people 
 — among them two or three ladies, who had no doubt been 
 glad to leave the stuffy Chamber to have tea or lemonade 
 brought them in the open, the while they chatted with their 
 friends, and regarded the silent, dark river and the lights of 
 the Embankment and Westminster Bridge. As Winter- 
 bourne passed them, he could not but think of Yolande'a 
 complaint that she had never even once been in the House 
 of Commons. These were, no doubt, the daughters of wives 
 or sisters of members : why should not Yolande also b« 
 sitting there ? It would have been pleasant for him to come 
 out and talk to her — pleasanter than listening to a dull de- 
 bate. Would Yolande have wondered at the strange night 
 picture — the broad black river, ail quiveriuG: with ijoldeij 
 
YOLANDE. 18 
 
 reflections ; the lights on the bridge ; the shadowy grandeur 
 of tliis great building reaching far overhead into the starlit 
 skies ? Others were there ; why not she? 
 
 The Terrace of the House of Commons is at night a 
 somewhat dusky promenade, when there does not happen 
 to be moonlight ; but John Shortlands had sharp eyes ; and 
 lie instantly guessed from his friend's manner, that something 
 had happened. 
 
 " More trouble ? " said he, regarding him. 
 
 " Yes," said the other. " Well, I don't mind— I don't 
 mind, as far as I am concerned. It is no new thing." 
 
 But he sighed, in spite of his resigned way of speech. 
 
 " I have told you all along, Winterbourne, that you 
 brought it on yourself. You should ha' taken the bull by 
 the horns." 
 
 " It is too late to talk of it — never mind that now," he 
 said, impatiently. " It is about Yolande I want to speak 
 to you." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 Then he hesitated. In fact, his lips trembled for the 
 briefest part of a second. 
 
 " You won't guess what I am anxious for now," he said, 
 with a sort of uncertain laugh. *' You wouldn't guess it in 
 a month, Shortlands. lam anxious to see Yolande married." 
 
 " Faith, that needn't trouble you," said the big iron- 
 master, bluntly. " There'll be no difficulty about that. 
 Yolande has grown into a thundering handsome girl. And 
 they sav," he added, jocosely, " that her father is pretty 
 well off." 
 
 Tliey were walking up and down slowly; Mr. Winter 
 bourne's face absent and hopeless at times, at times almost 
 piteous, and again lightening up as he thought of some 
 brighter future for his daughter. 
 
 " She can not remain any longer at school," he said at 
 length, " and I don't like leaving her by herself at Oatlaiids 
 Park or any similar place. Poor child ! Do you know 
 what her own plans are ? She wants to be my private 
 secretary. She wants to share the life that I have been lead, 
 ing all these years." 
 
 " And so she might have done, my good fellow, if there 
 had been any common-sense among the lot o'ye." 
 
 " It is too late to speak of that now," the other repeated, 
 with a sort of nervous fretfulness. " But indeed it is hard 
 on the poor girl. She seems to have been thinking" seri- 
 
14 YOLANDE. 
 
 ously about it. And she and I have been pretty close com- 
 panions, one way or another, of late years. Well, if I 
 could only see her safely married and settled — perhaps 
 living in the country, where I could run down for a day or 
 so — her name not mine — perhaps with a young family 
 Iv) occupy her and make her happy — well, then, I think 
 T should be able to put up wilh the loss of my pri- 
 vate secretary. I wonder what she will say when I 
 ])ro])ose it. She will be disappointed. Perhaps she will 
 tiiink I don't care for her — when there is just not another 
 creature in the world I do care for ; she may think it cruel 
 and unnatural." 
 
 "Nonsense, nonsense, man. Of course a girl like 
 Yolande will get married. Your private secretary ! How 
 long would it last ? Does she look like the sort of girl who 
 ought to be smothered up in correspondence or listening to 
 debates? And if you're in such a mighty hurry to get rid 
 of her — if you want to get her married at once — I'll tell you 
 a safe and sure way — send her for a voyage on board a P. 
 and O. steamer." 
 
 But this was just somewhat too blunt ; and Yolande's 
 father said, angrily, — 
 
 "I don't want to get rid of her. And I am not likely 
 to send her anywhere. Hitherto we have travelled together, 
 and we have found it answer well enough, I can tell you. 
 Yolande isn't a bale of goods, to be disposed of to the first 
 bidder. If it comes to that, perhaps she will not marry any 
 one." 
 
 " Perhaps," said the other, calmly. 
 
 '* I don't know that I may not throw Slagpool over 
 and quit the country altogether," he exclaimed, with a 
 momentary recklessness, "Why shouldn't I? Yolande 
 is fond of travelling. She has been fonr times across the 
 Atlantic now. She is the best companion I know ; I tell 
 you I don't know a better companion. And I am sick of 
 the way they're going on here." (He nodded in the direc- 
 tion of the House.) " Government ? They don't govern ; 
 they talk. A Parliamentary victory is all they think about, 
 and the country going to the mischief all the time. No 
 matter, if they get their majority, and if they can pose before 
 the world as vhe most moral and exemplary government 
 that ever existed. I wonder they don't give up Gibraltar 
 to Spain, and hand over Malta to Italy ; and then they 
 ought to let Ireland go because she wants to go ; and cer- 
 
YOLANDE. 15 
 
 tainly they ought to yield up India, for India was stolen ; 
 and then they might reduce the army and the navy, to set 
 an example of disarmament, so that at last the world might 
 see a spectacle — a nation permitted to exist by other na- 
 tions because of its uprightness and its noble sentiments. 
 Well, that has nothing to do with Yolande, except that I 
 think she and I could get on very well even if we left Eng- 
 land to pursue its course of high morality. We could look 
 on — and laugh, as the rest of the world are doing." 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Shortlands, who had listened 
 to all this high treason with calmness, " you could no more 
 get on without the excitement of worrying the Govern- 
 ment than without meat and drink. What would it 
 come to ? You would be in Colorado, let us say, and 
 some young fellow in Denver, come in from the plains, 
 would suddenly discover that Yolande would be an adorn- 
 ing feature for his ranch, and she would discover that he 
 was the handsomest young gentleman she ever saw, and 
 then where would you be ? You wouldn't be much good 
 at a ranch. The morning papers would look tremendously 
 empty without the usual protest against the honorable 
 member for Slagpool so grossly misrepresenting the ac- 
 tion of the Government. My good fellow, we can't do 
 without you in the House ; we might as well try to do with- 
 out the Speaker." 
 
 For a few seconds they walked up and down in silence; 
 at last Winterbourne said, with a sigh, — 
 
 " Well, I don't know what may happen ; but in the 
 meantime I think I shall take Yolande away for another 
 long trip somewhere — " 
 
 "Again? Already?" 
 
 "I don't care where ; but the moment I find myself on 
 the deck of a ship, and Yolande beside me, then I feel as if 
 all care had dropped away from me. I feel safe ; I can 
 breathe freely. Oh, by the way, I meant to ask if you 
 knew anything of a Colonel Graham ? You have been so 
 often to Scotland shooting. I thought you might know." 
 
 *• But there are so many Grahams." 
 
 " Inverstroy, I think, is the name of his place." 
 
 " Oh, thai Graham. Yes, I should think so — a lucky 
 beggar. Inverstroy fell plump into his hands some three 
 or four years ago, quite unexpectedly — one of the finest 
 estates in Inverness-shire. I don't think India will see him 
 again." 
 
16 YOLANDE. 
 
 " His wife seems a nice Sort of woman," said Mr. Win- 
 terbourne, with the slightest touch of interrogation. 
 
 " I don't know her. She is his second wife. She is a 
 daughter of Lord Lynn." 
 
 '* They are down at Oatlands just now. Yolande has 
 made their acquaintance, and they have been very kind to 
 her. Well, this Colonel Graham was saying the"' other 
 evening that he felt as though he had been long enough in 
 the old country, and would like to take a P. and O. trip 
 as far as Malta, or Suez, or Aden, just to renew his ac- 
 quaintance with the old route. In fact, they proposed that 
 Yolande and I should join them." 
 
 "The very thing! " said John Shortlands, facetiously. 
 " What did I say ? A P. and O. voyage will marry off 
 anybody who is willing to marry." 
 
 *' I meant nothing of the kind," said the other, some- 
 what out of temper ; " Yolande may not many at all. If I 
 went with these friends, of hers, it would not be * to get 
 rid of her,' as you say " 
 
 "My dear fellow, don't quarrel with me," said his 
 friend, with more consideration than was habitual with 
 him. " I really understand your position very well. You 
 wish to see Yolande married and settled in life and re- 
 moved from — from certain possibilities. But you don't 
 like the sacrifice, and I don't wonder at that ; I admit it 
 will be rather rough on you. But it is the way of- the 
 world : other people's daughters get married. Indeed, 
 Winterbourne, I think it would be better for both of you. 
 You would have less anxiety. And I hope she'll find a 
 young fellow who is worthy of her ; for she is a thunder- 
 ing good girl: that's what I think : and whoever he is, 
 he'll get a prize, though I don't imagine you will be over 
 well disposed toward him, old chap." 
 
 " If Yolande is happy, that will be enough for me," said 
 the other, absently, as Big Ben overhead began to toll the 
 hour of twelve. 
 
 By this time the Terrace was quite deserted : and after 
 some little further chat ( Mr. Winterbourn© had lost much 
 of his nervousness now and of course all his talking was 
 about Yolande, and her ways, and her liking for travel, and 
 her anxiety to get rid of her half-French accent, and so 
 forth ) they turned into the House, where they separated, 
 Winterbourne taking his seat below the gangway on the 
 Government side, John Shortlands depositing his magnifi- 
 cent bulk on one of tlie Opposition benches. 
 
yOLAiVDK. 17 
 
 There was a general hum of conversation. Tliere was 
 also, as presently appeared, some laborious discourse going 
 forward on the part of a handsome-looking elderly gentle- 
 man — a gentleman who, down in the country, was known 
 to be everything that an Englishman could wish to be : an 
 efficient magistrate, a plucky rider to hounds, an admirable 
 husband and father, and a firm believer in the Articles of the 
 Church of England. Unhappily, alas ! he had acquired some 
 other beliefs. He had got it into his head that he was an ora- 
 tor ;and as he honestly did believe that talking was of value 
 to the state, that it was a builder up and raaintainer of empire, 
 he was now most seriously engaged in clotliing some rather 
 familiar ideas in long and Latinized phrases, the while the 
 House murmured to itself about its own affairs, and the 
 Speaker gazed blankly into space, and the reporters in the 
 gallery thought of their courting days, or of their wives and 
 children, or of their supper, and wondered when tliey were 
 to get home to bed. The speech had a lialf-somnolent effect ; 
 and those who were so inclined had an excellent opportunity 
 for the dreaming of dreams. 
 
 What dreams, then, were likely to visit tlie brain of the 
 member for Slagpool, as he sat there with his eyes distraught ? 
 His getting up some fateful evening to move a vote of want 
 of confidence in the Government? His appearance on the 
 platform of the Slagpool Mechanics' Institute, with the great 
 mass of people rising and cheering and waving their hand- 
 kerchiefs ? Or perhaps some day — for who could tell what 
 changes the years might bring — his taking his place on the 
 Treasury Bench there ? 
 
 He had got hold of a blue-book. It was the Report of 
 a Royal Commission ; but of course all tlie cover of tiie folio 
 volume was not printed over — there were blank spaces. 
 And so, while those laborious and ponderous sentences were 
 being poured out to inattentive ears, the member for Slag- 
 pool began idly and yet thoughtfully to pencil certain letters 
 up at one corner of the blue cover. He was a long time 
 about it ; perhaps he saw pictures as he slowly and contem- 
 platively formed each letter ; perhaps no one but himself 
 could have made out what the uncertain j)encilling meant. 
 But it was not of politics he was thinking. The letters that 
 he had faintly pencilled there — that he w«s still wistfully 
 regarding as though they could show him things far away 
 —-formed the word YOLAKDE. It waF like a lover. 
 
18 YOLANDE, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 PBBPARATIONS FOB FLIGHT. 
 
 Kext morning his nervous anxiety to get Tolands 
 away at once out of London was almost pitiful to witness, 
 though ho strove as well as he could to conceal it from her. 
 He had a hundred excuses. Oatlands was becoming very 
 pretty at that time of the year. There was httle of impor- 
 tance going on in the House. London was not good for 
 the roses in her cheeks. He himself would be glad of a 
 breather up St. George's Hill, or a quiet stroll along to 
 Chertsey. And so forth, and so forth. 
 
 Yolande was greatly disappointed. She had been secretly 
 nursing the hope that at last she might be allowed to remain 
 in London, in some capacity or another, as the constant 
 companion of her father. She had enough sense to see that 
 the time consumed in his continually coming to stay with 
 her in the country must be a serious thing for a man in 
 public life. She was in a dim sort of way afraid that these 
 visits might become irksome to him, even although he him- 
 self should not be aware of it. Then she had her ambitions 
 too. She had a vague impression that the country at large 
 did not quite understand and appreciate her father ; that 
 the people did not know him as she knew him. How could 
 they, if he v/ere to be forever forsaking his public duties in 
 order to gad about with a girl just left school ? >I'ever 
 before, Yolande was convinced, had the nation such urgent 
 need of his services. There were a great many things 
 wrong which he could put right; of that she had no man- 
 ner of doubt. The Government was making a tyrannical 
 use of a big majority to go their own way, not heeding the 
 warnings and protests of independent members ; this 
 amongst many other things ought to be attended to. And 
 it was at such a time, and just when she had revealed to 
 him her secret aspiration that she might perhaps become 
 his private secretary, that he must needs tell her to pack 
 up, and insist on quitting London with her. Yolande could 
 not understand it: but she was a biddable and obedient kind 
 
YOLANDE. 19 
 
 of creature ; and bo she took her place in the four-wheeled 
 cab without any word of complaint. 
 
 And yet, when once they were really on their way 
 from London — when the railway-carriage was fairly out of 
 the station — her father's manner seemed to gain so much 
 in cheerfulness that she could hardly be sorry they had left. 
 She had not noticed that he had been more anxious and 
 nervous that morning than usual ; but she could not fail to 
 remark how much brighter his look was now they were out 
 in the clearer air. And when Yolande saw her father's 
 eyes light up like this — as they did occasionally — she was 
 apt to forget about the injury that was being done to the 
 affairs of the empire. They had been much together, these 
 two; and anything appertaining to him was of keen 
 interest to her ; whereas the country at large was some- 
 thing of an abstraction ; and the mechanical majority of 
 the Government — for which she had a certain measure of 
 contempt — little more than a name. 
 
 " Yolande," said he (they had the compartment to 
 themselves), " I had a talk with John Shortlands last 
 night." 
 
 "Yes, papa?" 
 
 " And it' England slept well from that time until this 
 morning it was because she little knew the fate in store for 
 her. Think of this, child : 1 have threatened to throw up 
 my place in Parliament altogether, letting the country go 
 to the mischief if it liked ; and then the arrangement would 
 be that you and I, Yolande — now just consider this — that 
 you and I should start away together and roam all over 
 the world, looking at everything, and amusing ourselves, 
 going just where we liked, no one to interfere with us — you 
 and I all by ourselves — now, Yolande ! " 
 
 She had clasped her hands with a quick delight. 
 
 *' Oh, papa, that would indeed — " 
 
 But she stopped ; and instantly her face grew grave 
 again. 
 
 " Oh no," she said, '' no ; it would not do. Last night, 
 papa, you were reproachful of me — " 
 
 " ' Reproachful of me ! ' " he repeated, mockingly. 
 
 " Reproachful to me ? " she said, with inquiring eyes. 
 But he himself was not ready with the correct phrase ; and 
 80 she went on : " Last night you were reproachful that 1 
 had taken up so much of your time ; and though it was all 
 in fun, still it was true ; and now I am no longer a school 
 
20 YOLANDE. 
 
 girl; and I wish to help you if I can, and not be merely 
 tiresome and an incumbrance — " 
 
 " You are so much of an incumbrance, Yolande ! " he 
 said, with a laugh. 
 
 " Yes," she said, gravely, " you would tire of me if we 
 went away like that. In time you would tire. One would 
 tire of always being amused. All the people that we see 
 have work to do ; and some day — it might be a long time 
 — but some day you would think of Parliament, and you 
 would think you had given it up for me — " 
 
 " Don't make such a mistake ! *"' said he. " Do not 
 consider yourself of such importance, miss. If I threw 
 over Slagpool, and started as a Wandering Jew — I mean 
 we should be two Wandering Jews, you know, Yolande — 
 it would be quite as much on my own account as yours — '* 
 
 " You would become tired of being amused. You 
 could not always travel," she said. She put her hand on 
 his hand. " Ah, I see what it is," she said, with a little 
 laugh. '* You are concealing. That is your kindness, papa. 
 You think I am too much alone ; it is not enough that you 
 sacrifice to-day, to-morrow, next day, to me; you wish to 
 make a sacrifice altogether ; and you pretend you are tired 
 of politics. But you can not make me blind to it. I see— 
 oh, quite clearly I can see through your pretence ! " 
 
 Pie was scarcely listening to her now. 
 
 *' I suppose," he said, absently, *' it is one of those fine 
 things that are too fine ever to become true. Fancy now, 
 the two of us just wandering away wherever we pleased, 
 resting a day, a week, a month, when we came to some 
 beautiful place — all by ourselves in the wide world! " 
 
 " I have often noticed that, papa," she said — *' that you 
 like to talk about being away, about being remote — " 
 
 " But we should not be like the Wandering Jew in one 
 respect," he said, almost to himself. " The years would 
 tell. There would be a difference. Something might 
 happen to one of us." 
 
 And then, apparently, a new suggestion entered hih 
 mnid. lie glanced at the girl opposite him, timidly and 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Yolande," said he, "I — I wonder now — I suppose at 
 your age — well, have you ever thought of getting married ?" 
 
 She looked up at him with her clear, frank eyes, and 
 when she was startled like that her mouth had the slight 
 
YOLANDE. 21 
 
 pathetic droop, already noticed, that made her face so sen- 
 sitive and charming. 
 
 " Why, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of times ! " , 
 she exclaimed, still with the soft clear eyes wondering. 
 
 His eyes were turned away. He appeared to attach no 
 importance to this confession. 
 
 " Of course," she said, " when 1 say I have thought 
 hundreds of times of getting married, it is about not get- 
 ting married that I mean. No. That is my resolution. 
 Oil, many a time I have said that to myself. I shall not 
 marry — never — no one." 
 
 In spite of himself his face suddenly brightened up, and 
 it was quite cheerfully that he went on to say : — 
 
 " Oh, but, Yolande, that is absurd. Of course you will 
 marry. Of course you must marry. 
 
 " When you put me away, papa." 
 
 " When I put you away," he repeated, with a laugh. 
 
 " Yes," she continued, quite simply. " That was what 
 Madame used to say. She used to say, * If your papa mar- 
 ries again, that is what you must expect. It will be better 
 for you to leave the house. But your papa is rich ; you 
 will have a good portion ; then you will find some one to 
 marry you, and give you also an establishment.' 'Very 
 well,' I said ; * but that is going too far, Madame, and until 
 my papa tells me to go away from him I shall not go away, 
 and there is not any necessity that I shall marry any one.' " 
 
 "I wish Madame had minded her own affairs," Mr. 
 Winterbourne said, angrily. *' I am not likely to marry 
 as:ain. I shall not marry again. Put that out of your head, 
 Yolande, at once and for always. But as for you — well, 
 don't you see, child, I — I can't live forever, and you have 
 got no very near relatives, and, besides, living with rela- 
 tives isn't always the pleasan'test of things, and I should like 
 to see your future quite settled, I should like to know that — 
 that — " 
 
 " My future ! " Yolande said, with a light laugh. " No, 
 I will have nothing to do with a future : is not the present 
 very good? Look : here I am, I have you; we are going 
 out together to have walks, rides, boating — is it not enough ? 
 Do I want any stranger to come in to interfere ? No ; 
 some day you will say, 'Yolande, you worry me. You 
 stop my work. Now I am going to attend to Parliament, 
 and you have got to marry, and go off, and not worry me.* 
 Very well. It is enough. What I shall say is this : Papa, 
 
22 YOLA.VDE. 
 
 choose for me. What do I know? I do not know, and 1 
 do not care. Only a few things are necessary — are quite 
 entirely necessary. He must not talk all day long about 
 horses. And he must be in Parliament. And he must be 
 on your side in Parliament. How much is that — tliree ? — 
 three qualifications. That is all." 
 
 Indeed, he found it was no use trying to talk to her 
 Keriously about this matter. She laughed it aside. She 
 did not believe there was any fear about her future. She 
 uas well content with the world as it existed : was not the 
 «i:iy fine enough, and Weybridge, and Chertsey, and Eslier 
 and Moulsey all awaiting them ? If her father would leave 
 liis Parliamentary duties to look after themselves, she was 
 resolved to make the most of the holiday. 
 
 " Oh, but you don't know," said he, quite falling in with 
 her mood — " you don't know, Yolande, one fifteenth part 
 of what is in store for you. I don't believe you have the 
 faintest idea why I am going down to Oatlands at this 
 minute." 
 
 " Well, I don't, papa," she said, " except through a mad- 
 ness of kindness." 
 
 " Would it surprise you if I asked Mrs. Graham to take 
 you with them for that sail to Suez or Aden ? " 
 
 She threw up her hands in affright. 
 
 " Alone ? " she exclaimed. ** To go away alone with 
 strangers ? " 
 
 " Oh no ; I sliould be going also — of course." 
 
 " But the time—" 
 
 " I should be back for the Budget. Yolande," said he, 
 gravely, "I am convinced — I am seriously convinced — ^that 
 no one should be allowed to sit in Parliament who has not 
 visited Gibraltar, and the island of Malta, and such places, 
 and seen how the empire is held together, and what our 
 foreign possessions are — " 
 
 " It is only an excuse, papa — it is only an ejccuse to give 
 me another holiday." 
 
 " Be quiet. I tell you the country ought to compel its 
 legislators to go out in batches — paying the expenses of the 
 poorer ones, of course — and see for themselves what our 
 soldiers and sailors are doing for us. I am certain that I 
 have no right to sit in Parliament until I have visited the 
 fortifications of Malta, and inspected the Suez Canal." 
 
 " Oh, if it is absolutely necessary," Yolande said, with 
 a similar gravity. 
 
YOLANDE. 23 
 
 " It is absolutely uecessary. I have long felt it to be so. 
 I feel it is a duty to my country that we should personally 
 examine Malta." 
 
 " Very well, papa," said Yolande, who was so pleased to 
 find her father in such good-humor that she forbore to pro- 
 test, even though she was vaguely aware that the confidence 
 of the electorate of Slagpool was again being abused in 
 order that she should enjoy another long and idling voyage 
 with the only companion whom she cared to have witli her. 
 
 The Grahams were the very first people they saw when 
 they reached Oatlands. Colonel Graham — a tall, stout, 
 grizzled, good-natured looking man — was lying back in a 
 garden seat, smoking a gigar and reading a newspaper, 
 wdiile his wife was standing close by, calling to her baby, 
 which plump small person was vainly trying to walk to 
 her, under the guidance of an ayah, whose dusky skin and 
 silver ornaments and flowing garments of Indian red looked 
 picturesque enough on an English lawn. Mrs. Graham was 
 a pretty woman, of middle height, with a pale face, a square 
 forehead, short hair inclined to curl, and dark gray eyes 
 with black eyelashes and black eyebrows. But along with 
 her prettiness, which was only moderate, she had an ex- 
 ceedingly fascinating manner, and a style that was at least 
 attractive to men. Women, especially when they found 
 themselves deserted, did not like her style ; they said there 
 was rather too much of it ; they said it savored of the 
 garrison flirt, and was obviously an importation from In- 
 dia ; and they thought she talked too much, and laughed 
 too much, and altogether had too little of the dignity of a 
 matron. No doubt they would have hinted something 
 about the obscurity of her birth and parentage had that 
 been possible. But it was not possible, for everybody 
 knew that when Colonel Graham married her, as his second 
 wife, she was the only daughter of Lord Lynn, who was the 
 thirteenth baron of that name in the peerage of Scotland. 
 
 Now this pretty, pale-faced, gray-eyed woman professed 
 herself overjoyed when Mr. Winterbourne said there v^as a 
 c]\ance of his daughter and himself joining her and her hus- 
 band on their suggested P. and O. trip; but the lazy, 
 good-humored looking soldier glanced up from his ])aper and 
 said, — 
 
 " Look here, Polly, it's too absurd. What would people 
 says ? It's all very well for you and me : we are old Indians, 
 and don't mind ; but if Mr. Winterbourne is coming with lis 
 
04 YOI.AXDE. 
 
 —and yo i, Miss Winterbourne — we must do something 
 more reasonable and Christian-like than sail out to Suez or 
 Aden and back, all for nothing." 
 
 *' But nothing could suit us better," Yolande's father 
 said. Indeed, he did not mind where or why he went, so 
 long as he got away from England, and Yolande with liim. 
 
 '* Oh, but we must do something," Colonel Graham said. 
 '* Look here. When we were at Peshawur a young fellow 
 came up there — you remember young Ismat, r*olly? — well, 
 1 was of some little assistance to him ; and he said any time 
 we wanted to see something of the Nile I could have his 
 father's dahabeeyah — or rather one of them, for his father 
 is Governor of Merhadj, and a bit of a swell, I fancy. There 
 you are now. That would be something to do. People 
 wouldn't think we were idiots. We could have our sail all 
 the same to Suez, and see the old faces at Gib, and Malta ; 
 then we could have a skim up the Nile a bit, and, by the 
 way, we shall have it all to ourselves just now — " 
 
 "The very thing! " exclaimed Mr. Winterbourne, 
 eagerly, for his imagination seemed easily captured by the 
 suggestion of anything remote. " Nothing could be more 
 admirable ! Yolande, what do you say ? " 
 
 Yolande's face was sufficient answer. 
 
 " My dear child," said Mrs. Graham, in an awful whisper, 
 *' have you got a Levinge? " 
 
 " A what ? " said Yolande. 
 
 " You have not? And you might have gone to Egypt, 
 at this time of the year, without a Levinge?" 
 
 " What are you talking about the time of the year, Polly !' 
 her husband cried, peevishly. '* It is the only time of the 
 year that the Nile is tolerable. It is no longer a cockney 
 route. You have the whole place to yourself — at least, so 
 Ismat Effendi assured me ; and if he has given me a wrong 
 tip, wait till I get hold of him by the nape of his Egyptian 
 neck ! And you needn't frighten Miss Yolande about 
 mosquitoes or any of the other creatures of darkness ; for 
 you've only to get her one of those shroud things — " 
 
 ** Just what I was saying," his wife protested. 
 
 Indeed, she seemed greatly pleased about this project ; 
 and when they went in to lunch they had a table to them- 
 selves, so as to secure a full and free discussion of plans. 
 Mrs. Graham talked in the most motherly way to Yolande ; 
 and petted her. She declared that those voyajsjes to 
 
YOLANDE, 25 
 
 America, of which Yolande had told her, had notliuigof the 
 charm and variety and picturesqiieness of the sail along 
 the African shores. Yolande would he delighted with it ; 
 with the people on board ; with the ports they would call 
 at ; with the blue of the Mediterranean Sea. It was all a 
 wonder, as she described it. 
 
 But she was a shrewd-headed little woman. Very soon 
 after lunch she found an opportunity of talking with her 
 husband alone. 
 
 " I think Yolande Winterbourne prettier anci prettier 
 the longer I see her," she said, carelessly. 
 
 " She's a good-looking girl. You'll have to look out, 
 Polly. You won't have the whole ship waiting on you this 
 time." 
 
 '*And very rich — quite an heiress, they say." 
 
 " I suppose Winterbourne is pretty well off." 
 
 ** He liiiuself has nothing to do with the firm now, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 "1 think not." 
 
 ** Besides, making engines is quite respectable. Nobody 
 could complain of that." 
 
 " I shouldn't, if it bvought me in £15,000 or £20,000 a 
 year," her husband said, gi-imly. " I'd precious soon have 
 Inverstronan added on to Inverstroy." 
 
 " Oh," she said, blithely, " talking about the North, I 
 haven't heard from Archie for a long time. I wonder what 
 he is about — watching the nesting of the grouse, I sup- 
 pose. I say, Jim I wish you'd let me ask him to go with 
 us. It's rather dull for him up there ; my father isn't easy 
 to live with. May I ask him ? " 
 
 She spoke very prettily and pleadingly. 
 
 " He'll have to pay liis own fare to Suez and back, then,'* 
 her husband answered, rather roughly. 
 
 " Oh yes ; why not ? " she said, with great innocence. 
 " I am sure poor Archie is always willing to pay when he 
 can, and I do wish my father would be a little more liberal. 
 I am sure he might. Every inch of shooting and fishing 
 was let last year! even the couple of hundred yards along 
 the river that Archie always has had for himself. I don't 
 believe he threw a fly last year — " 
 
 " He did on the Stroy," her husband said, gloomily. 
 
 " That was because }'ou were'so awfully good to him," 
 said his wife, in her sweetest manner. " And you can be 
 
26 YOLANDE. 
 
 awfully good to people, Jim, when you don't let the blaok 
 bear ride on your shoulders." 
 
 Then Mrs. Graham, smoothing her pretty short curls, 
 and with much pleasure visible in the pretty dark gray 
 eyes, went to her own room, and sat down and wrote as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Dear Aechie, — Jim's good-nature is beyond anything. 
 We are going to have a look at Gib, again, and at Malta, 
 just for auld lang syne ; and tlien Jim talks of taking us up 
 the Nile a bit; and he says you ought to go with us, and 
 you will only have to pay your passage to Suez and back — 
 which you could easily save out of your hats and boots, if 
 you would only be a little less extravagant, and get them 
 in Inverness instead of in London. Mr. Winterbourne, the 
 member for Slagpool, is going with us, and he and Jim 
 will halve the expenses of the Nile voyage. Mr. Winter- 
 bourne's daughter makes up the party. She is rather nice, 
 I think, but only a child. Let me know at once. There is 
 a P. and O. on the ]7th; I think we shall catch that ; Jim 
 and the captain are old friends. 
 
 Your loving sister, 
 *' Polly." 
 
 She folded up the letter, put it in an envelope, and ad- 
 dressed it to : — 
 
 The Hon. the Master of Lynn^ 
 Lynn Towers^ 
 
 hy Inverness^ N", B, 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A FAREWELL TO ENGLAND. 
 
 A VOYAGE in a P. and O. steamer is so familiar a matter 
 to thousands of English readers that very little need be 
 said about it here in detail, except, indeed, *in so far as this 
 particular voyage affected the fortunes of these one or two 
 peo]>le. And Yolande's personal experiences began early. 
 
YOLANDE. 21 
 
 Tlie usual small crowd of passengers was assembled in 
 Liverpool Street Station, hurrying, talking, laughing, and 
 scanning possible ship-companions with an eager curiosity, 
 and in the midst of them Yolande, for a wonder — her father 
 having gone to look after some luggage — found herself for 
 tlie moment alone. A woman came into this wide, hollow- 
 resounding station, and timidly and yet anxiously scanned 
 the faces of the various people who were on the platform 
 adjoining the special train. She was a respectably dressed 
 person, apparently a mechanic's wife, but her features bore 
 the marks of recent crying; they were all "begrutten," 
 as the Scotch say. She carried a small basket. After an 
 anxious scrutiny — but it was only the women she regarded 
 — she went up to Yolande. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, miss," she said ; but she could say 
 no more, for her face was tremulous. 
 
 Yolande looked at her, thought she was drunk, and 
 turned away, rather frightened. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, miss ; " and with tliat her trembling 
 hands opened the basket, which was filled with flowers. 
 
 "No, thank you, I don't want any," said Yolande, 
 civilly. But there was something in the woman's imploring 
 eyes that said something to her. She was startled, and 
 stood still. 
 
 " Are — are you going farther than Gibraltar, miss? " 
 
 " Yes. Yes, I think so," said Yolande, wondering. 
 
 There were tears running down the woman's face. For 
 a second or two she tried to speak, ineffectually ; then she 
 said : — 
 
 "Two days out from — from Gibraltar — would you be 
 80 kind, miss, as to put — these flowers — on the water? My 
 little girl was buried at sea — two days out — " 
 
 " Oh, I understand you," said Yolande, quickly, with a 
 big lump in her throat. "Oh yes, I will. I am so sorry 
 for you — " 
 
 She took the basket. The woman burst out crying, and 
 Lid her face in her hands, and then turned to go away. She 
 was so distracted with her grief that she had forgotten even 
 to say " Thank you." At the same naoment Mr. Winter- 
 bourne came up, hastily and angrily. 
 
 "What is this?" 
 
 " Hush, papa ! The poor woman had a little girl buried 
 at sea ; these are some flowers — " 
 
28 YOLANDE. 
 
 Yolande went quickly after her, and touched her on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Tell rae," she said, " what was your daughter's name ? " 
 
 The woman raised her tear-stained face. " Jane. We 
 called her Janie ; she was only three years old ; she would 
 have been ten by now. You won't forget, miss ; it was — ■ 
 it was two days beyond' Gibraltar that — that we buried 
 her." 
 
 " Oh, no ; do you think I could forget ? " Yolande said ; 
 and she offered her hand. The woman took her hand and 
 pressed it, and said, " God bless you, miss 1 I thought I 
 could trust your face ;" then she hurried away. 
 
 Yolande went back to her father, who, though closely 
 watching her, was standing with the Grahams ; and she 
 told them (with her own eyes a little bit moist) of the 
 mission with which she had been intrusted; but neither 
 she nor they thought of asking why, out of all the people 
 about to go down by the steamer train, this poor woman 
 should have picked out Yolande as the one by whom she 
 would like to have those flowers strewn on her child's ocean 
 grave. Perhaps there was something in the girl's face that 
 assured the mother that she was not likely to forget. 
 
 And at last the crowd began to resolve itself into those 
 who were going and those who were remaining behind ; the 
 former establishing themselves in the compartments, the 
 latter talking all the more eagerly as the time grew shorter. 
 And Mrs. Graham was in despair because of the non-appear- 
 ance of her brother. 
 
 " There! " she said to her husband, as the door of the 
 carriage was finally locked, and the train began to move 
 out of the station, " I told you — I told you I should not be 
 surprised. It is just like him — always wanting to be too 
 clever. Well, his coolness has cost him something this 
 time. I told you I should not at all be surprised if he 
 missed the train altogether." 
 
 " I don't think the Master's finances are likely to run to 
 a special," her husband said, good-humoredly. 
 
 " Oh, it is too provoking ! " exclaimed the pretty young 
 matron (but, with all her anger, she did not forget to 
 smooth her tightly fitting costume as she settled into her 
 seat^.^ " It is too provoking ! I left Baby at home more 
 on nis account than on any one else's. If there was the 
 ?ilis:htest sound, I knew he would declare that Baby had 
 
YOLANDE. 20 
 
 Deen crying all the night through. There never was a 
 better baby — never ! Now, was there ever, Jim ? " 
 
 " Well, I can't answer for all the babies that ever were 
 in the world," her husband said, in his easy, good-natured 
 way ; " but it is a good enough baby, as babies go." 
 
 " It is the rery best tempered baby I ever saw or heard 
 Df,*' she said, emphatically; and she turned to Yolande. 
 * Just think, dear, of my leaving Baby in England for two 
 whole months, and mostly because I knew my brother would 
 complain. And now he goes and misses the train — through 
 laziness, or indifference, or wanting to be too sharp — 
 
 " I should think that Baby would be much better off on 
 land than on board ship," said Yolande, with a smile. 
 
 "Of course. Miss Winterbourne," the colonel said. 
 You're quite riglit. A baby on board a ship is a nuisance." 
 
 "Jim ! You don't deserve — 
 
 "And there's another thing," continued tlie stout and 
 grizzled soldier, with the most stolid composure. " I've 
 seen it often on board ship. I know what liappens. If 
 the mother of the baby is old or ugly, it's all right ; the 
 baby is let alone. But if she's young and good-looking, it's 
 wonderful how the young fellows begin and pet the baby, 
 and feed it up on toffy and oranges. What do tliey know? 
 Hang 'em, they'd fetch up pastry from the saloon and give 
 it to a two-year-old. That ain't good for a baby." 
 
 "Poor Archie! "said his wife, rather inconsequently ; 
 " it will be such a disappointment for him." 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is," said Colonel Graham ; " I be- 
 lieve he has never heard that the P. and O. sl)ips don't stop 
 at Southampton now. Never mind, Polly ; he can go over- 
 land, if he wants to catch us up at Cairo." 
 
 " And miss the whole voyage ! " she exclaimed, aghast. 
 "And forfeit his passage money? Fancy the cost of the 
 railway journey to Brindisi ! " 
 
 " Well, if people will miss trains, they must pay the 
 penalty," her husband remarked, quietly; and there was an 
 end of that. 
 
 At Tilbury there was the usual scramble of getting 
 the luggage transferred to the noisy little tender ; and the 
 natural curiosity with which q\'qv'^ one was eager to scan 
 t^e great and stately vessel which was to be their floating 
 home for many a day. And here there was a surprise for 
 at least one of the party. When, after long delays, and 
 after a hurried steaming out into the river, tho fonder was 
 
80 YOLANDE. 
 
 drawing near the side of the huge steamer, of course all 
 eyes were turned to the decks above, where the picturesque 
 costumes of the lascar crew were the most conspicuous 
 points of color. But tliere were obviously a number of 
 other people on board, besides the dusky crew and their 
 English officers. 
 
 *' There he is — I can make bin out," observed Colonel 
 Graham. 
 
 ** Who ? " his wife asked. 
 
 ** Why, the Master of Lynn," he answered, coolly. 
 " Well, I never ! " she exclaimed, in either real or af- 
 fected anger. " Sha'n't I give it to him ! To think of his 
 causing us all this disquietude ! " 
 
 ** Speak for yourself, Polly," her husband said, as he re- 
 garded a group of young men who were up on the hurri- 
 cane-deck leaning over the rail and watching the a])proach 
 of the tender. " I wasn't much put out, was I ? And ap- 
 parently he hasn't been, for he is smoking a cigar and chat- 
 tmg to — yes, by Jove 1 it's Jack Douglas, and young Mac- 
 kenzie of Sleat ; oh, there's Ogilvy's brother-in law — what 
 do you call him ? — the long fellow Avho broke his leg at 
 Bombay; there's young Fraser, too, eyeglass and all — a 
 regular gathering of the clans. Theie'll be some Nap going 
 among those boys ! " \ 
 
 ** I hope you won't let Archie play, then," his wife said, 
 sharply. But she turned with a charming little smile to 
 Yolande. " You mustn't think my brother is a gambler, you 
 know, dear ; but really some of those young officers play far 
 beyond their means, and Archie is very popular amongst 
 them I am told." 
 
 But by this time everybody was scrambling on to the 
 paddle-boxes of the tender, and from thence ascending to 
 the deck of the steamer. The Master of Lynn was standing 
 by the gangway awaiting his sister. He was a young man 
 of four or five and twenty, slim, well built, wilh a j)ale olive 
 complexion and a perfectly clean-shaj\'en face ; and he had 
 the square forehead, the well-marked eyebrows, and'^'the 
 ])leasant gray eyes with the dark eyelashes that his sister 
 had. But he had not her half-curly hair, for his was shorn 
 bare, in soldier fashion, though he was not a soldier. 
 
 " How are you, Graham ? How are you, Polly? " said 
 he. 
 
 " Well, I like your coolness ! " his sister said, angrily. 
 t< Why were you not at the station ^ Why did you not tell 
 
YOLANDE, *»\- 3 J 
 
 ns ? Of course we thought you had missed the train. 1 
 wish you would take the trouble to let people know what 
 you are about.— Let rae introduce you to Miss Winter- 
 bourne. Yolande dear, this is ray brother Archie. — Mr. 
 Winterbourne, my brother, Mr. Leslie. — Well, now, what 
 liave you to say for yourself? " 
 
 lie had thrown away bis cigar, 
 
 " Not much," said he, smiling good-naturedly and taking 
 some wraps and things from her wliich her husband had 
 selfishly allowed her to carry. " I went down to see some 
 fellows at Chatham last night, and of course I stayed there, 
 and came over in the morning. Sorry I vexed you. You 
 see. Miss Winterbonrne, my sister likes platform parade ; 
 she likes to have ])eople round her for half an hour before 
 the train starts ; and she likes to walk up and down, for it 
 shows off her figure and her dress: isn't that so, Polly? 
 But you hadn't half your display this morning, apparently. 
 Where's Baby ? Where's Ayah ? " 
 
 " You know very well. You would have been grumbling 
 all the time if I had brought Baby." 
 
 "Well," said he, looking rather aghast, "if you've left 
 Baby behind on my account I shall have a pleasant time of 
 it. I don't believe you. But tell me the number of your 
 cabin, and I'll take these things down for you. I'm on the 
 spardeck, thank goodness! " 
 
 " Miss Winterbourne's cabin is next to mine ; so you 
 can take her things down too." 
 
 "No, thank you," said Yolande, who was looking out 
 for her luggage (her maid being in a hopeless state of be- 
 wilderment), and who had nothing in her hand but the little 
 basket. " I will take this down myself by and by." 
 
 There was a great bustle and confusion on board ; friends 
 giving farewell messages ; passengers seeking out their 
 cabins; the bare-armed and barefooted lascars, with their 
 blue blouses and red turbans, hoisting luggage on to their 
 shoulders and carrying it along the passages. Mr. Winter- 
 bourne was impatient. 
 
 "I hate this — this confusion and noise," he said. 
 
 " But, papa," said Yolande, " I know your tilings as well 
 as my own. Jane and I will see to them when they come 
 onboard. Please go away and get some lunch — please! 
 Everything will be quiet in a little while." 
 
 " I wish we were off," he said, in the same impatient 
 way. " This delay is quite unnecessary. It is always the 
 
32 YOLANDE. 
 
 same. We ought to have started before now. Wliy doesn*! 
 the captain order the ship to be cleared ? " 
 
 " Papa dear, do go and get places at the table. The 
 Grahams have gone below. And have something very nice 
 waiting for me. See, there comes your other portmanteau 
 now ; and there is only the topee-box ; and I know it be- 
 cause I put a bit of red silk on the handle. Papa, do go 
 down and get us comfortable places — I will come as soon 
 as I have sent your topee-box to your cabin. I suppose we 
 shall be near the Grahams." 
 
 " Oh, I know where Mrs. Graham will be," her father 
 said, peevishly. " She will be next the captain. She is the 
 sort of woman who always sits next the captain." 
 
 " Then the captain is very lucky, papa," said Yolande, 
 mildly, " for she is exceedingly nice ; and she has been ex- 
 ceedingly kind to me." 
 
 " I suppose the day will come when this captain, or any 
 other captain, would be just as glad to have you sit next 
 him," he said. 
 
 " Papa," she said, with a smile, " are you jealous of Mrs. 
 Graham for my sake ? I am sure I do not wish to sit next 
 the captain ; I have not even seen him yet that 1 know of." 
 
 But this delay, necessary or unnecessary, made him ir- 
 ritable and anxious. He would not go to the saloon until 
 he had seen all the luggage — both his and Yolande's — des- 
 patched to their respective cabins. Then he began to in- 
 quire why the ship did not start. Why were the strangers 
 not packed off on board the tender and sent ashore ? Why 
 did the chief officer allow these boats to be hanging about? 
 The agent of the company had no right to be standing talk- 
 ing on deck two hours after the ship was timed to sail. 
 
 Meanwhile Yolande stole away to her own cabin, and 
 carefully and religiously — and, indeed, with a little clioking 
 in the throat — opened the little basket that held the flowers, 
 to see whether they might not be the better for a liltlo 
 sprinkling of water. They were rather ex})ensive llowern 
 for a poor woman to have bought, and the damp moss in 
 which they were imbedded and the basket itself also were 
 more suggestive of Covent Garden than of Whitccha))el. 
 Yolande poured some water into the wnshhand basin, and 
 dipped her fingers into it, and very carefully and tenderly 
 sprinkled the flowers over. And then she considered what 
 was likely to be the coolest and safest place in the cabin for 
 
yOLANDE. 35 
 
 them, and hung the basket there, and came out again — ■ 
 shutting the door, involuntarily, with quietness. 
 
 She passed through the saloon, and went up on deck. 
 Her father was still there. 
 
 " Papa," said she, " you are a very unnatural person. 
 You are starving me." 
 
 "Haven't you had lunch, Yolande ?" said he, with a 
 sudden compunction. 
 
 " No, I have not. Do I ever have lunch without you ? 
 I am waiting for you." 
 
 " Really, this delay is most atrocious ! " he said. " Wliat 
 is the use of advertising one hour and sailing at another ? 
 There can be no excuse. The tender has gone ashore." 
 
 " Oh, but, papa, they say there is a lady who missed the 
 train, and is coming down by a special — " 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it. Why, that is worse. The 
 absurdity of keeping a ship like this waiting for an idiot of 
 a woman ! " 
 
 ** I am so hungry, papa ! " 
 
 ** Well, go down below, and get something, if you can. 
 No doubt the gross mismanagement reaches to the saloon 
 tables as well." 
 
 She put her hand within his arm, and half drew him 
 along to the companionway. 
 
 " What is the difference of an hour or two." said she, 
 " if we are to be at sea for a fortnight ? Perhaps the poor 
 lady who is coming down by the special train has some one 
 ill abroad. And — and besides, papa, I am so very, very, 
 very hungry ! " 
 
 He went down with her to the saloon, and took h'is place 
 in silence. Yolande sat next to Mrs. Graham, who was 
 very talkative and merry, even though there was no caj^tain 
 in his place to do her honor. Young Archie Leslie was 
 opposite ; so was Colonel Graham. They were mostly 
 idling ; but Yoland was hungry, and they were all anxious to 
 help her at once, though the silent dusky stewards knew 
 their duties well enough. 
 
 By and by, when they were talking about anything or 
 nothing, it occurred to the young Master of Lynn to say, 
 
 "I suppose you don't know that we are off?" 
 
 "No! impossible!" was the general cry. 
 
 " Oh, but we are, though. Look ! " 
 
 Mr. Winterbourne quickly got up and went to on© of 
 
a4 YOLANDE. 
 
 the ports ; there, undoubtedly, were the river-banks slowly, 
 slowly going astern. 
 
 He went back to his seat, putting his hand on Yolando'i 
 shoulder as he sat down. 
 
 " Yolande," said he, " do you know that we are off— 
 really and truly going away from England — altogether quit 
 from its shores ? " 
 
 His manner had almost instantly changed. His spirits 
 quickly brightened up. He made himself most agreeable 
 to Mrs. Graham; and was humorous in his quiet, half- 
 sardonic way , and was altogether pleased with the appear- 
 ance and the appointments of the ship. To fancy this great 
 mass of metal moving away like that, and the throbbing of 
 the screw scarcely to be detected ! 
 
 "You know, my dear Mrs. Graham," he said presently, 
 " this child of mine is a most economical, even a penurious, 
 creature ; and I must depend on you to force her to make 
 ]jroper purchases at the different places — all the kinds of 
 things that women-folk prize, don't you know. Lace, now. 
 AVhat is the use of being at Malta if you don't buy lace ? 
 And embroideries and things of that kind. She ought to 
 bring back enough of Eastern silks and stuffs to last her a 
 lifetime. And jewelry too — silver suits her very well — she 
 must get plenty of that at Cairo — " 
 
 " Oh, you can leave that to my wife," Colonel Graham 
 said, confidently. " She'd buy up the Pyramids if she 
 could take them home. I'm glad it won't be my money." 
 
 And this was but one small item of expectation. The 
 voyage before them furnislied forth endless hopes and 
 schemes. They all adjourned to the hurricane-deck; and 
 here liis mood of contented clieerfuhiess was still more 
 obvious. He was quite delighted with tlie cleanness and 
 order of the ship, and witli the courtesy of the captain, and 
 with the smart look of the officers; and he even expressed 
 approval of the pretty, quiet, not romantic scenery of the 
 estuary of the Thames. Yoland was with him. When 
 they walked, they walked arm in arm. He said he tliought 
 the Grahams were likely to be excellent companions ; Mrs. 
 Graham was a charming woman ; there was a good deal of 
 quiet humor about her husband ; The Master of Lynn was 
 a frank-mannered young fellow, with honest eyes. His step 
 grew jaunty. He told Yolande she must, when in Egypt, 
 ijliy at least half a dozen Eastern costumes, the more gor- 
 
YOLANDE. 35 
 
 geous the better, so that she should never be at a loss when 
 asked to go to a fancy-dress ball. 
 
 And at dinner, too, in the evening, it was a delight to 
 Y'olande to sit next to him, and listen to his chuckles and 
 his little jokes. Care seemed to have left him altogether. 
 Tiic night, when they went on deck again, was dark ; but a 
 d.irk night pleased him as much as anytiiing. Yolande was 
 walking with him. 
 
 And then they sat down witli their friends: and Mrs. 
 Graham had much to talk about. Yolande sat silent. Far 
 away in the darkness a long thin dull line of gold was 
 visible ; she had been told that these were the lights of 
 Hastings. It is a strange thing to sail past a country in the 
 night-time and to think of all the beating human hearts it 
 contains — of the griefs, and despairs, and hushed joys all 
 hidden away there in the silence. And perhaps Yolande was 
 thinking most of all of the poor mother — whose name she 
 did not know, whom she should never see again — but whose 
 heart she knew right well was heavy that night with its 
 aching sorrow. It was her first actual contact with human 
 misery, and she could not help thinking of the woman's 
 face. That was terrible, and sad beyond anything that she 
 could have imagined. For indeed her own life so far had 
 been among the roses. As Mrs. Graham had said, she was 
 but a child. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MRS. BELL. 
 
 " It is really quite wonderful how intimate you become 
 with people on board ship, and how well you get to know 
 them.-*' 
 
 This not entirely novel observation was addressed to 
 Yolande by the Master of Lynn, while these two, with some 
 half-dozen others, were grouped together in the companion, 
 way, where they had taken shelter from the flying seas. 
 The remark was not new, but he appeared to think it im- 
 portant. He seemed anxious to convince her of its truth. 
 
 *' It is really quite wonderful," he repeated ; aad he re- 
 
3G YOLANDR. 
 
 garded the pretty face as if eager to meet with acquiescence 
 there. " On board ship you get to know the characters ol 
 people so thoroughly^ you can tell whether the friendsliip 
 is likely to last after the voyage is over. Balls and dinner 
 parties are of no use; that is only acquaintanceship ; at sea 
 you are thrown so much together ; you are cut off from the 
 world, you know ; there is a kind of fellow-feeling and com- 
 panionship — that — that is quite different. Why," said he, 
 with his eyes brightening, " it seems absurd to think that 
 the day before yesterday you and I were absolute strangers, 
 and yet here you have been letting me bore you for hours 
 by talking of Lynn and the people there — " 
 
 " Oh, I assure you I am very grateful," said Yo- 
 lande, with much sincerity. "But for you I should have 
 been quite alone." 
 
 The fact is, they had encountered a heavy two days' 
 gale outside the Bay of Biscay and south of that ; and as 
 the ship was a pretty bad roller, sad havoc was wrought 
 among the passengers. Mrs. Graham had disappeared 
 from the outset. Her husband was occasionally visible; 
 but he was a heavy man, and did not like being knocked 
 about, so ho remained mostly in the saloon. Mr. Win- 
 terbourne was a good enough sailor, but the noises at night 
 — he had a spar-deck cabin — kept him awake, and he spent 
 the best part of the daytime in his berth trying to get fitful 
 snatches of sleep. Accordingly, Yolande, who wanted to 
 see the sights of the storm, betook herself to the companion- 
 way, where she would have been entirely among strangers 
 (being somewhat reserved in her walk amd conversation) 
 had it not been for Mr. Leslie. He, indeed, proved himself 
 to be a most agreeable companion — modest, assiduously 
 attentive, good-natured, and talkative, and very respectful. 
 He was entirely governed by her wishes. He brought her 
 the news of the shi]), when it was not every one who would 
 venture along the deck, dodging the heavy seas. He got 
 her the best corner in this corapanionway, and the most 
 comfortable of the chairs ; and he had rugs for her, and a 
 book, only that she was too far much interested in what was 
 going on around her to read. Once or twice, when she 
 would stand by the door, he even ventured to put his hand 
 on her arm, afraid lest she should be overbalanced and 
 thrown out on the swimming decks. For there was a kind 
 of excitement amid this roar and crash of wind and water. 
 Who could decide which was the grander spectacle — tliat 
 
YOLANDE. 37 
 
 great mass of driven and tossing and seething silver that 
 went out and out until it met a wall of black cloud at the 
 horizon, or the view from the other side of the vessel (with 
 one's back to the sunlight) — the mountains of blue rolling 
 by, and their crests so torn by the gale that the foam ended 
 in a rainbow flourish of orange and red ? 
 
 "They say she is rolling eighty-four degrees ' out and 
 out, ' " said Archie Leslie. 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said Yolande, looking grave. ** But I 
 don't know what that means." 
 
 "Neither do I," said he ; " but it sounds well. What I 
 do know is that you won't see my sister till we get to Gib. 
 You seem to be a capital sailor. Miss Winterbourne." 
 
 " I have often had to be ashamed of it," said Yolande. 
 ** To-day, also — there was no other lady at the table — oh, I 
 cannot sit alone like that any more ; no, I will rather have 
 no dinner than go and sit alone; it is terrible — and the 
 captain laughing." 
 
 "Poor fellow, he is not in a laughing mood just now." 
 
 ** Why, then ? There is no danger ? " 
 
 " Oh no. But I hear he has had his head cut open — a 
 chronometer falling on him in his cabin. But I think he'll 
 show up at dinner ; it is only a flesh wound. They've had 
 one of the boats stove in, they say, and some casks carried 
 away, and a good deal of smashing forward. I wonder if 
 your father has got any sleep — I should think not. I'll go 
 and see how he is getting on if you like ? " 
 
 " Oh no ; if he is asleep, that is very well. No," said 
 Yolande; " I wish you to tell me moi-e about your friend 
 — tlie gentleman who was your tutor. That is a very 
 strange life for any one to live." 
 
 What she wished was enough for him. 
 
 " I have not told you the strangest ])art of the story," 
 said he, " for you would not believe it." 
 
 " Am I so unbelieving ? " she said, looking up. 
 
 His eyes met hers — but only for an instant. Yolande's 
 eyes were calm, smiling, unconcerned ; it was not in them, 
 at all events, that any confusion lay. 
 
 " Of course I do not mean that," said he ; " but — ^but one 
 has one's character for veracity, don't you know — and if I 
 were to tell you about Mrs. Bell — the story is too im- 
 probable." 
 
 " Then it is about Mrs. Bell that T wish to hear," said 
 Yolande, in her gentle, imperious way. 
 
38 YOLANDE. 
 
 '' Besides, IVe bored you all day long aoout those 
 people in Inverness-shire. You will think I have never seen 
 any one else, and never been anywhere else. Now I would 
 much rather hear about the Chateau and the })eople there. 
 I want you to tell me what you thought of America — after 
 living in that quiet place." 
 
 *' What I thought of America ! " said Yolande, with a 
 laugh. "That is a question indeed ! " 
 
 " Isn't it the question that all Americans ask of yon ? 
 You have heard enough about the Inverness-shire people. 
 'J'ell me about Rennes. Have you seen much of Paris? 
 Did you like the Parisians ? " 
 
 " Ah," said she, "you are not so obedient to me as my 
 papa is." 
 
 " Fathers in Scotland are made of sterner stuff, I should 
 think," he answered. "We don't talk that way." 
 
 " Now listen," she said. " I have the picture before me 
 — everything complete — the lake, and Lynn Towers, the 
 mountains and moorland, also the ravines where the deer 
 take shelter — oh yes, I can see all that quite clear, but the 
 central figure, that is absent." 
 
 "The central figure?" 
 
 " Mrs. Bell." 
 
 He had quite forgotten about that lady, now he 
 laughed. 
 
 "Oh no," he said ; "Mrs. Bell is not so important as 
 that. She has nothing to do with Lynn. She lives at Gress." 
 
 "Well, thai is a beginning at all events," she remarked, 
 with a slight shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 " Oh, but must I really tell you the story? You will 
 try hard to believe ? " 
 
 •*I am not unbelieving." 
 
 " Very well, then. I will tell you about Mrs. Bell, for I 
 hope some day you will see her." 
 
 She looked up inquiringly. 
 
 "Yes, I am going to ask your father to take a moor up 
 there that I know of, and of coprsc you would come to the 
 lodge. If he cares about grouse-shooting and isn't afraid 
 of hard work, it is the very place for him. Then you would 
 see my friend Melville, who ought to be Meville of Mona- 
 glen by I'ights, and maybe he will before Mrs. Bell has done 
 with him." 
 
 " Mrs. Bell again ! Then I am to hear about her after 
 all ? " 
 
YOLANDE. 89 
 
 " Very well, then. Mrs. Bell is not Mrs. Bell, but Miss 
 Bell, only they call her ' Mrs.' because she is an elderly lady, 
 and is rich, and is a substantial and matronly-looking kind 
 of person. Of course you won't believe the story, but never 
 mind. Mrs. Bell was cook to the Melvilles — that was years 
 and years ago, before old Mr, Melville died. But she was 
 an ambitious party, and Gress wasn't enough for her. She 
 could read, and it isn't every Highland servant lass who 
 can do that. She read cookery books and made experi- 
 ments. Now you see the adventures of Mrs. Bell don'i 
 make a heroic story." 
 
 *'But I am listening," said Yolande, with a calm air. 
 
 "She got to be rather clever, though there was not 
 much chance for her in the Melvilles' house. Then she 
 went to Edinburgh. All this is plain sailing. She got a 
 situation in a hotel there ; then she was allowed to try what 
 she could do in the cooking line ; then she was made liead 
 cook. That is the end of chapter one ; and 1 suppose you 
 believe me so far. Tears went on, and Kirsty was earning 
 a good wage ; and all that we knew of her was that she 
 used to send small sums of money occasionally to lielp one 
 or two of the poor people in Gress who had been her neigh- 
 bors, for she had neither kith nor kin of her own. Then 
 there happened to come to the hotel in Edinburgh an elderly 
 English gentleman who was travelling about for his health, 
 and he was frightfully anxious about his food, and he very 
 much appreciated the cooking at the hotel. lie made in- 
 quiries. He saw Kirsty, who was by this time a respectable 
 middle-aged woman, getting rather gray. What docs the 
 old maniac do but tell her that he has only a few years to 
 live; that the cooking of his food is about the most iuijjor- 
 tant tiling to Kim in the world ; that he has no near rel- 
 atives to inherit his property ; and that if she will go to 
 Leicestershire and bind herself to remain cook in his house 
 as long as he lived, he will undertake to leave her every 
 penny lie possessed when he died. 'I will,' says Kirsty, 
 but she was a wise woman, and she went to the lawyers; 
 and had everything properly settled. Shall I go on, Miss 
 Winterbourne ? I don't think my heroine interests you. 
 I wish you could see old Mrs. Bell." 
 
 " Oh yes, go on. That is not so unbelievable. Of course 
 I believe you. Is it necessary to say that? " 
 
 Yulande's dignity was a little bit disturbed at this mo- 
 
40 YOLANDE. 
 
 ment by a scattering of spray around her ; but she quickly 
 dried her red-gold hair and the smooth oval of her cheeks. 
 
 " What comes after is a good bit stranger," he continued. 
 •' The old gentleman died ; only he lived much longer than 
 anybody expected ; and Kirsty, at the age of fifty-eight or 
 so, found herself in possession of an income of very near 
 £4000 a year — well, I believe it is more than that now, 
 for the property has increased in value. And now begins 
 what I can't tell you half well enough — I wish you could hear 
 Mrs. BelPs own account — I mean of the schemes that people 
 laid to inveigle her into a marriage. You know she is rather 
 a simple and kindly hearted woman ; but she believes herself 
 to be the very incarnation of shrewdness ; and certainly on 
 that one point she showed herself shrewd enough. When 
 my sister re-appears on deck again, you say to her, * Kirsty 
 kenned better,' and see if she does not recognize the phrase. 
 Mrs. Bell's description of the various offers of marriage she 
 has had beats anything; but it was always * Kirsty kenned 
 better.' Yes ; and among these was a formal proposal from 
 
 Lord ; I mean the father of the present Lord ; and 
 
 that proposal was twice repeated. You know the s are 
 
 awfully poor; and that one was at his wit's end for money. 
 But Kirsty was not to be caught. Among other things he 
 stipulated that he was to be allowed to spend eight months 
 of the year in London, she remaining either in Leicestershire 
 or in the Highlands, as she pleased. More than that, he 
 
 even got the duke of to write to Miss Bell, and back up 
 
 the suit, and promise that, if she would consent, ho would 
 himself go down and give her away." 
 
 " The great Duke of ? " said Yolande, with her eyes 
 
 a little bit wider. 
 
 " Yes ; the late Duke. I thought I should astonish you. 
 But I have seen the Duke's letter ; it is one of Mrs. Bell's 
 proudest possessions. I have no doubt you will see it for 
 yourself some day. But Kirsty kenned better." 
 
 " What did she do then ? " 
 
 '* What did she do ? She went back to Gross like a sen- 
 sible woman. And she is more than sensible — she is remark- 
 ably good-natured ; and she sought out the son of her old 
 master — that's my friend Melville, you know, and then she 
 tried all her flattery and shrewdness on him until she got 
 him persuaded that he should live in Gress — he was cadging 
 about for another tutorship at the time— and make a sort of 
 model village of it, and have old Kirsty for his housekeeper. 
 
YOLANDR. 41 
 
 Oh, she's clever enough in her way. She has picked up very- 
 good manners ; she can hold her own with anybody. And 
 she manages Melville most beautifully ; and lie isn't easy 
 to manage. She is always very respectful, and makes him 
 believe he is doing her a great kindness in spending her 
 money in improving the village, and all that ; but what she 
 really means, of course, is that he should be a kind of small 
 laird in the place that used to belong to his people. And 
 that is what that woman means to do ; I know it — I am 
 certain of it. If ever Monaglen comes into the market she'll 
 snap it up ; she must have a heap saved. Sooner or later 
 she'll make Jack Melville 'Melville of Monaglen,' as sure as 
 he's alive." 
 
 "You and he are great friends, then?" 
 
 " Oh, he rather sits upon me," the Master of Lynn said, 
 modestly ; " but we are pretty good friends, as things go." 
 
 The gale did not abate much that afternoon ; on the 
 contrary, the great ship seemed to be rolling more heavily 
 than ever; and at one minute a little accident occurred 
 that might have been attended with more serious con- 
 sequences. Mr. Winterbourne and young Leslie, not being 
 able to reach the smoking-room on account of the seas 
 coming over the bows, had sought shelter on a bench im- 
 mediately aft of the hurricane-deck, and there, enveloped 
 in waterproof, they were trying to keep their cigars alight. 
 Unfortunately the lashings securing this bench had not 
 been very strong, and at one bad lurch of the vessel — 
 indeed, the deck seemed to be at right angles with the 
 water below them — away the whole thing went, spinning 
 down to leeward. Leslie was a smart young fellow, saw what 
 was coming, and before the bench had reached the gunwale 
 he had with one hand swung himself on to the ladder 
 ascending to the hurricane-deck, while with the other he had 
 seized hold of his compaion's coat. Probably, had he not 
 l)eeTi so quick, the worst that could have happened was that 
 tlie two of them might have had a thorough sousing in the 
 water surging along the scuppers ; but when Yolande heard 
 of the accident, and when Mr. Winterbourne rather sadly 
 showed her his waterproof, whieh had been half torn from 
 his back, she was instantly convinced that young Leslie had 
 saved her fatlier's life. 
 
 In consequence she was much less imperious and wilful 
 in her manner all that afternoon, and was even timidly 
 polite to him. She consented, without a word, to go down 
 
42 YOLANDE. 
 
 to dinner, although again she was the only lady at table. 
 And, indeed, dinner that evening was entirely a ludicrous 
 j)erformance. When Mr. Winterbourne and Yolande and 
 young Leslie got to the foot of the companion-stairs, and 
 with much clinging prepared to enter the saloon, the first 
 thing they saw before them was a sudden wave of white that 
 left tlie table and crashed against the walls. The stewards 
 regarded the broken crockery with a ghastly smile, bul 
 made no immediate effort to pick up the fragments. The 
 "fiddles" on the table were found to be of no use whatever. 
 When these three sat down they could only make sure of 
 such things as they could keep their fingers upon. Buttress- 
 ing was of no avail. Plates, tumblers, knives and forks, 
 broke away and steeple-chased over the fiddles, until the 
 final smash on the walls brought their career to a close. 
 The din was awful ; and Mr. Winterbourne was much too 
 anxious about the objects around him to be able to make his 
 customary little jokes. But they got through it somehow ; 
 and the only result of these wild adventures with rocketing 
 loaves and plates and bottles was that Yolande and the 
 young Master of Lynn seemed to be on more and more 
 friendly and familiar terms. Yolande talked to him as 
 frankly as if he had been her brother. 
 
 Next day matters mended considerably ; and the next 
 again broke blue and fair and shining, with an immense 
 number of Mother Gary's chickens skimming along the sun- 
 lit waters. Far away in the south the pale line of the 
 African coast was visible. People began to appear on deck 
 who had been hidden for the last couple of days ; Mrs. 
 Graham was up and smiling, in a exceedingly pretty cos- 
 tume. When should they reach Gibraltar ? Who was going 
 ashore ? Were there many " Scorpions" on board ? 
 
 Yolande was not much of a politician ; but her father 
 being somewhat of a " Jingo," of course she was a " Jingo" 
 too; and she was very proud when, towards the afternoon, 
 they drew nearer and nearer to the great gray scarred rock 
 that commands the Mediterranean ; and her heart warmed at 
 the sight of a little red speck on one of the ramparts — an 
 English sentry keeping guard there. And when they went 
 ashore, and wandered through the streets, she had as much 
 interest in plain Tommy Atkins in his red coat as in any of 
 the more picturesquely clad Spaniards or Arabs she saw 
 there; and when they went into the Alameda to hear the 
 military band ]Jay, she knew by a sort of instinct that 
 
YOLANDE. 43 
 
 among the ladies sitting in their cool costumes under the 
 maples and acacias such and such groups were English- 
 women — the wives of the officers, no doubt — and she would 
 have liked to have gone and spoken to them. " Gib." seemed 
 to her to be a4)it of England, and therefore friendly and 
 familiar ; she thought the place looked tremendously strong ; 
 and she was glad to see such piles of sliot and ranged rows 
 of cannon ; and she had a sort of gratitude in her heart 
 toward the officers and the garrison, and even the English- 
 women sitting there, with a tint of sun-brown on their 
 cheeks, but an English look in their eyes. And all this was 
 absurd enough in a young minx who made a fool of English 
 idioms nearly every time she opened her mouth ! 
 
 What a beautiful night that was as they sailed away 
 from the vast Gray Hock ! The moon was growing in 
 strength now, and the heavens were clear. The passengers 
 had begun to form their own little groups ; acquaintance- 
 ships had been made ; chair drawn close together on the 
 deck, in the silence, under the stars. And down there the 
 skylight of the saloon was open, and there was a yellow glare 
 coming up from below, also the sound of singing. There 
 were at duets below — two or three young people ; and 
 whether they sang well or ill, the effect was pleasant enough, 
 with the soft murmur of the Mediterranean all around. 
 "Oh, who will o'er the downs so free" — of course they sang 
 that ; people always do sing that on board ship. Then 
 they sang, " I would that my love could silently," and many 
 another old familiar air, the while the vessel churned on its 
 way through the unseen waters, and the pale shadows tlirown 
 by the moon on the white decks slowly moved with the mo- 
 tion of the vessel. It was a beautiful night. 
 
 The Master of Lynn came aft from the smoking-room, 
 and met his brother-in-law on the way. 
 
 " This is better, isn't it ? " said Colonel Graham. " Thii 
 is more like what I shipped for." 
 
 " Yes, this is better. Do you know where the Winter- 
 bournes are ? " 
 
 " In the saloon, I have just left them there." 
 
 Young Leslie was passing on, but he stopped. 
 
 "I say, Graham, I've noticed one thing on board this 
 Bhip already." 
 
 '* What ? " 
 
 " You watch to-morrow, if they're both on deck at the 
 
44 YOLANDE. 
 
 same time. You'll find that Polly has got al^, the men about 
 her, and Miss Winterbourne all the children. Odd, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 They were indeed cut off from the rest of the world, as 
 they went ploughing their way through these blue Mediter- 
 ranean seas. Day after day brought its round of amuse- 
 ments ; and always the sun shining on the white decks ; 
 and the soft winds blowing; and now and again a swallow, 
 or dove, or quail, or some such herald from unknown coasts, 
 taking refuge for awhile in the rigging, or fluttering along 
 by the vessel's side. There was an amateur photographer 
 on board, moreover ; and many were' the groups that were 
 formed and taken ; only it was observed that when the 
 officers were included, the captain generally managed to 
 have Yolande standing on the bridge beside him — a piece 
 of favoritism that broke through all rules and regulations. 
 There was a good deal of " Bull " played ; and it was 
 wonderful how, when Mrs. Graham was playing, there 
 always happened to be a number of those young Highla'nd 
 officers about, ready to pick up her quoits for her. And 
 always, but especially on the bright and breezy forenoons, 
 there was the constitutional tramp up and down the long 
 hurricane-deck — an occupation of which Yolande was par- 
 ticularly fond, and in which she found no one could keep 
 up with her so untiringly as the Master of Lynn. She was 
 just as well pleased, however, when she was alone, for then 
 she sank to herself, and had greater freedom in flinging her 
 arms about. 
 
 "Look at her," her father said one morning to Mrs. 
 Graham — concealing his admiration under an air of chagrin. 
 " Wouldn't you think she was an octopus, or a windmill, 
 or something like that ? " 
 
 " I call it a rattling good style of walking," said Colonel 
 Graham, interposing. " Elbows in ; palms out. She is a 
 remarkably well-made young woman — that's my opinion." 
 
 *' But she isn't an octopus," her father said, peevishly. 
 
 " Oh, that is merely an excess of vitality," her champion 
 
YOLANDE. 45 
 
 said. "Look how springy her walk is ! I don't believe 
 her heel ever touches the deck — all her walking is done 
 with the front part of her foot. Gad, it's infectious," con- 
 tinued the colonel, witli a grim laugh. " I caught myself 
 trying it when I was walking with her yesterday. But it 
 ain't easy at fifteen stone." 
 
 " She need not make herself ridiculous," her father 
 said. 
 
 *' Ridiculous ? I think it's jolly to look at her. J\lakes 
 one feel young again. She don't know that a lot of fogies 
 are watching her. Bet a sovereign she's talking about 
 dancing. Archie's devilish fond of dancing — so he ought 
 »to be at his time of life. They say they're going to give 
 us a ball to-night — on deck." 
 
 Mrs. Graham was a trifle impatient. There were none 
 of the young officers about, for a wonder ; they had gone 
 to have their after-breakfast cigar in the smoking-room — 
 and perhaps a little game of Nap therewithal. This study 
 of Yolande's appearance had lasted long enough, in her 
 opinion. 
 
 " It is clever of her to w^ear nothing on her head," she 
 said, as she took up a book and arranged herself in her 
 chair. " Her hair is her best feature." 
 
 But what Yolande and her companion, young Leslie, 
 were talking about, as they marched up and down tlie long 
 white decks — occasionally stopping to listen to a small group 
 of lascars, who were chanting a monotonous singsong 
 refrain — had nothing in the world to do with dancing. 
 
 " You think, then, I ought to speak to your father 
 about the moor? Would you like it ? " said he, 
 
 " I ? " she said. " That is nothing. If my papa and I 
 are together, it is not any difference to me where we are. 
 But if it is so wild and remote, that is what my papa will 
 like." 
 
 " Remote ! " said he, with a laugh. " It is fourteen 
 miles away from anywhere. I like to hear those idiots 
 talking who say the Highlands are overrun with tourists. 
 Much they know about the Highlands ! Well, now they've 
 got the railway to Oban, I suppose that's pretty bad. But 
 this place that I am telling you of — why, you would not see 
 a strange face from one year's end to the other." 
 
 ** Oh, that wall exactly suit my papa — exactly," she said, 
 with a smile. " Is it very, very far away from everything 
 Aiid every one ? " 
 
46 YOLANDE. 
 
 '* Isn't it ? " he said, grimly. "Why, it's up near the 
 sky, to begin with. I should say the average would be 
 near three thousand feet above the level of the sea. And 
 as for remoteness — well, perhaps Kingussie is not more 
 than twelve miles off as the crow flies ; but then you've got 
 the Monalea mountains between it and you ; and the 
 Monalea mountains are not exactly the sort of i)lace that 
 a couple of old ladies would like to climb in search of wild 
 flowers. You see that is the serious part of it for you, Miss 
 Winterbourne. Fancy the change between the temperature 
 of the Nile and that high moorland — " 
 
 " Oh, that is nothing," she said. " So long as I am 
 oat of doors the heat or the cold is to me nothing — nothing* 
 at all." 
 
 " The other change," he continued, ** I have no doubt 
 would be striking enough — from the busy population of 
 Egypt to the solitude of Allt-nam-Ba — " 
 
 '* What is it? Allt— " 
 
 " Allt^nam-Ba. It means the Stream of the Cows, 
 though there are no cows there now. They have some 
 strange names up there — left by the people who have gone 
 away. I suppose- people did live there once, though wh^t 
 they lived on I can't imagine. They have left names, any- 
 way, some of them smiple enough — the Fair Winduig 
 Water, the Dun Water, the Glen of the Horses, the Glen 
 of the Gray Loch, and so forth — but some of them I can't 
 make out at all. One is the Glen of the Tombstone, and I 
 have searched it, and never could find any trace of a tomb- 
 stone. One is the Cairn of the Wanderers, and they must 
 have wandered a good bit before they got up there. Then 
 there is a burn that is called the Stream of the Fairies — 
 Uisge nan Sithena — that is simple enough ; but there is 
 another place that is called Black Fairies. Now who on 
 earth ever heard of black fairies ? " 
 
 *' But it is not a frightful place ? " she said. '* It is not 
 terrible, gloomy ? " 
 
 ** Not a bit," said he. " These are only names. No 
 one knows how they came there, that is all. Gloomy ? I 
 think the strath from the foot of the moor down to our 
 place is one of the prettiest straths in Scotland." 
 
 « Then I should see Lynn Tower ? " she said. 
 
 " Oh yes ; it isn't much of a building, you know." 
 
 " And Mr. Melville of Monaglen — that would be inter- 
 eating to me." 
 
YOLANDE. 47 
 
 "Oh yes," said he: "but — but I wouldn't call liim 
 Monaglen — do you see — he hasn't got Monaglon ; pcrhiipa 
 he may have it back some day.'* 
 
 "And you," she said, turning her clear eyes toward 
 him, " sometimes they call you Master ; is it right?" 
 
 He laughed lightly. 
 
 *' Oh, that is a formal title — in Scotland. Colonel Gra- 
 liam makes a little joke of it ; I su2)pose that is what you 
 have heard." 
 
 " I must not call you so ? " 
 
 " Oh no." And then he said, with a laugh : " You may 
 call me anything you like ; what's the odds ? If you 
 want to please my brother-in-law you should call him 
 Inverstroy." 
 
 "But how can I remember?" she said, holding up her 
 fingers and counting. "Not Monaglen; not Master; 
 but yes, Investroy. And Llrs. Bell, shall I see her ? " 
 
 " Certainly, if you go there." 
 
 "And the mill-wheels, and the electric lamps, and all 
 the strange things ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, if Jack Melville takes a fancy to you. He 
 doesn't to everybody." 
 
 " Oh, I am not anxious," she said with a little dignity. 
 " I do not care much about such things. It is no matter 
 to me." 
 
 " I beg your pardon a thousand times ! " he said, with 
 much earnestness, " Really, I was not thinking of what I 
 was saying. I was thinking of Jack Melville's ways. Of 
 course he'll be delighted to show you everything — he will 
 be perfectly delighted. He is awfully courteous to stran- 
 gers. He will be quite delighted to show you the whole of 
 his instruments and apparatus.'* 
 
 " It is very obliging," she said, with something of cold- 
 ness, " but there is no need that I shall be indebted to Mr. 
 \ Melville." 
 "^ '•' Not of Monaglen," he said, demurely. 
 
 "Of Monaglen, or not of Monaglen," she said, with high 
 indifference. " Come, shall we go and find my papa, and 
 tell him about the wild, far place, and the Stream of the 
 Fairies ? " 
 
 " Ko, wait a moment. Miss Winterbourne," said he, 
 with a touch of embarrassment. " You see, that shooting 
 belongs to my father. And I look after the letting of our 
 shootings and fishings when I am at home, though of course 
 
48 YOLANDE. 
 
 we have an agent. Now — now I don't quite like taking 
 advantage of a new friendship to — to make such a sugges- 
 tion. 1 mean I would rather sink the shop. Perhaps your 
 father might get some other shooting up there." 
 
 " But not with the Glen of the Black Fairies, and the 
 strath, and Lynn Towers near the loch where the cliar are, 
 and all that you have told me. No ; if I am not to so« 
 Mrs. Bell — if I am not to see — " She was going to say 
 Mr. Melville of Monaglen, but she waved that aside with a 
 gesture of petulance. '' No, I wish to see all that y^ ii liave 
 told me about, and I think it would be pleasant if we were 
 neighbors." 
 
 "You really must have neighbors," said he, eagerly, 
 '' in a place like that. That is one thing certain. I am 
 sure we should try to make it as pleasant for you as possi- 
 ble. I am sure my father would. And Polly would be u}) 
 sometimes — I mean Mrs. Graham. Oh, I assure you, if it 
 was any other shooting than AUt-nam-Ba I should be very 
 anxious that you and your father should come and take it. 
 Of course the lodge is not a grand place." 
 
 *' We will go and talk about it now," she said, " to my 
 papa, and y®u can explain." 
 
 Now, as it turned out, although Mr. Winterbyurne was 
 rather staggered at first by Yolande's wild project of 
 suddenly changing the idle luxuries of a Nile voyage for 
 the severities of a moorland home in the North, there was 
 something in the notion that attracted him. He began to 
 make inquiries. The solitariness, the remoteness, of the 
 place seemed to strike him. Then 850 brace of grouse, a 
 few black game, a large number of mountain hares, and 
 six stags was a good return for nine weeks' shooting; and 
 the last tenant had not had experts with him. Could 
 Yolande have a piano or a harmonium sent to her away in 
 that wilderness? — anything to break the silence of the 
 moors. And Mr. Winterbourne was unlike most peoj)le 
 who are contemplating the renting of a moor ; the cost of 
 it was the point about which he thought least. But to be 
 away up there — with Yolande. 
 
 *' Of course it is just possible that the place may have 
 been let since I left," the Master of Lynn said. " We have 
 not had it vacant for many years back. But that could 
 easily be ascertained at Malta by telegram." 
 
 "You think you would like the place, Yolande?" her 
 father said. 
 
" I think so ; yes." 
 
 <* You would not die of cold ? " 
 
 " Not willingly, papa — I mean I would try not — I am 
 not afraid. You must go somewhere, papa ; there is no 
 Parliament there ; you are fond of shooting ; and there 
 will be many days, not with shooting, for you and rie to 
 wander in the mountains. I think that will be nice." 
 
 " Very well. I will take the place, Mr. Leslie, if it m 
 still vacant ; and I hope we shall be good neighbors ; and 
 if you can send us a deer or two occasionally into the 
 ravines you speak of, we shall be much obliged to you. 
 And now about dogs, and gillies, and ponies." 
 
 But this proved to be an endless subject of talk between 
 these two, both then and thereafter ; and so Yolande stole 
 away to look after her own affairs. Amongst other things 
 she got hold of tlie purser, and talked so coaxingly to him 
 that he went and ordered the cook to make two sheets of 
 toffee instead of one, and all of white sugar ; so that when 
 Yolande subsequently held her afternoon levee among the 
 children of the steerage passangers she was provided with 
 sweetstuff enough to make the hearts of the mothers quake 
 witli fear. 
 
 It was that evening that she had to put the flowers 
 overboard — on the wide and sad and uncertain grave. She 
 did not wish any one to see her, somehow; she could not 
 make it a public ceremony — this compliance with the pa- 
 thetic, futile wishes of the poor mother. She had most 
 carefully kept the flowers sprinkled with water, and despite 
 of that they had got sadly faded and shrivelled ; but slie 
 had purchased another basketful at Malta, and these were 
 fresh enough. What mattered ? The time was too vague ; 
 the vessel's course too uncertain ; the trifles of flowers 
 would soon be swallowed up in the solitary sea. But it 
 was the remembrance of the mother she was thinking 
 of. 
 
 She chose a moment when every one was down below 
 at dinner, and the deck was quite deserted. She took the 
 two little baskets to the rail ; and there, very slowly and 
 reverently, she took out handful after handful of the flowers 
 and dropped them down on the waves, and watched them 
 go floatmg and floating out and out on the swaying waters. 
 I'he tears were running down her face ; but she had for- 
 gotten whether there was anybody by or not. She was 
 thinking of the poor woman in England. Would she know? 
 
50 YOLANDE, 
 
 Could she see ? Was slie sure that her request would not 
 be forgotten ? And indeed she had not gone so far wrong 
 when she had trusted to the look of Yolande's face. 
 
 Then, fearing her al)sonce might be noticed, she went 
 quickly to her cabin, bathed lier eyes in cold water, and 
 then vent below— where she found the little coterie at tlieir 
 end ot the table all much exercised about Mr. Winter- 
 bourne's proposal to spend the autumn among the wild soli- 
 tudes of AUt-nam-Ba. He, indeed, declared he had nothing 
 to do with it. It was Yolande's doing. He had never 
 heard of Allt-nam-Ba. 
 
 " Tt is one of the best grouse moors in Scotland, I admit 
 that," Colonel Graham said, with an ominous smile ; " but 
 it is a pretty stiffish place to work over." 
 
 " You talk like that, Jim," said his wife (who seemed 
 anxious that the Winterbournes should preserve their fancy 
 for the place), " because you are getting too stout for hill 
 work. We shall find you on a pony soon. I should like to 
 see you shooting from the back of a pony." 
 
 " Better men than I have done that," said Inverstroy, 
 goo<l-hunioredly. 
 
 They had a concert that night — not a ball, as was at 
 first intended ; and there was a large assemblage, even the 
 young gentlemen of the smoking-room having forsaken 
 their Nap when they heard that Mrs. Graham was going to 
 sing. And very well she sang, too, with a thoroughly 
 trained voice of very considerable compass. She sang all 
 the new society songs, about wild melancholies and regrets 
 and things of that kind ; but her voice was really fine in 
 quality ; and one almost believed for the moment that the 
 pathos of these spasmodic things was true. And then her 
 dress — how beautifully it fitted her neat little shoulders and 
 waist ! Her curly short hair was surmounted by a coquet- 
 tish cap ; she had a circle of diamonds set in silver round 
 her neck ; but there were no rings to mar the symmetry of 
 her plump and pretty white hands. And how assiduous 
 those boy-officers were, although deprived of their cigars ! 
 They hung round the piano ; they turned over the . music 
 for her — as well as an eyeglass permitted them to see ; nay, 
 when she asked, one of them sent for a banjo, and performed 
 a solo on that instrument — performing it very well too. 
 None of the unmarried girls had the ghost of a chance. 
 Poor Yolande, in her plain pale pink gown, was nowhere. 
 All eyes were directed on the ])retty little figure at the 
 
YOLANDE. 51 
 
 piano ; on the stylish costume ; the charming profile, with 
 its outward sweep of black lashes ; on the graceful arms 
 and white fingers. For a smile from those clear dark gray- 
 eyes there was not one of the tall youths standing there 
 who would not have sworn lo abjure sporting newspapers 
 for the rest of his natural life. 
 
 There was only one drawback to the concert, as a con- 
 cert. To keep the saloon cool the large ])orts astern had 
 been opened, and the noise of tlie water rushing away from 
 the screw was apt to drown the music. 
 
 "Miss Winterbourne," some one said to Yolande — nnd 
 she started, for she had been sitting at one of the taliles, 
 imagining herself alone, and dreaming about the music — 
 " one can hear far better on deck. Won't you come up 
 and try ? " 
 
 It was the Master of Lynn. 
 
 " Oh yes," said she ; " thank you." 
 
 She went with him on deck, expecting to find her father 
 there. But Mr. Winterbourne had gone to the smoking- 
 room. What mattered? All companions are alike on 
 board ship. Young Leslie brought her a chair, and put it 
 close to the skylight of the saloon, and he sat down there 
 too. They could hear pretty well, and they could talk in 
 the intervals. The night was beautifully quiet, and the 
 moonlight whiter than ever on the decks. Tliese Southern 
 nights were soft and fitted for music ; they seemed to blend 
 the singing below and the gentle rushing of the sea all 
 around. And Yolande was so friendly — and frank to plain 
 spokenness. Once or twice she laughed ; it was a low, 
 quiet, pretty laugh. 
 
 Such were the perils of the deep that lay around them 
 as they sailed along those Southern seas. And at last tiiey 
 were nearing Malta. On the night before they expected to 
 reach the island Mrs. Graham took occasion to have a quiet 
 chat with her brother. 
 
 " Look here, Archie, we shall all be going ashore to- 
 morrow, I suppose," said she. 
 
 "No doubt." 
 
 "And I dare say," she added, fixing her clear, pretty, 
 shrewd eyes on him, " that you will be going away to the 
 club with those young fellows, and we shall see nothing of 
 70U." 
 
 ** We shall be all over the place, I suppose," he answered. 
 
§3 YOLA.VD!t. 
 
 * Most likely I shall lunch at the club. Graham can put 
 me down ; he is still a member, isn't lie ? " 
 
 *' It would be a good deal more sensible like," said his 
 sister, *' if you gave us lunch at a hotel." 
 
 " I ? " he cried, with a laugh. " I like that ! Consider- 
 ing my income and Inverstroy's income, a proposal of that 
 kind strikes one with a sort of coolness — " 
 
 "I didn't mean Jim and me only,'* said Mrs. Graham, 
 sharply. " Jim can pay for his own luncheon, and mine too. 
 Why don't you ask the Winterbournes ? " 
 
 This was a new notion altogether. 
 
 ** They wouldn't come, would they ? " he said, diffident- 
 ly. " It IS not a very long acquaintance. Still, they seem 
 so friendly, and I'd like it awfully, if you think you could 
 get Miss Winterbourne to go with you. Do you think you 
 could, Polly? Don't you see, we ought to pay them a com- 
 pliment — they've taken Allt-nam-Ba." . 
 
 " Miss "Winterbourne," said Mrs. Graham, distantly, " is 
 going ashore with me to morrow. Of course we must have 
 lunch somewhere. If you men like to go to the club, very 
 well I suppose we shall manage." 
 
 Well perhaps it was only a natural thing to suggest. 
 The Winterbournes had been kind to him. Moreover, wo- 
 men do not like to be left to walk up and down the Strada 
 Reale by themselves when they know that their hus- 
 bands and brothers are enjoying themselves in the Union 
 Club. But it is probable that neither Mrs. Graham nor 
 the young Master of Lynn quite fully recollected that at- 
 tentions and civilities which are simple and customary on 
 board ship — which are a necessity of the case (people con- 
 senting to become intimate and familiar through being con- 
 stantly thrown together) — ^may, on land, where one returns 
 to the conventionalities of existence, suddenly assume a 
 very different complexion, and may even appear to have a 
 •tartling significance. 
 
yuLande. 5S 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A. DAY ASHORE. 
 
 Most " landward " people, to use the Scotch phrase, 
 would imagine that on board ship ladies would be content 
 with any rough-and-tumble costume that would serve all 
 purposes from morning till night. But on a long voyage 
 the very reverse is the case. Nowhere else do women dress 
 with more elaborate nicety, and with such studied exhibi- 
 tion of variety as their tolerably capacious wardrobes per- 
 mit. For one thing, they have no more engrossing occupa- 
 tion. They can spend hours in their cabin devising new 
 combinations ; and as many of them are going to live abroad, 
 they have with them all their worldly gear from which to 
 pick and choose. It is a break in the monotony of the day 
 to have one dress at breakfast, another for forenoon games 
 and lunch, another for the afternoon promenade, another 
 for the meal of state in the evening. Then nowhere else 
 are well-made costumes seen to such advantage ; the deck 
 is a wide stage, and there is the best of light for colors. 
 Moreover, in a woman's eyes it is worth while to take 
 trouble about dressing well on board ship ; for it is no fleet- 
 ing glance that rewards her pains. The mere change of a 
 brooch at the neck is noticed. 
 
 But all the innocent little displays that had been made 
 during the long voyage were as nothing on board this ship 
 to the grand transformation that took place in view of the 
 landing at Malta. The great vessel was now lying silent 
 and still, her screw no longer throbbing, and instead of the 
 wide, monotonous circle of water around her, here were 
 blue arras of the sea running into the gray-green island ; 
 and great yellow bastions along the shore ; and over these 
 again a pale white and pink town straggling along the low- 
 lying hills. After breakfast the men-folk were left in un- 
 disturbed possession of the deck. They were not anxious 
 about their costume — at least the middle-aged ones were 
 not. They smoked their cigars, and leaned over the rail, 
 and watched the swai-m of gayly painted boats that were 
 liting to take them ashore. And perhaps some of them 
 
54 YOLANDR. 
 
 were beginning to wish the that women would look alive ; 
 for already the huge barges filled with coal were drawing 
 near, and soon the vess'4 would be enveloped in clouds of 
 dust. 
 
 Then the women began to come up, one by one ; but all 
 transformed! They were scarcely recognizable by mere 
 acquaintances. There was about them the look of a Sunday 
 afternoon in Kensington Gardens ; and it was strange 
 enough on the deck of a ship. People who had been on 
 sufficiently friendly terms now grew a little more reserved ; 
 these land costumes reminded them that on shore they 
 might have less claim to a free and easy companionship. 
 And Mr. Wihterbourne grew anxious. Did Yolande know ? 
 The maid she had brought with her, and whose services she 
 had agreed to share with Mrs. Graham, had been useless 
 enough from the moment she put foot on board the ship ; 
 but surely she must have learned what was going forward ? 
 Perhaps Yolande would appear in her ordinary pale pink 
 morning dress? She was far too content with simplicity 
 in costume. Again and again he bad had to rebuke her. 
 
 '* Why don't you have more dresses ? " he had said to 
 her on board this very ship. " Look at Mrs. Graham. Why 
 don't you have as many dresses as Mrs. Graham ? A mar- 
 ried lady ? What difference does that make ? I like to 
 see you prettily dressed. When I want you to save money, 
 I will tell you. You can't get them at sea ? Well, of course 
 net ; but you might have got them on shore. And if it 
 meant more trunks, what is the use of Jane ? " 
 
 He was a nervous and fidgety man, and he was beginning 
 to be really concerned about Yolande's appearance, when 
 he caught a glimpse of Yolande herself coming out on to 
 the deck from the companion way. He was instantly satisfied. 
 There was nothing striking about her dress, it is true — the 
 skirt and sleeves were of dark blue velvet, the rest of dark 
 blue linen, and she wore her white silver belt — but at all 
 events it was different ; and then the flat dark blue Scotch 
 cap looked pretty enough on her ruddy golden hair. In- 
 deed, he need not have been afraid that Yolande would 
 have appeared insignificant anyhow or anywhere. Her tall 
 stature; her slender and graceful figure; her air and carri- 
 age — all these rendered her quite sulficiently distinguished- 
 looking, even when one was not near enough to know any- 
 thing of the fascination of her eyes and the pretty pathetic 
 mouth. 
 
YOLANDE. 55 
 
 And yet lie was so anxious that she should acquit her* 
 self well — he was so proud of her — that he went to her 
 quickly and said, — 
 
 " That is one of the prettiest of your dresses, Yolande — 
 very pretty — and it suits your silver girdle very well ; but 
 the Scotch cap — well, that suits you too, you know — " 
 
 " It is Mrs. Graham's, papa. She asked me to wear it 
 — in honor of AUt-nam-Ba." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he said. " That is all very well — at Allt- 
 nam-Ba. It is very pretty — and Jane has done your hair 
 very nicely this morning — " 
 
 " I have not had a glimpse of Jane this morning," Yo- 
 lande said with a laugh. " Could I be so cruel ? No. Mrs. 
 Graham going ashore, and I to take Jane away — how could 
 
 " I don't like the arrangement," her father said, with a 
 frown. " "Why should you not have the help of your own 
 maid ? But about the cap, Yolande — look, these other 
 ladies are dressed a^ if they were going to church. The cap 
 would be very pretty at a garden party — at lawn tennis — 
 but I think — " 
 
 " Oh, yes I will put on a bonnet," said Yolande, instant- 
 ly. " It is not to please Mrs. Graham, it is to please you, 
 that I care for. One minute — " 
 
 But who was this who intercepted her ? Not the lazy young 
 fellow who used to lounge about the decks in a shooting coat, 
 with a cigarette scarcely ever absent from his finger or lips ; 
 but a most elegant young gentleman in tall hat and frock- 
 coat, who was dresssed with the most remarkable precision, 
 from his collar and stiff necktie to his snow-white gaiters 
 and patent leather boots 
 
 "Are you ready to go ashore. Miss Winterbourne ? " 
 said he, smoothing his gloves the while. " My sister is just 
 coming up." 
 
 " In one minute," said she : " I am going for a bonnet 
 instead of my Scotch cap — " 
 
 " Oh, no," he said, quickly ; '* please don't. Please wear 
 the caj). You have no idea how well it becomes you. And 
 it would be so kind of you to pay a compliment to the 
 Highlands — I think half the officers on board belong to the 
 Seaforth Highlandei's — and if we go to look at the club — '* 
 
 " No, thank you," she said, passing him with a friendly 
 smile. " I am not going en vivandiere. Perhaps I will 
 borrow the cap some other time — at AUt-nam-Ba." 
 
66 YOLANDE. 
 
 Mr. Winterbourne overheard this little conversation — in 
 fact, the three of them M-ere ahnost standing together ; and 
 whether it was that the general excitement throughout the 
 vessel had also affected him, or whether it was that the mer« 
 siglit of all these people in different costumes had made him 
 suddenly conscious of what were their real relations, not 
 their ship relations — it certainly startled him to hear the 
 young Master of Lynn, apparently on the same familiar foot- 
 ing as himself, advise Yolande as to what became her. The 
 next step was inevitable. He was easily alarmed. He re- 
 called his friend Short! ands's remark — which he had rather 
 resented at the time — that a P. and O. voyage would marry 
 off anybody who wanted to get married. He thought of Yo- 
 lande ; and he was stricken dumb with a nameless fear. Was 
 she going away from him ? Was some one else about to 
 supplant him in her affections ? These two had been in a 
 very literal sense all the world to each other. They had 
 been constant companions. They knew few people ; for he 
 lived in a lonely, nomadic kind of way ; and Yolande never 
 seemed to care for any society but his own. And now was 
 she going away from him ? " 
 
 Then it suddenly occurred to him that he had just ar- 
 ranged to take her away into those wild solitudes in the 
 Highlands, where the Leslies would be their only neighbors. 
 It seemed more and more inevitable. But why not ? Why 
 should not this happen ? He nerved himself to face the 
 worst. Yolande must marry some day. He had declared 
 to John Shortlands that he almost wished she would marry 
 now. And how could she marry better ? This young fel- 
 low was of good birth and education ; well mannered and 
 modest : altogether unexceptionable, as far as one could 
 judge. And Mr. Winterbourne had been judging, uncon- 
 sciously to himself. He had observed in the smoking-room 
 and elsewhere that young Leslie was inclined to be 
 caiitious about the expenditure of money — at cards or other- 
 wise ; but was not that rather a good trait ? The family 
 was not wealthy ; the present Lord Lynn had been engaged 
 all Ins life in slowly paying off the mortgages on the fanaily 
 estates; and no doubt this young fellow had been economi- 
 cally brought up. And then again — if Yolando^ were to 
 marry at all — would it not be better that she should be trans- 
 ferred to that distant and safe solitude ? Yolande as the 
 mistress of Lynn Towers, far away there in the seclusion of 
 the hills, living a Imppy and peaceful life, free from scath and 
 
YOLANDE. 57 
 
 terror; that was a fancy that pleased him. It seemed no* 
 so terrible now that Yolande should marry — at least — at 
 least he would face the worst, and strive to look at the 
 pleasanter aspect of it. She would be far away and safe. 
 
 These anxious, rapid struG^gling thoughts had not oc- 
 cupied a couple of minutes. Yolande appeared, and he was 
 almost afraid to regard her. Might there not be something 
 of the future written in her face ? Indeed, there was noth- 
 ing there but a pleasant interest about the going on shore : 
 and when she accepted a little nosegay that the Master of 
 Lynn brought her, and pinned it on her dress, it was with a 
 smile of thanks, but with — to any unconcerned eye — the 
 very frankest indifference. 
 
 The Grahams now announced themselves as ready ; and 
 the party descended the gangway into the boat — young 
 Leslie preceding them so as to hand Yolande into her place. 
 
 " Mr. Winterbourne,"said he, when they were all seated 
 under the awning, and sailing away through the lapping 
 green water, " I hope you and your daughter will come and 
 lunch with us — " 
 
 " Oh, yes of course," said he : did they not make one 
 party ? 
 
 " But what I mean is this," said the Master of Lynn ; " I 
 am giving those Graham people their lunch — the cormor- 
 ants ! — and Lynn Towers is a long way off ; and I haven't 
 often the chance of playing host ; and so I want you and 
 Miss Winterbourne also to be my guests at the Hotel." 
 
 " Oh, thanks ; very well," said Yolande's father who 
 had begun now to study this young man with the most 
 observant but cautious scrutiny, and was in a strange kind 
 of way anxious to be pleased with him. 
 
 " Why, I thought you were going to the club they were 
 all speaking of," said Yolande, staring at him. " Captain 
 Douglass told me so." 
 
 " Captain Douglass thinks he knows everything," said 
 young Leslie, good-naturedly; " whereas he knows nothing 
 except how to play sixpenny loo." 
 
 " But we will all go to the club, Miss Yolande," said 
 Colonel Graham, " and you shall see the ballroom. Very 
 fine. I, don't know what the high-art fellows nowadays 
 would think of it. I used to think it uncommonly fine 
 m by-gone times. Gad, I'm not so fond of dancing now." 
 
 "You can dance as well as ever you did, Jim, only 
 you're so lazy," his wife said, sharply. 
 
58 YOLANDE. 
 
 ** You'll have to give them a torchlight dance, Archie; 
 the colonel continued, " tlie first stag Mr. Winterbourne 
 kills. Miss Yolande would like to look at that. And you're 
 pretty good yourself at the sword dance. I once could do 
 it, in a way — " 
 
 " Jim, I won't have you talk as if you were an old man," 
 his wife said, angrily. *" I don't care about you ; I care 
 about uiyself. I won't have you talk like that. Everybody 
 on board thinks I'm forty." 
 
 *' You are not so young as you once were, you know, 
 Polly." 
 
 But Mrs. Graham was much too radiant a coquette to 
 be put out by any impertinent speech like that. She was 
 too sure of herself. She knew what her glass told her — 
 and the half-concealed admiration of a whole shipful of 
 people. She could afford to treat such speeches with con- 
 tempt. And so they reached the shore. 
 
 They refused to have a carriage ; preferring rather to 
 climb away up the steep steps, and away up the steep little 
 streets, until they reached those high and narrow thorougli- 
 fares (with their pink and yellow houses and pretty balconies, 
 and green casements) that were so cool and pleasant to 
 wander through. Sometimes the sun, though shut out, 
 sent a reflected light down into these streets in so peculiar 
 a fashion that the pink fronts of the houses looked quite 
 ti-ansparent, and not unfrequently, at the far end of the 
 thoroughfare, the vista w^as closed in by a narrow band of 
 tlie deepest and intensest blue — the high horizon-line of the 
 dislniit sea. They went up to St. John's Bastion to look 
 at tlic wilderness of geraniums and lotus-trees. They went 
 to St. John's Church. They went to the telegraph office, 
 where tlie Master of Lynn sent off this message : — 
 
 Archibald Leslie^ Hold Malta. 
 
 Ronald MacPherson^ High Street, Inverness. 
 Consider Allt-nam-Ba^ if unlets taken by Winterbourne^ 
 M. F. Slagpool^ Seven hundred fifty. Reply. 
 
 They went to see the Governor's Garden, and, in short, 
 all the sights of the place ; but what charmed the women- 
 folks most of all was, naturally, the great ballroom at the 
 TTnion Club. As tliey stood in the big, empty, hollow- 
 resounding place, Yolande said : — 
 
 'Oil yes, it is beautiful. It must be cool, with such a 
 
YOLANDE. %% 
 
 high roof. Papa, have they as fine a ballroom at the Re- 
 form Club?" 
 
 " The Reform Club ? " her father repeated — rather 
 vexed tliat she should make such a blunder. "Of course 
 not. Who ever heard of such a thing ! " 
 
 " Why not ? " she said. " Every one says this is a good 
 club — and very English. Why not at the Reform Club? 
 Is that why you have never taken me there ? " 
 
 " Well, it is — it is devilish English looking," said 
 Colonel Graham to his wife as they turned into the long 
 and cool coffee-room, where there were rows of small tables, 
 all nicely furnished out. " I like it. It reminds me of old 
 times. I like to see the fellows in the old uniforms ; it 
 makes one's heart warm. Hanged if I don't have a glass 
 of sherry and bitters, just to see if it tastes like the real 
 thing — or a brandy and soda. It's devilish like home. I 
 don't like l)eing waited on by these Lascar-Portuguese-half- 
 nigger fellows. My chap said to me yesterday at break- 
 fast, when I asked for poached eggs, * No go yet — when go 
 bell me bring.' And another fellow, when I asked for my 
 bath, said, ' Hot water no go — when go hot water, me tell.* 
 By Gad ! there's old Monroe — the fellow that nailed the 
 Sepoys at Azimghur — he's got as fat as a turkey-cock — " 
 
 Indeed, the members of the club — mostly officers 
 apparently — were now coming in to lunch ; and soon 
 Colonel Graham was fairly mobbed by old friends and 
 acquaintances, insomuch that it was with difficulty he was 
 drawn away to the banquet that young Leslie — taking 
 advantage of the stay of the party in St. John's Cliurch — • 
 had had prepared for them at the hotel. It was a modest 
 feast, but merry enough ; and the table was liberally 
 adorned with flowers, of which there is no lack in Malta. 
 Colonel Graham was much excited with meeting these old 
 friends, and had a great deal to say about them ; his wife 
 was glad to have a rest after so much walking. Yolande 
 w^as naturally interested in the foreign look of the place 
 and the people ; and young Leslie, delighted to have the 
 honor of being host, played that part with much tact and 
 modesty and skill. 
 
 To Mr. Winterbourne it was strange. Yolande seemed 
 to half belong to these people already Mrs. Graham 
 ap])eared to claim her as a sister. On board shi]) these 
 things were not so noticeable ; for of course they met at 
 meals ; and the same groups that were formed at table had 
 
%0 YOLANDE. 
 
 a tendency t,o draw together again on deck or in the saloon. 
 But here was this small party cut off from all the rest of the 
 passengers, and they were entirely on the footing of old 
 friends, and the Master of Lynn's anxiety to please Yolande 
 was most marked and distinct. On board ship it would 
 scarcely have been noticed'; here it was obvious to the 
 most careless eye. And yet, when he turned to Yolande 
 herself, who, as might have been imagined, ought to have 
 been conscious that she was being singled out for a very spe- 
 cial attention and courtesey,he could read no such conscious- 
 ness in her face — nothing but a certain pleasant friendliness 
 and indifference." 
 
 After luncheon they went away for a long drive to see 
 more sights, and in the afternoon returned to the hotel, be- 
 fore going on board. Young Leslie was thinking of leaving 
 instructions that the telegi-am from Inverness should be for- 
 warded on to Cairo, when, fortunately, it arrived. It read 
 curiously : — 
 
 Ronald MacPherson^ 
 Estate and Colliery Agent^ 
 High iStreet, Inverness. 
 
 The Honorable the Master ofZynn^ 
 
 of the P, and 0. Compam/s Steam-ship ^ 
 
 Tli^ Hotel, Malta. 
 
 Might, 
 
 " Now what on earth — Oh, I see ! " exclaimed the re- 
 cipient of this telegram, after starting at it in a bewildered 
 fashion for a moment. " I see. Here is a most beautiful 
 joke. MacPherson has wanted to be clever — has found out 
 tliat telegraphing to Malta is pi-etty dear ; thinks he will 
 make the message as short as possible, but will take it out in 
 tlie address. I am certain that is it. He has fancied the ad- 
 dress was free, as in England ; and he has sent his clerk to 
 the office. Won't the clerk catch it when he goes back and 
 says what he has paid ! That is real Highland shrewdness. 
 Never mind ; you have got the shooting, Sir. Winterbourne. 
 
 "I am glad of that." said Yolande's father, rather 
 absently; for now, when he thought of the solitudes of Allt- 
 nam-ba, it was ^ not of stags, or grouse, or mountain hares, 
 that he was thinking. 
 
 They got on board again, and almost immediately went 
 below to prepare for dinner, for the decks were still dirtv 
 
 J 
 
YOLANDS. 61 
 
 with the coal dust. And tha. night they were again at sea 
 — far away in the silences ; and a small group of them were 
 up at tlie end of the saloon, practising glees for the next 
 grand concert. Mr. Winterbourne was on deck, walking up 
 and down, alone; and perhaps trying to fancy how it would 
 be with him when he was really left alone, and Yolande en- 
 tirely away from him, with other cares and occupations. 
 And he was striving to convince himself that that would be 
 best ; that he would himself feel happier if Yolande's future 
 in life were secured ; if he could see her the contented and 
 proud mistress of Lynn Towers. Here on board this ship, 
 it might seem a hard thing that they should separate, even 
 though the separation were only a mitigated one ; but if they 
 were back in England again, he knew those terrible fears 
 would again beset him, and that it would be the first wish 
 of his heart that Yolande should get married. At Lynn 
 Towers he might see her sometimes. It was remote, and 
 quiet, and safe ; sometimes Yolande and he would walk to- 
 gether there. 
 
 Meanwhile down below they had finished their practic- 
 ing ; and the Master of Lynn was idly turning over a book 
 of glees. 
 
 " Polly," said he to his sister, *' I like that one as well as 
 any — I mean the words. Don't you think they apply very 
 well to Miss Winterbourne ?" 
 
 His sister took the book and read Sheridan's lines : 
 
 " Marked you her eye of heavenly blue ? 
 Marked you her cheek of roseate hue ? 
 That eye in liquid circles moving ; 
 That cheek abashed at man's approving 
 The one love's arrows darting round. 
 The other blushing at the wound. 
 
 Well, the music of this glee is charming, and the words are 
 well enough ; but when the Master of Lynn ventured the 
 opinion that these were a good description of Yolande, lie 
 never made a worse shot in his life. Yolande "abashed at 
 man's approving-' ? She let no such nonsense get into her 
 head. She was a little too proud for that — or perhaps only 
 caFGleas and indifferent. 
 
62 YOLANDR. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 KECONNAISSANCBS. 
 
 " I don't believe in any such simplicity. Men may 
 women don't. It seems to me more the simplicity of an 
 accomplished flirt." 
 
 The speaker was Mrs. Graham, and she spoke with an 
 air of resentment. 
 
 " You don't know her," said the Master of Lynn, with 
 involuntary admiration. 
 
 "I suppose you think you do," his sister said, with a 
 " superior " smile. And then — perhaps she was tired of 
 hearing so much in praise of Yolande, or perhaps she wished 
 her brother to be cautious, or perhaps she was merely gra- 
 tuitously malicious — she said, " I'll tell you what it is : I 
 should not be at all surprised to hear that she was engaged, 
 and has been engaged for any length of time." 
 
 He was struck silent by this fierce suggestion ; it be- 
 wildered him for a second or two. Then he exclaimed : — 
 
 "Oh, that is absurd — perfectly absurd ! I know she is 
 not." 
 
 "It would be a joke," continued his sister, with a sar- 
 donic smile, "if that were the explanation of the wonderful 
 friendliness that puzzles you so much. If she is engaged, 
 of course she has no further care or embarrassment. Every- 
 thing is settled. She is as frank with Dick as with Tom 
 and Harry. Oh, Archie, that would be a joke ! How Jim 
 would laugh at you ! " 
 
 " But it isn't true," he said, angrily, " and you know it 
 isn't. It is quite absurd." 
 
 " I will find out for you if you like," his sister said, 
 calmly. And here the conversation ceased, for Colonel 
 Graham at this moment came along to ask his brother-in- 
 law for a light. 
 
 They were again away from the land, perhaps even for- 
 getful that such a thing existed. It seemed quite natural 
 to get up morning after morning to find around them the 
 same bright, brilliant monotony of white-crested blue sea« 
 ftnd sunlit decks and fair skies ; and each day passed with 
 
YOLANDE, ^ 63 
 
 the usual amusements ; and then came the still moonlight ' -/ 
 night, with all its mysterious charm and loiieiiiiesg,.. It was " 
 a delightful life, especially for the Grahams and "Winter- 
 bournes, who were going nowhere in particular, but had 
 come chiefly for the voyage itself. And it was a life the 
 very small incidents of which excited interest, simply be- 
 cause people had plenty of time to consider them — and 
 each other. 
 
 There was no doubt that Yolande had become a pretty 
 general favorite ; for she found herself very much at home ; 
 and she put aside a good deal of that reserve which she 
 assumed in travelling on land. These people could in no 
 sense be considered strangers ; they were all too kind to 
 her. The ship's oflicers brought her the charts out of the 
 chart-room, to show her how far the vessel had got on her 
 course. The captain allowed her to go on the bridge, and 
 gave her his own glass when a distant sail was to be seen. 
 And the young soldiers, when they were not in the smoking- 
 room, and when they were not picking up rope quoits for 
 Mrs. Graham, had an eye on the many strayed birds fluttei- 
 ing about, and when they could they caught one and brought 
 it to Miss Winterbourne, who was glad to take the wild-eyed 
 fluttering wanderer down into the saloon and put its beak 
 for a second or two into a glass of fresh water. The swal- 
 lows were the most easily caught ; they were either more 
 exhausted or more tame than the quails and thrushes and 
 ringdoves. Once or twice Yolande herself caught one of 
 these swallows, and the beautiful bronze-blue creature seemed 
 not anxious to get away from her hand. Mrs. Graham said 
 it was too ludicrous to see the major of a Highland regi- 
 ment — a man six feet two in height, with a portentously 
 grave face — screw his eyeglass into its place, and set off to 
 stalk a dead-tired thrush, pursuing it along the awning, and 
 from boat to boat. But all the same these warriors seemed 
 pleased enough when they could bring to Yolande one of 
 these trembling captives, and when she took the poor thing 
 carefully nito her hands, and looked up, and said, " Oli, 
 thank you." It ought to be mentioned that the short upper 
 lip of the girl, though it had the pathetic droop at the 
 corners which has been mentioned — and which an artist 
 friend of the writer says ought to have been described as 
 Cupid's bow being drawn slightly — lent itself very readily 
 to a smile. 
 
 Mrs. Graham watched for a chance of speaking to 
 
64 VOL AND E. 
 
 Yolande, and soon found it. She went to the girl, who was 
 standing by the rail on the hurricane-deck, and put her arm 
 most affectionately round her, and said : — 
 
 " My dear child what are you staring into the sea for ? 
 Do you expect to see dolphins ? " 
 
 " I was wondering what made the water so blue," said 
 she, raising herself somewhat. " It is not the sky. If you 
 look at the water for awhile, and turn to the sky, the sky 
 is a pale w^ashed-out purple. What a wonderful blue it is, 
 too ; it seems to me twenty times more intense than the 
 blue of the w^ater along the Riviera." 
 
 " You have been along the Riviera ? " 
 
 " Oh, two or three times," said Yolande. " "We always 
 go that way into Italy." 
 
 " You must have travelled a great deal, from what I 
 hear." 
 
 "Yes," said Yolande, with a slight sigh, " I am afraid it 
 is a great misfortune. It is papa's kindness to me; but I 
 am sorry. It takes him away. At one time he said it was 
 my education ; but now we both laugh at that — for a pre- 
 tence. Oh, I assure you we are such bad travellers — we 
 never go to see anything that we ought to see. When we 
 go to Venice we go to the Lido and the sands, but to the 
 churches? — no. In Egypt you will have to do all the sight- 
 seeing; you will find us, oh, so very lazy that you cannot 
 imagine it ; you will go and see the tombs and the inscrip- 
 tions, and papa and I, we will take a walk and look at the 
 river until you come back." 
 
 " What a strange life to have led ! " said her friend, who 
 had her own point in view. " And among all your wander- 
 ings did you never meet the one who is to be nearer and 
 dearer?" 
 
 " Nearer and dearer ? " said Yolande, looking puzzled. 
 Papa is nearer and dearer to me than any one or anything 
 — naturally. That is why we are always satisfied to be to- 
 gether ; that is what makes our travelling so consoling — 
 no — so — so contented." 
 
 " But what I mean is — ^now forgive me, dear Yolande ; 
 you know I'm a very impertinent woman — I mean, in all 
 your travels, have you never come across some one whom 
 you would care to marry? Indeed, indeed, you must have 
 met many a one who would have been glad to carry you 
 off — that I can tell you without flattery." 
 
 ** Indeed, not any one," said Yolande, w^ith a perfectly 
 
YOLANDE. 65 
 
 frank laugh. " That is not what I would ever think of. 
 That is not what I wish." And then she added, with an 
 air of sadness : " Perhaps I am never to have what I wish 
 — it is a pity, a misfortune." 
 
 " What is it then, dear Yolande ? In your father's posi- 
 tion I don't see what there is in the world he could not get 
 for you. You see I am curious; lam very impertinent; 
 but I should like to treat you as my own sister ; I am not 
 quite old enough to act as a mother to you, for all that Jim 
 says." 
 
 " Oh, it is simple enough ; it does not sound difficult," 
 Yolande said. " Come, we will sit down, and I will tell 
 you." 
 
 They sat down on two deck-chairs that happened to be 
 handy, and Mrs Graham took the girl's hand in hers, because 
 she really liked her, although at times human nature broke 
 down, and she thought her husband was carrying his praises 
 of Yolande just a trifle too far. 
 
 " When I have met English ladies abroad," said Yolande, 
 " and the one or two families I knew in London, it was so 
 nice to hear them talk of their homes— perhaps in the 
 country, where every one seemed to know them, and they 
 had so many interests, so many affections. They were • 
 proud of that. It was a tie. They were not merely wan 
 derers. Even your brother, dear Mrs. Graham, he has filled 
 me with envy of him when he has told me of the district 
 around Lynn Towers, and seeming to know every one, and 
 always settled there, and capable to make friends for a life- 
 time, not for a few hours in a hotel. What place do I real- 
 ly know in the world ; what place do they really know me ? 
 A little village in France that you never heard of. And I 
 am English. I am not French. Ah, yes, that is wh:it I 
 have many a time wished — that my papa would have a 
 house like others — in the country? — yes — or in the town? 
 — yes — what does that matter to me ? And I should make 
 it pretty for him, and he would have a home — not a hotel ; 
 also I have thought of being a secretary to him, but perhaps 
 that is too much beyond what is possible. Do you think I 
 can imagine anything about marrying when this far more 
 serious thing is what I wish ? Do you think that any one 
 can be nearer and dearer to me than the one who has given 
 me all his affection, all his life, who thinks only of me, who 
 has sacrificed already far too much for me ? Who else has 
 done that for me ? And vou would not have me ungrrateful ? 
 
66 OLANDE. 
 
 Besides, also, it is selfish. I do not like the society of any 
 one nearly so much ; why should I change for a stranger? 
 But it is not necessary to speak of that ; it is a stupidity. 
 But now I have told you what I wish for, if it were pos- 
 eible." 
 
 Mrs. Graham was convinced. There was no affectation 
 here. The Master of Lynn had no rival, at all events. 
 
 " Do you know, my dear child, you talk very sensibly,'* 
 said she, patting her hand. *' And I don't see why your 
 papa should not give you two homes — one in the country 
 and one in town — for I am sure every one says he is wealthy 
 enough. But perhaps this is the reason. Of course you 
 will marry — no, stay a minute — I tell you, you are sure to 
 marry. Why, the idea ! Well, then, in that case, it might 
 be better for your papa not to have a household to break 
 up; he could attend to his Parliamentary duties very well 
 if he lived in the Westminster Palace Hotel, for example, 
 and be free from care — " 
 
 Yolande's mouth went very far down this time. 
 
 *' Yes, that may be it," she said. "Perhaps that will 
 happen. I know I have taken away too much of his time, 
 and once, twice perhaps, we have had jokes about my be- 
 ing married ; but this was the end, that when my papa tells 
 me to marry, then I will marry. I must go somewhere. 
 If I am too much of a burden — and sometimes I am very 
 sad, and think that I am — then he must go and bring some 
 one to me, and say, * Marry him.' And I will marry him 
 — and hate him, ^^ 
 
 "Gracious heavens, child, what are you saying! Of 
 course, if ever you should many, you will choose for your- 
 self." 
 
 " It is not my affair," said Yolande, coldly. '' If I am to 
 go away, I will go away; but I shall hate the one that 
 takes me away." 
 
 " Yolande," said her friend, seriously, " you are making 
 it rather hard for your father. Perhaps I have no right to 
 interfere ; but you have no mother to guide you; and real- 
 ly you talk such — such absurdity — " 
 
 "But how do I make it hard for my papa?" said 
 Yolande, quickly looking up with an anxious glance. " Am 
 I a constraint ? Do you think there is something he would 
 do ? Am I in his way — a burden to him ? " 
 
 "No, no, no," said the other, good-humoredly. "Why 
 should you think any such thing? I was only referring to 
 
YOLANDE. 67 
 
 the madness of your own fancy. The idea that your father 
 is to choose a husband for you — whom you will hate ! Now 
 suppose that you are a burden — I believe I informed you 
 that I was a very impertinent woman, and now I am an 
 intermeddler as well — suppose that your father would like 
 to take a more active part in public affairs, and that he 
 knows you are opposed to the very notion of getting mar- 
 ried. He is in a painful dilemma. He won't tell you that 
 you are rather interfering with his Parliamentary work. 
 And most assuredly he won't recommend you to marry 
 any one, if you are going to marry with a deadly grudge 
 against your husband." 
 
 Yolande thought over this for some minutes. 
 
 " I sup])ose it is true," she said, rather sadly. " He 
 would not tell me. He has said I kept him away from the 
 House of Commons, but then it was only amusement and 
 joking. And I — I also — have many a time been fearing it 
 was not right he should waste so much care on me, when 
 no one else does that with their daughters. Why does he 
 go to the House ? Partly because it is his duty to work for 
 the country — to see that it is well governed — partly to make 
 fame, which is a noble ambition. And then I interfere. He 
 thinks I am not quite well, when I am quite well. He thinks 
 I am dull, when I am not dull — when I v/ould rather read his 
 speech in the newspapers than go anywhere. But always the 
 same — I must go and be amused ; and Parliament and every- 
 thing is left behind. It was not so bad when I was at the 
 Chateau ; then I was learning; but even then he was always 
 coming to seeme and to take me away. And when I used to 
 say, * Papa, why don't you take me to England ? I am English, 
 I want to see my own country, not other countries,' — it 
 was always ' You will- see enough of England by and by. 
 But when I go to England, look ! it is the same — always 
 away again, except a week or two, perhaps, at Oatlands 
 Park, or a day or two in London ; and I have not once 
 been to the House of Commons, where every one goes, and 
 even my papa is vexed that I do not know they have not 
 a ballroom at the Reform Club ! " 
 
 " Well, dear Yolande, you have led a queer sort of life ; 
 but, after all, was not your father wise? He could not have 
 a household with a schoolgirl to look after it. But now I 
 can see that all this will be changed, and you will have no 
 more fears that you are a restraint. Of course you will 
 matry, and you will be very happy, and your papa will 
 
68 YOLANDE. 
 
 have your home to go to at the Easter holidays : and you 
 will go up to town to hear liim speak in the House, and he 
 will have a fair chance in politics. So that is all arranged, 
 and you are not to have any wild or fierce theories. There 
 goes dressing-bell — come along ! " 
 
 Day after day passed without change. The young 
 Master of Lynn had been re-assured by his sister ; and very 
 diligently, and with a Jacob-like modesty and patience, he 
 stroVe to win Yolande's regard; but a thougii slie was always 
 most friendly towards him, and pleased to chat with him, 
 or walk the hurricane deck with him, she seemed to treat 
 him precisely as she treated any of the others. If there was 
 one whom she especially favored, it was Colonel Graham, 
 whose curt, sardonic speeches amused her. 
 
 At last they arrived at Port Said, that curious, rectangu- 
 lar-streeted, shanty-built place, that looks like Cheyenne 
 painted pink and white ; and of course there was much 
 wonder and interest in beholding land again, and green 
 water, and the swarming boats with their Greeks and 
 Maltese and negroes and Arabs, all in their various cos- 
 tumes. But it was with a far greater interest that they re- 
 garded the picture around them when the vessel had started 
 again, and was slowly and silently stealing away into the 
 wide and lonely desert land by means of this water highway. 
 The Suez Canal had been rather a commonplace phrase to 
 Yolande, mixed up with monetary affairs mostly, and sug- 
 gestive of machinery. But all this was strange and new, 
 and the vessel was going so slowly that the engines were 
 scarcely heard ; she seemed to glide into this dreamworld 
 of silver sky and far-reaching wastes of yellow sand. It 
 was so silent and so wide and so lonely^ For the most part 
 the horizon-line was a mirage, and they watched the con- 
 tinual undulation of the silver white waves, and even the 
 strange reflections of what apeared to be islands ; but here 
 there was not even a palm to break the nonotony of the 
 desert — only the little tamarisk bushes dotting the sand. 
 From a marsh a red-legged flumingo rose, slowly winging 
 its way to the soulh. Then a string of camels came along 
 with forward stretching heads and broad, slow-pacing feet, 
 the Bedouins either perched on the backs of the animals or 
 striding through the sand by their side, their faces looking 
 black in contrast to their white wide-flowing garments. 
 And so they glided through the silent gray, silver, world. 
 
 The night saw another scene. They were anchored in 
 
YOLAATDE, 69 
 
 a narrow part of the canal, where the banks were high and 
 steep, and the moonlight was surpassingly vivid. On one 
 of these banks — it seemed a great mountain as it rose to the 
 dark blue vault where the stars were — the moonlight threw 
 the shadow of the rigging of the ship so sharply that every 
 spar and rope was traced on the silver clear sand. There 
 was an almost oppressive silence in this desert solitude ; a 
 dark animal that came along through the tamarisk bushes — 
 some said it was a jackal — disappeared up and over the 
 sand mountain like a ghost. And in the midst of this weird 
 cold moonlight and silence these people began to get up a 
 dance after dinner. The piano was brought on deck from 
 the saloon. The women-folk had put on their prettiest 
 costumes. There had been perhaps (so it was said) a little 
 begging and half-promising going on beforehand. The 
 smoking-room was deserted. From the supports of the 
 awnings a number of large lanterns had been slung, so that 
 when the ladies began to appear, and when the first notes 
 of the music were heard, the scene was a very animated 
 and pretty one, but so strange with the moonlit desert 
 around. 
 
 The Master of Lynn had got hold of Yolande ; he had 
 been watching for her appearance. 
 
 " I hope you will give me a dance, Miss Winterbourne," 
 said he. 
 
 " Oh yes, with pleasure," said she, in the most friendly 
 way. 
 
 " There are no programmes, of course," said he. " And 
 one can't make engagements; but I tliink a very good rule 
 in a thing like this is that one should dance with one's 
 friends. For myself, I don't care to dance with strangers. 
 It doesn't interest me. I think when people form a party 
 among themselves on board ship — well, I think they should 
 keep to themselves." 
 
 " Oh, but that is very selfish, is it not ? " Yolande said. 
 " We are not supposed to be strangers with any one after 
 being on board ship so long together." 
 
 "Miss Winterbourne, may I have the pleasure of danc- 
 ing this waltz with you ? " said a tall, solemn man with an 
 eyeglass ; and the next moment the Master of Lynn beheld 
 Yolande walking toward that cleared space with Major 
 Mackinnon, of the Seaforth Highlanders ; and as to what he 
 thought of the Seaforth Highlanders, and what he hoped 
 
70 YOLANDE, 
 
 would happen to them, from their colonel down to their 
 pipe-major, it is unnecessary to say anything here. 
 
 But Yolande did give him the r^ext dance, which molli- 
 fied him a little — not altogether, however, for it was only 
 a square. The next was a Highland Schottische ; and by 
 ill luck he took it for granted that Yolande, having been 
 brought up in France, would know nothing about it ; so 
 ho went away and sought out his sister. Their performanca 
 WHS the feature of the evening. No one else thought of 
 interfering. And it was very cleverly and prettily and 
 Mi-tistically done ; i ^omuch that a round of applause 
 gieeted them at the end, even from the young Highland 
 officers, who considered that young Leslie might just as 
 well have sought a partner elsewhere instead of claiming 
 liis own sister. Immediately after, the Master of Lynn re- 
 turned to Yolande. 
 
 " Ah, that is very pretty," she said. " No wonder they 
 approved you and clapped their hands. It is the most 
 2)icturesque of all the dances, especially when th6re are 
 only two, and you have the whole deck for display. In a 
 ballroom, perhaps no." 
 
 "You must learn it, Miss Winterbourne, before you 
 come North," said he. ** We always dance it in the North." 
 
 *' Oh, but 1 know it very well," said Yolande quietly. 
 
 "You?" said he, in an injured way. " Why didn't 
 you tell me? Do you think I wanted to dance with my 
 sister, and leave you here ? " 
 
 "But Mrs. Graham and you danced it so prettily — oh, 
 so very well indeed — " 
 
 There was somebody else approaching them now — for the 
 lady at the piano had that instant begun another waltz. 
 This was Captain Douglas also of the Seaforth Highlanders. 
 
 " Miss Winterbourne, if you are not engaged will you 
 give me this waltz ? " 
 
 Yolande did not hesitate. Why should she ? She was 
 not engaged. 
 
 " Oh yes, thanks," said she, with much friendliness, and 
 she rose and took Captain Douglas's arm. 
 
 But Leslie could not bear this perfidy, as he judged it. 
 He would have no more to do with the dance, or with her. 
 Without a word to any one he went away to the smoking- 
 room, and sat down there, savage and alone. He lit a 
 cigar, and smoked vehemently. 
 
 *' Polly talks about men being bamboozled by women," 
 
YOLANDE. 71 
 
 lie was thinking bitterly. " She knows nothing about it. 
 It is women who know nothing about women ; they hide 
 themselves from each other. Bat she was right on one 
 point. That girl is the most infernal flirt that ever stepped 
 the earth." 
 
 And still, far away, he could hear the sound of the 
 music, and also the stranger sound — like a whispering of 
 silken wings— of feet on the deck. He was angry and indig- 
 nant. Yolande could not be blind to his constant devotion 
 to her, and -yet she treated him exactly as if he were a 
 stranger — going off with the first-comer. Simplicity! His 
 sister was ri'ght— it was the simplicity of a first class flirt. 
 
 And still the waltz went on ; and he heard the winnow- 
 ing sound of the dancers' feet ; and his thoughts were 
 bitter enough. He was only flve-and-twenty ; at that age 
 hopes and fears and disappointments are emphatic and 
 near ; probably it never occurred to him to turn from the 
 vanities of the hour, and from the petty throbbing anxie- 
 ties and commonplaces of everyday life, to think of the 
 awful solitudes all around him there — the voiceless, world- 
 old desert lying so dim and strange under the moonlight 
 and the stars, its vast and mysterious heart quite pulseless 
 and calm. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CLOUDS. 
 
 Next morning, quite unconscious that she had dealt any 
 deadly injury to any one, Yolande was seated all by herself 
 on the hurricane-deck, idly and carelessly and happily 
 drinking in fresh clear air, and looking away over the wastes 
 of golden sand to a strip of intense dark blue that was soon 
 to reveal itself as the waters of a lake. She was quite alone 
 The second officer had brought her one of the ship's glasses, 
 and had then (greatly against his will) gone on the bridge 
 again. The morning was fair and shining; the huge 
 stieamer was going placidly and noiselessly through the still 
 water ; if Yolande was thinking of anything, it was proba- 
 
7l> YOLANDE. 
 
 ably that she had never seen her father so pleased and con- 
 tented as on this long voyage ; and perhaps she was won- 
 dering whether, after, all* it might not be quite as well that 
 he should give up Parliament altogether, so that they two 
 might wander away through the world, secure in each 
 other's company. 
 
 Nor was she aware that at this precise moment her 
 future was being accurately arranged for her in one of the 
 cabins below. 
 
 " I confess I don't see where there can be the least ob- 
 jection." Mrs. Graham was saying to her husband (who 
 was still lying in his berth, turning over the pages of a 
 novel), as she fixed a smart mob-cap on her short and pretty 
 curls. " I have looked at it every way. Papa may make a 
 fuss about Mr. Winterbourne's politics, but there are sub- 
 stantial reasons why he should say as little as possible. 
 Just think how he has worked at the improving of the estate 
 — all his life — and with scarcely any money; and just 
 fancy Archie coming in to complete the tiling! I know 
 what I would do. I would drain and plant the rushed 
 slopes, and build a nice lodge there ; and then I would take 
 the sheep off AUt-nam-Ba, and make it a small forest ; and 
 it would let for twice as much again. Oh Jim, just fancy 
 if Archie were to be able to buy back Corrievreak ! " 
 
 Her husband flung the book aside, and put his hands 
 under his head. His imagination was at work. 
 
 " If I were Archie," he said, with his eyes fixed on 
 vacancy, " I would make Corrievreak the sanctuary; that's 
 what I would do. Then I would put a strip of sheep up 
 the Glenbuie side to fence off Sir John ; do you see that, 
 Polly ? And then I would take the sheep off Allt-nam-Ba, 
 as you say, only I would add on All-nam-Ba to Lynn. Do 
 you see that? What made your grandfather part with 
 Corrievreak I don't know. Fancy having the sanctuary 
 within two miles of a steamboat pier : it's a standing temp- 
 tation to all the poachers in the country ! Now if you take in 
 Allt-nam-Ba, and make Corrievreak the sanctuary, and 
 if you'd hold your hand for a year or two in the letting, 
 you'd soon have one of the best forests in Scotland. But 
 letting is the mischief. Those fellows from the south shoot 
 anything on four legs they can get at. Forty years ago the 
 finest stags in Invernessshire were found round and about 
 Corrievreak ; the Fork Augustus lads knew that, they used 
 to say. Oh, I quite agi-ee with you. I think it would be 
 
YOLANDE. 73 
 
 an uncommon good match. And then Archie would have 
 a house in town, I suppose ; and they might put us up for 
 a week or two in the season. Tit for tat's fair play. He 
 has the run of Inverstroy when there isn't a bit of rabbit- 
 shooting left to him at Lynn." 
 
 " Well, but there's just this, you know, Jim," his wife 
 said, with an odd kind of smile. " We know very little 
 about what kind of girl she is, and Archie knows less than 
 we do." 
 
 " Oh, she's well enough," said the stout soldier, carelessly. 
 That was a subsidiary point. Wliat his mind clearly 
 grasped was the importance of having Corrievreak made 
 the sanctuary of the deer forest. 
 
 " She is well enough, no doubt," his wife said ; and as 
 she had finished her toilette she now stood and regarded, 
 him, with a demure kind of hesitation in her face, as if she 
 were afraid to confess her thoughts. " She is well enough. 
 She has good manners. She is distingushed-looking, for a 
 girl of her age ; and you know all the money in Slagpool 
 wouldn't induce papa to receive a dowdy daughter-in-law. 
 And she doesn't flirt — unless — well, it's just })ossible she 
 knows that that indifference of hers is attractive to young 
 men ; it puts them on their mettle, and touches their van- 
 ity. But after all, Jim, we know very little about the girl. 
 VVe don't know what sort of a wife she w^ould make. She 
 has come through nothing ; less than most girls ; for she 
 might as well have been in a convent as in that Chateau. 
 And of course she can't expect life always to be as pleasant 
 for her ; and — and — she has come through no crisis to show 
 what kind of stuff she is made of ; and Ave might all be mis- 
 taken — " 
 
 " Oh, I see what you're driving at,'" her husband said, 
 with just a touch of contempt, " Don't be alarmed ; I dare 
 say Archie isn't anxious to marry a tragedy queen. 1 don't 
 see why Miss Winterbourne should be put to any fiery trial, 
 or should have to go through mortal agonies, any more than 
 the majority of young women in exceptionally easy circum- 
 stances. And if she sht)uld, I have no doubt she will show 
 common-sense, and men prefer common-sense to hysterics 
 — a long way. I think she has common-sense ; and I don't 
 see why she and Archie shouldn't marry, and have a pleas- 
 ant enough time of it ; and I suppose they w^ill quarrqj 
 until one or other gets tired of quarrelling, and refuses; and 
 if they only have a tidy little house about Rruton Street or 
 
74 YOLANDE. 
 
 Conduit Street and a good cook, it will be very convenient 
 for us. Now I wish to goodness you'd clear out, and let me 
 get dressed." 
 
 The dismissal was summary, but pretty Mrs. Graham 
 was a good-natured woman, and with much equanimity she 
 left the cabin, made her way along the saloon, and up the 
 companion way to the outer air. About the first person she 
 ran against was her brother, and black thunder was on hi>; 
 face. 
 
 *' Where is Miss Winterbourne ? '* she said, inadver 
 tently, and without reflecting that the question was odd. 
 
 "On the hurricane-deck," said he. "I dare say you 
 will find half the officers of the ship round her." 
 
 There was something in his tone which caused his sister, 
 with considerable sharpness, to ask him wliat he meant; 
 and then out came the story of his wrongs. Now Mrs. 
 Graham had not been too well pleased when her husband 
 and everybody else sang the praises of Yolande to her ; but 
 no sooner was the girl attacked in this way than she in- 
 stantly, and with a good deal of warmth, flew to her de- 
 fence. What right had he to suppose that Miss Winter- 
 bourne ought to have singled him out as different from the 
 others? Why should she not dance with whomsoever she 
 pleased ? If the ship's officers showed her some little ordi- 
 nary courtesies, why sliould she not be civil in return ? 
 What right of possession had he in her? What was he to 
 her in any way whatever? 
 
 " You said yourself she was a flirt," her brother re- 
 torted. 
 
 "I?" she said. "I? I said nothing of the kind ! I 
 said that the preposterous innocence that you discovered in 
 her was more like the innocence of a confirmed flirt. But 
 that only shows me that you know nothing at all about her. 
 To imagine that she should have kept all her dances for 
 you -" 
 
 "I imagined nothing of the sort," he answered, with 
 equal vehemence. " But I imagined that as we were trav- 
 elling together as friends, even a small amount of friendli- 
 ness might have been shown. But it is no matter." 
 
 " You are quite right, it is no matter," she interrupted. 
 ** I have no doubt Miss Winterbourne will find plenty to 
 understand her character a little better than you seem to 
 do. You seem to think that you should have everything — 
 that everything should be made smooth and pleasant for 
 
YOLANDE, 75 
 
 you. I suppose, when you marry, you will expect your 
 wife to go through life with her ballroom dress on. It 
 isn't her womanly nature that you will be thinking of, but 
 whether she dresses well enough to make other women 
 envious." 
 
 All this was somewhat incoherent ; but there was a con- 
 fused recollection in her brain of what she had been saying 
 to her husband, and also perhaps a vague impression that 
 tliese words were exculpating herself from certain possible 
 charges. 
 
 " You don't consider whether a woman is fit to stand 
 the test of suffering and trouble : do you think she is always 
 going to be a pretty doll to sit at the head of your dinner 
 table ? You think you know what Yolande's nature is ; but 
 you know nothing about it. You know that she has pretty 
 eyes, perhaps ; and you get savage when she looks at any 
 one else." 
 
 She turned quickly away ; Yolande had at that moment 
 appeared at the top of the steps. And when she came down 
 to the deck Mrs. Graham caught her with both hands, and 
 kissed her, and still held her hands and regarded her most 
 affectionately. 
 
 " Dear Yolande, how well you are looking ! " she ex- 
 claimed (meaning that her brother should hear, but he had 
 walked away). "Dissipation does not harm you a bit. 
 But indeed a dance on the deck of a ship is not like a dance 
 in town " 
 
 Yolande glanced around ; there was no one by. * 
 
 '* Dear Mrs. Graham," said she, " I have a secret to ask 
 you. Do you think your brother would do me a great 
 favor ? Dare I ask him ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, of course," said the other, with some hesi- 
 tation and a little surprise. " Of course he would be de- 
 lighted." 
 
 She could see that Yolande, at least, knew nothing of 
 the fires of rage or jealousy she had kindled. 
 
 ^ " I will tell you what it is, then. I wish my papa to 
 think that I can manage — oh, everythino: ! when we go to 
 the house in the Highlands. I wish that he may have no 
 trouble or delay; that everything should be quite ready 
 and quite right. Always he has said, ' Oh, you are a child ; 
 why do you want a house ? Why should you have vexjk- 
 tion ? ' But, dear Mrs. Graham, I do not mind the trouble 
 »t all ; and I am filled with joy when I think of the time I 
 
76 VOLANDE, 
 
 am to go to the shops in Inverness ; and papa will see that 
 I can remember everything that is wanted ; and he will 
 have no bother at all ; and he will see that I can look after 
 a house, and then he will not be so afraid to take one in 
 London or the country, and to have a proper home as every 
 one else has. And this is what I would aak of your 
 brother, if he will be so very kind. He will be at Inverness 
 before any of us, I suppose ?'" . 
 
 *' No doubt ; but why should you look so far ahead, 
 Yolande, and trouble yourself ? " 
 
 "It is no trouble; it is a. delight. You were speaking 
 of the carriage we -should want, and the horses, to drive be- 
 tween Allt-nam-Ba and the steamboat pier. Now all the 
 other things that I have made a list of " 
 
 *' Already ? " 
 
 " When you were so good as to tell me them, I put 
 them down on a sheet of paper — it is safer ; but the car- 
 riage : do you think I might ask your brother to hire that 
 for us for the three months ? Then when papa goes to In- 
 verness there will be no bother or waiting ; everything in 
 readiness ; the carriage and horses engaged ; the dogs sent 
 on before , the cook at the lodge, with luncheon ready, or 
 dinner, if it is late ; all the bedroom things nicely aired ; all 
 right — everything right. Do you think I might ask Mr. 
 Leslie ? Do you think he would be so kind ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am sure he would be delighted, " said Mrs. Gra- 
 ham (with some little misgiving about Archie's existing 
 mood). "I fancy he has promised to get your papa a 
 couple of ponies for the game panniers ; and he might as 
 well get you a dog-cart at the same time. I should say a 
 four-wheeled dog-cart and one stout serviceable horse 
 would be best for you ; with perhaps a spring-cart and an 
 additional pony — to trot in with the game to the steamer. 
 But Archie will tell you. It sounds so strange to talk 
 about such things — here. Jim and I had a chat about the 
 Highlands this very morning." 
 
 " I will speak to your brother after breakfast, then." 
 
 But after breakfast, as it turned out, the Master of Lynn 
 was nowhere to be found. Tolande wondered that he did 
 not as usual come up to the hurricane-deck to play " Bull," 
 or have a promenade with her ; but thought he was par- 
 haps writing letters in the saloon, to be posted that night 
 at Suez. She did not like to ask : she only waited. She 
 played " Bull" with her father, and got sadly beaten. She 
 
YOLANDE, 77 
 
 had a smart promenade with Colonel Graham, who told 
 her some jungle stories ; but she was thinking of the High- 
 lands all the time. She began to be impatient and set to 
 work to devise letters, couched in such business phraseol- 
 ogy as she knew, requesting a firm of livery-stable keepers 
 to state their terms for the hire of a dog-cart and horse for 
 three months, the wages of the groom included. 
 
 There was no need to hurry. There had been some 
 block in the canal, and the huge bulk of the sliip was now 
 lying idly in the midst of the Greater Bitter Lake. All 
 around them was the wide plain of dazzling blue-green 
 water, and beyond that the ruddy brown strip of the desert 
 quivered in the furnace-like heat ; while overhead shone 
 the pale clear sky, cloudless and breathless. Yolande, as 
 usual, wore neither hat nor bonnet ; but she was less reck- 
 less in venturing from under shelter of the awnings. And 
 some of the old Anglo-Indians were hoping that the ' 
 punkah wallahs would be set to work at dinner-time. 
 
 The Master of Lynn had not shown up at breakfast ; 
 but he made his appearance at lunch, and he greeted Yo- 
 lande with a cold " good-morning" and a still colder bow. 
 Yolande, in truth, did not notice any change in his manner 
 at first, but by and by she could not fail to perceive that he 
 addressed the whole of his conversation to Colonel Gra- 
 ham, and that he had not a single word for her, though he 
 was sitting right opposite to her. Well, she thougiit, per- 
 haps this question as to whether they were to get through 
 to Suez that evening was really very important. It did 
 not much matter to her. She was more interested in In- 
 verness than in Suez; and among the most prized of her 
 possessions was a long list of things necessary for a shoot- 
 ing lodge, apart from the supplies which she was to send 
 from the Army and Navy Stores. She felt she was no 
 longer a schoolgirl, nor even a useless and idle wanderer. 
 Her father should see what she could do. Was he aware 
 that she knew that ordinary blacking was useless for shoot- 
 ins: boots, and that she had got *' dubbing " down in her 
 list? 
 
 " Archie," said Mrs. Graham to her brother the first 
 time she got hold of him after lunch, " you need not be 
 rude to Miss Winterbourne." 
 
 "I hope I have not been," said he, somewhat stiffly. 
 *' You treated her as if she were an absolute stranger at 
 
78 YOLANDE. 
 
 lunch. Not that I suppose she cares. But for your own 
 sake you might show better manners." 
 
 "I think you mistake the situation," said he, with ap- 
 parent indifference. "'Do as you're done by* is a very 
 good motto. It is for her to say whether wo are to be 
 friends, acquaintances, or strangers ; and if she chooses to 
 treat you on the least-favbred-nation scale, I suppose youVe 
 got to accept that. It is for her to choose. It is a free 
 country." 
 
 " I think you are behaving abominably. I suppose you 
 are jealous of those young officers ; men who are not in 
 the army always are; they know women like a man who 
 can fight." 
 
 " Fight ! Smoke cigarettes and play sixpenny Nap, 
 you mean. That's about all'the fighting they've ever done." 
 
 "Do you say that about Jim?" said the young wife, 
 with a Hash of indignation in her eyes. " Why — ,' 
 
 " I wasn't aware that Graham was a candidate for Miss 
 Winterbourne's favors," said he. 
 
 " Well, now," she said, " you are making a fool of your- 
 self, all to no purpose. If you are jealous of them, won't 
 you be rid of the whole lot of them to-night, supposing we 
 get to Suez ? And we shall be all by ourselves after that ; 
 and I am sure I expected we should make such a pleasant 
 and friendly party." 
 
 " But I am quite willing"' said he. " If I meet Miss 
 Winterbourne on terms of her own choosing, surely that is 
 only leaving her the liberty she is entitled to. There is no 
 quarrel, Polly. Don't be aghast. If Miss Winterbourne 
 wishes to be friendly, good and well ; if not, good and 
 better. No bones wdll be broken." 
 
 " I tell you this at least," said his sister, as a parting 
 warning or entreaty^ " that she is perfectly unconscious of 
 having' given you any offence. She has been anxious to 
 speak to you all day, to ask you for a favor. She wants 
 you to hire a dog-cart and a spring-cart for them when you 
 go to Inverness. If she thought there was anything (the 
 matter, would she ask a favor of you ? " 
 
 "There is nothing the matter," he rejoined, with perfect 
 equanimity. " And I am quite willing to hire any number 
 of dog-carts for her — when slie asks me." 
 
 But oddly enough, whether it was that Yolande had de- 
 tected something unusual in his manner, or whether that 
 item in her list of preparations had for the moment esceped 
 
YOLANDE. 79 
 
 her memory, or whether it was that the ship had again start- 
 ed, and everybody was eagerly looking forward to reaching 
 Suez that night, nothing further was then said of the request 
 that Yolande had intended to make. Indeed, she had but 
 little opportunity of speaking to him that afternoon, for 
 most of her time was taken up in finally getting ready for 
 quitting the big steamer, and in helping Mrs. Graham to do 
 likewise. When they did reach Suez it was just dinner- 
 time, and that meal was rather hurried over ; for there were 
 many good-bys to be said, and people could be got at more 
 easily on deck. 
 
 The clear, hot evening was sinking into the sudden dark- 
 ness of the Egyptian night when the Grahams and Winter- 
 bournes got into the railway carriage that was to take them 
 along to the hotel ; and a whole crowd of passengers had 
 come ashore to bid them a last good-by, amongst them 
 notably the young Elighland officers. 
 
 " Lucky beggars ! " said Colonel Graham, rather ruefully. 
 "Don't you wish you were going out, Polly? Wouldn't 
 you like to be going out again ? " 
 
 " Not I. Think of dear Baby, Jim ! " 
 
 " By Jove ! " said he, " if Colin Mackenzie were here 
 with his pipes to play 'The Barren Rocks of Aden,' 1 be- 
 lieve I'd go. I believe notliing could keep me." 
 
 And so they bade good-by to those boys; and Mrs. Gra- 
 ham and Yolande found themselves overladen with fruit 
 and flowers when the train started. They were tired after 
 so much excitement, and very soon went to bed after reach- 
 ing the hotel. 
 
 Next morning they set out for Cairo ; the Master quite 
 courteous, in a reserved kind of a way; his sister inwardly 
 chafing; Yoland perhaps a trifle puzzled. Colonel Graham 
 and Mr. Winterbourne, on the other hand, knowing nothing 
 of these subtle matters, were wholly engrossed by the sights 
 without. For though at first there was nothinof but the 
 vast monotony of the desert — a blazing stretch of sun- 
 brown, with perhaps now and again a string of camels look- 
 ing quite black on the far horizon-line — that in time gave 
 way to the wide and fertile plains of the Nile Valley, 
 Slowly enough the train made its way through these teem- 
 ing plains, with all their strange features of Eastern life — 
 the mud-built villages among the })alms ; herds of buffaloea 
 coming down to wallow in the river; oxen trampling out 
 the corn in the open ; camels slowly pacing along in Indian 
 
so YOLANDE, 
 
 file, or here and there tethered to a tree ; strange birds flying 
 over the interminable breadths of golden grain. And of 
 course, when they reached Cairo, that wonderful city was 
 still more bewildering to European eyes — the picturesque 
 forms and brilliant costumes ; the gayly caparisoned donkeys, 
 ridden by veiled women, whose black eyes gleamed as they 
 passed ; the bare-legged runner with his long wand clearing 
 the way for his master on horseback ; the swarthy Arabs 
 leading their slow-moving camels ; and side by side with 
 the mosques and minarets and Moorish houses, the French- 
 looking caf^s and shops, to say nothing of the French-look- 
 ing public gardens, with the European servant-maids and 
 children listening to the tinkling music from the latest 
 Parisian comic opera. 
 
 Then they got them to a large hotel, fronting these pub- 
 lic gardens, the spacious hall and corridors of which were 
 gratefully cool, while outside there was such a mass of ver- 
 dure — flowering shrubs and palms, wide-leaved bananas, and 
 here and there a giant eucalyptus — as was exceedingly 
 pleasant to eyes long accustomed to only the blue of the sea 
 and the yellow-white of the deck. Moreover, they were in 
 ample time for the table d'hote ; and every one, after the 
 dust and heat, was glad to have a thorough change of rai- 
 ment. 
 
 When the guests assembled in the long and lofty dining- 
 saloon( there were not many, for most of the spring tourists 
 had already left, while many of the European residents in 
 Cairo had gone away, anticipating political troubles ), it 
 was clear that Mrs. Graham and her younger companion 
 had taken the opportunity of donning a shore-toilette. Mrs. 
 Graham's costume was certainly striking : it was a deep 
 crimson, of some richly brocaded stuff ; and she had some 
 red flowers in her black hair. Yolande's was simpler : the 
 gown a muslin of white or nearly white ; and the only color 
 she wore was a bit of light salmon-colored silk that came 
 round her neck, and was fastened in a bow in front. She 
 had nothing in her hair, but the light falling on it from 
 above was sufficient, and even glorious, adornment. For 
 jewelry she had two small ear-rings, each composed of mi- 
 nute points of pale turquoise ; perhaps these only served to 
 show more clearly the exquisite purity of her complexion, 
 where the soft oval of the cheek met the ear. 
 
 "By heavens," the Master of Lynn said to himself, the 
 
VOJAA-J>E. 81 
 
 moment he had seen her come in at the wide door, "that 
 girl is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen ! " 
 
 He was startled into renewed admiration of her. He 
 could not keep his eyes away from her ; he found himself 
 listening with a quick 8ym])atliy and approval when she 
 spoke ; and as her face was all lit up with excitement and 
 gladness because of the strange things she had seen, he fol- 
 lowed her varying expressions, and found himself being help- 
 lessly drawn under a witchery which he could not, and did 
 not strive much to withstand. She spoke mostly — and she 
 was pleasantly excited and talkative this evening — to her 
 father and to Mrs. Graham ; but sometimes, perhaps inad- 
 vertently, she glanced his way as she spoke, and tlien he 
 eagerly agreed with what she was saying, before he knew 
 what it was. She, at least, tiad no covert quarrel with him 
 or with any one else. Delight shone in her eyes. When 
 she laughed it was like music. Even her father'thought 
 that she was looking unusually bright and happy ; and so 
 that made him very contented too ; but his satisfaction took 
 the form of humorous grumbling and he declared that he 
 didn't know what she was made of — that she should be 
 making merry after the long day's heat and dust, that had 
 nearly killed every one else. 
 
 After dinner they all flocked into the reading-room, 
 anxious to have a look at the English papers — all except 
 the Master of Lynn, who left the hotel, and was absent for 
 a little time. When he returned he went into the read- 
 ing-room, and (with a certain timidity) wentupto Yolande. 
 
 " Miss Winterbourne," said he, not very loudly, 
 " wouldn't it be pleasanter for you to sit outside and see 
 the people passing ? It is very interesting ; and they are 
 playing music in the gardens. It is much cooler out of 
 doors." 
 
 " Oh yes," said Yolande, without the least hesitation ; 
 and instantly she rose and walked out, just as she was, on 
 to the terrace, he modestly attending her. He brought her 
 a chair ; and she sat down by the railings to w^atch the 
 picturesque crowd. She spoke to him just in her usual 
 way. 
 
 "Miss Winterbourne," said he at length, "1 have got 
 you a little case of attar of roses ; will you take it ? When 
 vou get home, if you put it in your wardrobe, it will last a 
 long time ; and it is sure to remind you of Cairo." 
 
 "When I get home ?" she repeated, rather sadly. "I 
 
82 YOLANDE. 
 
 have no home. I do not understand it. I do not under 
 stand why my papa should not have a home, as other people 
 have." 
 
 '* Well, then, will you t&ko it to Allt-nam-Ba? " said he. 
 " That will be your home for awhile." 
 
 At the mere mention of the place her face brightened 
 up. 
 
 " Oh yes," she said, in the most friendly way, " that 
 will indeed be a home for us for awhile. Oh, thank you ; 
 it is very kind of you. I shall prize it very much." 
 
 "And Polly was saying you wanted me to take some 
 commissions for you to Inverness," said he, abasing him- 
 self to the uttermost. " I should be awfully glad ; I should 
 be delighted — " 
 
 " Oh, will you ? " she said ; and she rewarded him with 
 an upward glance of gratitude that drove Cairo, and Inver- 
 ness, and dog-carts, and everything else clean out of his 
 head. " And you are not anxious to read the news- 
 papers ? " 
 
 "No— not at all." 
 
 " Then will you sit down and tell me a little more about 
 Allt-nam-Ba? Ah, you do nob know how I look forward 
 to it. If it is only for three months, still it is a home, as 
 you say, all to ourselves ; and my papa and I have never 
 been together like that before. I am so glad to think of it 
 and 1 am frightened too, in case I do anything wrong. But 
 your sister has been very kind to me. And there is another 
 thing, if I make mistakes at the beginning — well, I believe 
 my papa does not know how to be angry with me." 
 
 " Well, I should think not — I should think not indeed ! " 
 said he, as if it were quite an impossible thing for any- 
 body to be angry with Yolande. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 Hb had at last discovered an easy way of gaining her 
 favor. She was so anxious to prove to her father that she 
 was a ca})ablo house-mistress that she was profoundly grate- 
 
YOLANDE. 83 
 
 fill for any hint that might help ; and she spared neither 
 time nor trouble in acquiring tlie most minute information. 
 Then all this had to be done in a more or less secret fashion. 
 She wished the arrangements at the shooting lodge to be 
 something <^)f a surprise. Her father, on getting up to 
 Inverness-shire was to find everything in perfect order ; 
 tlien he would see whether or not she was fit to manage a 
 house. She had even decided (after serious consultatiou 
 with the Master of Lynn) that when the gillies went up the 
 hill with the shooting party, she would give them their 
 lunch rather than the meaner alternative of a shilling apiece ; 
 and when the Master suggested that oat-cake and cheese 
 were quite sufficient for that, she said no — that as her 
 father, she knew, would not have either whiskey or beer 
 about the place, she would make it up to the men in giving 
 them a good meal. 
 
 . This decision was arrived at, of all places in the world, 
 in the gimcrack wooden building that Ismail had put up at 
 the foot of the Great Pyramid for the reception of his 
 guests. The Grahams and Winterbournes had, as a matter 
 of course, driven out to see the Pyramids and the Sphinx ; 
 but when there was a talk of their climbing to the top of 
 the Great Pyramid, Yolande flatly refused to be hauled 
 about by the Arabs ; so that Mrs. Graham (who had her 
 little ambitions) and her husband and Mr. Winterbourne 
 started by themselv-es, leaving the Master of Lynn, who 
 eagerly accepted the duty, to keep Yolande company. And 
 80 these two were now sitting well content in this big, bare, 
 cool apartment, the chief ornament of which was a series 
 of pictures on the wall — landscapes, in fact, so large and 
 wild and vehement in color that one momentarily expected 
 to hear a sharp whistle, followed by carpenters rushing in 
 to run them off the stage. 
 
 "I suppose. Miss Winterbourne," said he (it was an odd 
 kind of conversation to take place at the foot of the Great 
 Pyramid), " your father wonld like to kill a few red deer 
 w^ile he is at Allt-nam-Ba ? " 
 
 "Oh yes, I know he is looking forward to that." 
 
 "Do you think." said he, with a peculiar smile, "that it 
 would be very wicked and monstrous if I were to sacrifice 
 my father's interests to your father's interests? I should 
 think not myself. There are two fathers in the case ; what 
 one loses the other gains." 
 
 " I do not understand you," Yolande said. 
 
84 YOLANDE, 
 
 *' Well, this is the point. What deer may bo found in 
 the Allt-nam-Ba gullies will most likely go in from our forest. 
 Sometimes they cross from Sir John's ; but I fancy our 
 forest contributes most of them ; they like to nibble a little 
 at the bushes for a change, and indeed in very wild 
 weather they are sometimes driven down from the forest 
 to get shelter among the trees. Oh, don't you know ? " he 
 broke in, noticing some expression of her eyes. *' There 
 are no trees in the deer forest — none at all — except per- 
 haps a few stunted birches down in the corries. Well, you 
 see, as the deer go in from our forest into your gullies, it is 
 our interest that they should be driven out again, and it is 
 four interest that tliey should stay. And I don't think 
 they will stay if there is not a glass of whiskey about the 
 place. That was the hint I meant to give you Miss Winter- 
 bourne." 
 
 *' But I don't understand yet," said Yoland. " Whiskey ? " 
 
 " All your father's chances at the deer will depend on 
 the goodwill of the shepherds. The fact is, we put some 
 sheep on Allt-nam-Ba, mostly as a fence to the forest ; there 
 is no pasturage to speak of ; but of course the coming and go- 
 ing of the shepherds and the dogs drive the deer back. 
 Now supposing — just listen to me betraying my father's in- 
 terests and my own? — supposing there is an occasional glass 
 of whiskey about, and that th^shepherds are on very friend- 
 ly terms with you ; then not only are they the first to know 
 when a good stag has come about, but they might keep them- 
 selves and their dogs down in the bothy until your father 
 had gone out with his rifle. Now do you see ?" 
 
 " Oh yes ! oh yes ! " said Yolande, eagerly. " It is very 
 kind of you. But what am I to do ? My father would not 
 have whiskey in the house — oh, never, never — not for all tlie 
 deer in the country. Yet it is sad — it is provoking ! I 
 should be so proud if he were to get some beautiful fine 
 horns to be hung up in the hall when we take a house some 
 day. It is very, very, very provoking." 
 
 " There is another way, " said he, quietly, " as the cook- 
 ery book says. You need not have whiskey in the house. 
 You might order a gallon or two in Inverness and give it in 
 Qharge to Duncan, the keeper. He would have it in his 
 bothy, and would know what to do with it." 
 
 Out came her note book in a second. Two gallons of 
 whiskey addressed to Mr. Dtmcan Macdonald^ gamekeeper^ 
 AUt-namrJSa, with note explaming. At the same inor))«*r,t 
 
YOLANDE. 85 
 
 the dragoman entered the room to prepare luncli, and a 
 glance out of the window showed them the other members 
 of the party at the foot of that great bkazing mass of ruddy 
 yellow that rose away into the pale blue Egyptian sky. 
 
 "Mind you don't say I have had anything to do with it," 
 snid he ( and he was quite pleased that this little secret ex- 
 isted between them). "My father would think I was mad 
 in giving you these hints. But yet I don't think it is good 
 ])olicy to be so niggardly. If your father kills three or four 
 stags this year, the forest will be none the worse, and Allt- 
 nani-Ba will let all the more easily another season. And I 
 hope it is not the last time we shall have you as neighbors." 
 
 She did not answer the implied question ; for now the 
 other members of the party entered the room, breathless 
 and hot and fatigued, but glad to be able to shut back at 
 last the clamoring horde of Arabs who were still heard 
 protesting and vociferating without. 
 
 That same evening they left Cairo by the night train 
 for Asyoot, where the dahabeeyah of the Governor of 
 Merhadj was awaiting them ; and for their greater con- 
 venience they took their dinner with them. That scram- 
 bled meal in the railway carriage was something of an 
 amusement, and in the midst of it all the young Master of 
 Lynn would" insist on Yolande's having a little wine. She 
 refused at first, merely as her ordinary habit was ; but when 
 he learned that she had never tasted wine at all, of any 
 kind whatever, he begged of her still more urgently to 
 have the smallest possible quantity. 
 
 " It will make you sleep. Miss Winterbourne, said lie, 
 " and you know how distressing a wakeful night journey 
 is." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " she said, with a smile, " not all. There is 
 to be moonlight, and why should not one lie awake ? My 
 papa wished me not to drink wine, and so 1 have not, and 
 I have never thought about it. The ladies at the Chateau 
 scarcely took any ; they said it was not any better than 
 water." 
 
 " But fancy you never having tasted it at all ! " he said, 
 and then he turned to her father. " Mr. Winterbourne, 
 V. ill yoti give Miss Yolande permission to take a very little 
 v\ ine — to taste it ? '' 
 
 The reply of he-, ither was singular: 
 
 ' ' would soonei- ee her drink Prussic acid — then the 
 nld be at on". ," said he. 
 
SQ YOLANDE. 
 
 Now this answer was so abrupt, and apparently so un- 
 necessarily harsh, that the Master of Lynn, not knowing 
 what blunder he had made, immediately strove to change 
 the subject, and the most agreeable thing he couldthink of 
 to mention to Yolande's father was the slaying of stags. 
 
 " While you were going up the Great Pyramid this 
 morning, Mr. Winterbourne," said he, " we were talking 
 about what you were likely to do at Allt-nam-Ba, and I was 
 telling your daughter I hoped you would get a stag or two." 
 
 '*Yes? — oh, yes," said Mr. Winterbourne, apparently 
 recalling himself from some reverie by an effort of will. 
 " A stag ? I hope so. Oh, yes, I hope bo. We will keep 
 a sharp lookout." 
 
 " Miss Winterbourne," said the younger man, with a 
 significant glance at her which seemed to remind her that 
 they had a secret in common, " was surprised to hear that 
 there were no trees in a deer forest. But her ignorance 
 was very excusable. How could she know ? It wasn't 
 half as bad as the talk of those fellows in Parliament and 
 the newspapers who howl because the deer forests are not 
 given over to sheep, or to cattle, or turned into small 
 crofts. Goodness gracious I I wonder if any one of them 
 ever saw a deer forest? Miss Winterbourne, that will be 
 something for you to see — the solitude and desolation of 
 the forest — mile after mile of the same moorland and hill 
 without a sound, or the sight of a living thing — " 
 
 " But is not that their complaint — that so much land is 
 taken away, and not for people to live on?" said Yolande, 
 who had stumbled on this subject somewhere in following 
 her father's Parliamentary career. 
 
 "Yes," said he, ironically. "I wonder what they'd 
 find there to live on. They'd find granite boulders, and 
 withered moss, and a hard grass that sheep won't touch, 
 and that cattle won't touch, and that even mountain hares 
 would starve on. The deer is the only living animal that 
 can make anything of it, and even he is fond of getting 
 into the gullies to have a nibble at the birch-trees. I wish 
 those Radical fellows knew something of what they were 
 talking about before making all that fuss about the Game 
 Laws. The Game Laws won't hurt you if you choose to 
 keep from thieving." 
 
 "But you are a Liberal, are you not?" said Yolande 
 with wide-open eyes. Of course she concluded that any 
 one claiming the friendship of her father and herself must 
 
YOLANDE. \J^A ^ 87 
 
 needs be a Liberal. Travelling in the sana^afi^tEftoo 
 wliy— 
 
 Well, it was fortunate for the Master that he found him- 
 self absolved from replying ; for Mr. Winterbourne broke 
 in, with a sardonic kind of smile on bis face. 
 
 " That is a very good remark of yours, Mr. Leslie," said 
 he ; "a very good remark indeed. I have something of 
 the same belief myself, though I shock some of my friends 
 by saying so. I am for having pretty stringent laws all 
 round, and" the best defence for them is this — that you need 
 not break them unless you choose. It may be morally 
 wrong to hang a man for stealing a sheep ; but all you 
 have got to do is not to steal the sheep. Well, if I pay 
 seven hundred and fifty pounds for a shooting, and you 
 come on my land and steal my birds, I don't care what may 
 happen to you. The laws may be a little severe ; but your 
 best plan would have been to earn your living in a decent 
 way, instead of becoming an idle, sneaking, lying, and 
 thieving poacher — " 
 
 " Oh, certainly, certainly," said the younger man, with 
 great warmth. 
 
 " That is my belief, at all events," said Mr. Winter- 
 bourne, with the same curious sort of smile; "and it an- 
 swers two ends : it enables me to approve my gamekeeper 
 for the time being, when otherwise I might think he was 
 just a little too zealous ; and also it serves to make some 
 friends of mine in the House very wild ; and you know 
 there is nothing so deplorable as lethargy." 
 
 "But you are a Liberal, Mr. Leslie, are you not?" re- 
 peated Yolande. 
 
 And here again he was saved — by the ready wit of his 
 sister. 
 
 "My dearest Yolande, what are you talking about? "she 
 said. *' What these two have been saying would make a 
 Liberal or a Radical jump out of his five senses — or is it 
 seven ? It it seven, Jim ? " 
 
 "I don't know," her husband said, lazily. " Five are 
 quite enough for a Radical." 
 
 "I know I used to have a great sympathy with 
 poachers," continued pretty Mrs. Graham. "It always 
 seemed to me romantic — I mean when you read about the 
 poacher in poems — his love of sport, you know — " 
 
 " His love of sport," her husband growled, contemptu* 
 ously. "A miserable sneaking fellow loafing about the 
 
88 YOLANDE. 
 
 public-house all day, and then stealing out at night with 
 his ferrets and his nets to snare rabbits for the market. A 
 love of sport ! " 
 
 " Oh, but I can remember,' said she, stoutly, ••' when I 
 was a girl, there were other stories than that. That is the 
 English poacher. I can remember when it was quite well 
 known that the Badenoch young fellows were coming into 
 the forest for a deer, and it was winked at by everybody 
 when they did not come more than twice or thrice in the 
 year. And that was not for the market. Anybody could 
 have a bit of venison who wanted ; and I have heard that 
 there was a fine odor of cooking in the shepherds' bothies 
 just about that time." 
 
 " That has nothing to do with the Game Laws," her 
 husband said curtly. " I doubt whether deer are protected 
 by the Game Laws at all. I think it is only a question of 
 trepass. But I quite agree with Mr. Winterbourne ; if 
 laws are too severe, your best plan is not to break them." 
 
 " Well, I was cured of my sympathy on one occasion," 
 said Mrs. Graham, cheerfully (having warded off danger 
 from her brother). " Do you remember, Jim? You and I 
 were driving down Glenstroy, and we came on some gypsies. 
 They had a tent by the roadside ; and you know, dear 
 Yolande, I wasn't an old married woman in those days, 
 and grown suspicious ; and I thought it would be nice to 
 stop and speak to the poor peo])le, and give them some 
 money to get proper food when they reached a village. 
 Do you know what Jim said ? — ' Money for food ? Most 
 likely they are plucking a brace of my uncle's black game.' 
 Well, they were not. We got down from the trap, and 
 went into the little tent ; and they weren't plucking a brace 
 of black game, but they were cooking two hen pheasants on 
 a spit as comfortable as might be. I suppose a gypsy 
 wouldn't do much good as a deerstalker, though ? " 
 
 And while they thus sat and chatted about the far 
 nortliern wilds (Yolande was deeply interested, and the 
 Ivlaster of Lynn perceived that ; and he had himself an 
 abundance of experience about deer) the sunset went, and 
 presently, and almost suddenly, they found themselves in 
 the intense blackness of the tropical night. When from 
 time to time they looked out of the window they could see 
 nothing at all of the world around, though Jupiter and 
 Venus were shining clear and high in the western heavens, and 
 Orion's jewels were paling as tliey sank ; and away in the 
 
YOLANDE. 8r» 
 
 south, near the horizon, the solitary Sirius gleaned. But 
 ns tlie night went on (and they were still talking of Scot- 
 laud) a pale light — a sort of faint yellow smoke — appeared 
 in the southeast, and then a sharp, keen glint of gold 
 revealed the edge of the moon. The light grew and spread 
 np into the sky, and now the world around them was no 
 longer an indistinguishable mass of black; its various 
 features became distinct as the soft radiance became fuller 
 and fuller ; and by and by they could make out the walls 
 <»E the sleeping villages, with their strange shadows, and 
 tiie tall palms that threw reflections down on the smooth 
 and ghostly water. Can anything be more solemn than 
 moonlight on a grove of palms — the weird darkness of 
 them, the silence, the consciousness that all around lies the 
 white, still desert ? Yolande's fancies were no longer far 
 away ; this silent, moonlit world out there was a strange 
 thing. 
 
 Then, one by one, the occupants of the railway carriage 
 
 dropped off to sleep ; and Yoiande slept too, turning her 
 
 face into the window corner somewhat, and letting her 
 
 hands sink placidly into her lap. He did not sleep ; how 
 
 could he ? He had some vague idea that he ought to be 
 
 guardian over her ; and then — as he timidly regarded the 
 
 perfect lines of her forehead and chin and throat, and tlie 
 
 delicacy of the small ear, and the sweep of the soft lashe:^ — - 
 
 he wondered that this beautiful creature should have been 
 
 so long in the world and he Avastingthe years in ignorance ; 
 
 and then (for with youth there is little diffidence ; it is 
 
 always, "I have chosen ; you are mine; you can i\otbe any 
 
 other than mine") he thought of her as the mistress of Lynn 
 
 Towers. In black velvet would she not look handsome, 
 
 seated at the head of the dinner table ; or in a tall-backed 
 
 (•hair by the fireplace, with the red glow * from the birch 
 
 j'igs and the peat making glimmerings on her hair? * He 
 
 liiought of her driving down the Glen; on the steamboat 
 
 (piay ; on board the steamboat ; in the streets of Inverness ; 
 
 raid he knew that nowhere could she have any rival. 
 
 And then it occurred to him that what air was made by 
 the motion of the train must be blowing in upon her face, 
 and that the sand-blinds of the windows were not sufficient 
 protection, and he thought he could rig up something that 
 would more effectually shield her. So, in the silence and 
 gemi-darkness, he stealthily got hold of a light shawl of his 
 lister's, and set to vrork to fasten one end to the top of the 
 
90 YOLANDE, 
 
 carriage door and the other to the netting for the hand- 
 balls, in order to form some kind of screen. Tliis ma- 
 ncBuvre took some time, for he was anxious not to waken any 
 one, and as he was standing up, he had to baLance himself 
 carefully, for the railway carriage jolted considerably. But 
 at last he got it fixed, and he was just moving the lower 
 corner of the screen, so that it should not be too close to 
 Jier head, when, by some wild and fearful accident, the 
 back of his hand happened to toucli lier hair. It was the 
 lightest of touches," but it was like an electric shock; he 
 paused, breathless; he was quite unnerved: he did not 
 know whether to retreat or wait; it was as if something 
 had stung him and benumbed }iis senses. And light as the 
 tuoch was, it awoke her. Pier eyes opened, and there was 
 a sudden fear and bewildernment in them when she saw 
 him standing over her; but the next second she perceived 
 what he had been doing for her, and kindness and thanks 
 were instantly his reward. 
 
 "Oh, thank you! thank you!" she said, with smiling 
 eyes. And he was glad to get back into his own corner, 
 and to think over this tliat had happened, and to wonder at 
 the sudden fear that had paralyzed him. At all events, he 
 had not offended her. 
 
 The dawn arose in the east, the cold clear blue giving 
 way to a mystic gray; but still the moon shone palely on 
 the palms and on the water and the silent plains. And 
 still she slept ; and he was wondering whether she was 
 dreaming of the far north, and of the place that she4onged 
 to make a home of, if only for the briefest space. And 
 what if this new day that was spreading up and up, and 
 lighting the pallid moonlight, and bringing with it color 
 .•nid life to brighten the awaking world — what if this new 
 day were to bring with it a new courage, and he were to 
 hintf to her, or even to tell her plainly that this pathetic 
 hope of hers was of easy accomplishment, and that, after 
 their stay at Allt-nam-Ba, if it grieved her tothink of leav- 
 ing the place that she had first thought to make a home of, 
 there was another home there that would be proud and 
 glad to welcome her, not for two months or for three 
 months, but for the length of her life ? Why should not 
 Mr. Winterbourne be free to follow out his political career? 
 He had gathered from Yolande that she considered herself 
 a most unfortunate dracr ;in(J incumbrance on her father: 
 
YO LANDS. 91 
 
 was not this a. happy solution of all possible difficulties ? In 
 black velvet, more especially, Yolande would look so hand 
 some in the dinin(]r-room at Lynn Towers. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 INTERVENTION. 
 
 Mrs. Graham sav/- clearly before her the difficulties 
 and danger of the task she had undertaken, and she ap- 
 proached it with much circumspection and caution. Time 
 and an abundance of opportunities were on her side, how- 
 ever. Moreover, she and Yolande were like sisters now ; 
 and when the men-folk were smoking together in some other 
 part of the dahabeeyah, and talking about public affairs or 
 their chances of having a little shooting in the neighborhood 
 of Merhadj, these two were most likely seated in the cool 
 shade of the Belvedere, having a quiet and confidential chat 
 all to themselves, the while the slow-moving panorama of 
 the Nile stole stealthily by. 
 
 And gradually Mrs. Graham got Yolande to think a 
 good deal about the future, which ordinarily the girl was 
 loath to do. She had an admirable capacity for enjoy- 
 ing the present moment, so long as the weather was fine, 
 and her father not a long way off. She had never experi- 
 enced any trouble, and wliy should she look forward to any? 
 Slie was in perfect health, and consequently her brain was 
 free from morbid apprehensions. Sometimes, when IVIi's. 
 Graham was talking with the sadness begotten of worldly 
 wisdom, the younger woman would laugh lightly, and ask 
 what there was on earth to depress her — except, perhaps, 
 the absence of dear Baby. In short, Yolande could not be 
 made anxious about herself. She was content to take the 
 present as it was, and the future as it might come. She 
 was far more interested in watching the operations of this or 
 that African kingfisher, when the big black and gray bird, 
 after fluttenng in the air for a while in the manner of a 
 hawk, would swoop down and dive into the river, emerging 
 with a small silver fish in its beak. 
 
 But if she could not easily be made anxious about her- 
 
92 YOLANDE. 
 
 self, she very easily indeed could be made anxious about 
 her father; and Mrs. Graham quickly discovered that any- 
 thinp: suggested about him was instantly sufficient to arouse 
 her interest and concern. She played upon that pipe skill- 
 fully, and yet with not the faintest notion that her siren 
 music was anything but of the simplest and honestest kind. 
 Was it not for the welfare and happiness of every one con- 
 cerned ? Even Jim, with his faculty for looking at the 
 wardonic side of things, had not a word to say against it. 
 It would be a very good arrangement, that oracle had de- 
 clared. 
 
 " Do you know, dear," said she, one morning, to Yo- 
 lande, '' what Jim has just been saying ? — that he would not 
 be surprised if, sooner or later, your father were offered 
 some place in the Government." 
 
 Yolande opened her eyes wide with surprise. But then 
 she laughed, and shook her head. 
 
 "Oil no. It is impossible. He is not good friends with 
 the Government. He has too many opinions to himself." 
 
 " I don't know," said pretty Mrs. Graham, looking at 
 one of the little French mirrors, and smoothing her curls. 
 **I don't know. You should hear Jim, anyway. Of coarse 
 I don't mean a post with a seat in the Cabinet ; but office 
 of some kind — an Under-Secretaryship or something of that 
 sort. Jim says he heard just before he left town that the 
 Government were going to try to conciliate the Radicals, 
 and that some membei' below the gangway would most 
 likely be taken in. It would please some of the northern 
 towns ; and Slagpool is an important place." 
 
 " Oh, do you think it is possible ? " cried the girl, with 
 a new light in her eyes. " My papa in the Ministry— and 
 always in town ? " 
 
 " That's just it, Yolande dear," said Mrs. Graham. "If 
 your papa were a member of the Government, in whatever 
 place, he could not go gallivanting about like this — " 
 
 " Oh, of course not, certainly not," the girl said, eagerly. 
 "He would live in London. He would have ^a house— 3 
 proper home. Do you think it i^ likely ? I never heard ol 
 It before. But why should it not be ? — why should it not 
 be, dear Mrs. Graham ? There are very few members in 
 the House of Commons — why, scarcely any at all — who are 
 returned by such a number of persons. Look at the ma- 
 jority he always has ; does it not say that those people re 
 
YOLANDE. 93 
 
 spect him, and believe he is working for the good of the 
 country ? Very well \ why should it not be ?" 
 
 " I quite agree with you ; and Jim says it is not at all 
 unlikely. But you are talking about a house, Yolande 
 dear ; well, it would scarcely be worth your papa's while t« 
 take a house merely for you ; through it is certainly of im- 
 portance for a member of the Government to have a town 
 house, and entertain, and so forth. You could scarcely 
 manage that, you know, my dear; you are rather young; 
 but if your papa were to marry again ?" 
 
 "Yes?" said Yolande, without betraying any dismay. 
 
 " In that case I have been wondering what would be- 
 come of you," said the other, with her eyes cast down. 
 
 " Oh, that is all right," said the girl, cheerfully. "That 
 is quite right. Madame has directed me to that once or 
 twice — often ; but not always with good sense, I consider. 
 For it can not always happen that stepmother and step- 
 daughter do not get' on well — if there is one who is very 
 anxious to please. And if my papa were to marry again, 
 it is not that I should have less of his society ; I should have 
 more ; if there was a home, and I allowed to remain, I should 
 have more. And why should I have anything but kindness 
 for his wife, who gives me a home ? Oh, I assure you it is 
 not I who would make any quarrel." 
 
 " Oh no ; I dare say not — I dare say not, Yolande dear," 
 said the other, with a gracious smile. " You are not terri- 
 bly quarrelsome. But it seldom answers. You would find 
 yourself in the way. Sooner or later you would find your- 
 self in the way." 
 
 " Then 1 would go." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 The girl made a little gesture by turning out the palms 
 of her hands ever so slightly. 
 
 "I will tell you, my dear child, of one place where you 
 could go. If you came to us at Inverstroy — now or then, 
 or at any time — there is a home there waiting for you ; and 
 Jim and I would just make a sister of you." 
 
 She spoke with feeling, and, indeed, with honesty; for 
 she was quite ready to have welcomed Yolande to their 
 northern home, wholly apart from the projects of the Master 
 of Lynn. And Yolande for a second put her hand on her 
 her friend's hand. 
 
 " I know that," she, " and it is very kind of you to think 
 of it ; and I believe it true — so much so that, if there was 
 
94 YOLANDE. 
 
 any need, I would accept it at once. And it is a very nice 
 thing to think of ; that there are friends who would take you 
 into their own home if there were need. Oh, I assure you, 
 it is pleasant to think of, even when there is no need at all." 
 
 " Will you come and try it? Will you come and see 
 how you like it ? " said pretty Mrs. Graham, with a coura- 
 geous cheerfulness. " Why not ? Your papa wants to be 
 back in time for the Budget, or even before that. They 
 say that it will be a late session — that if they get away for 
 the twelfth they will be lucky. Now you know, dear Yo- 
 lande, between ourselves, your father's constituents are very 
 forbearing. It is all very well for us to make a joke of it 
 here ; but really — really — really — " 
 
 " I understand you very well," said Yolande, quickly ; 
 '* and you think he should remain in London till the twelfth, 
 and always be at the House ? Yes, yes ; that is what I 
 think too. Do you imagine it is I who take him away oiv 
 voyage after voyage ? No! For me, I would rather havft 
 him always at the House. I would rather read his speeches 
 in the newspaper than see any more cities, and cities, and 
 cities." 
 
 " Very well ; but what are you going to do, Yolande 
 dear, between the time of our getting back and the 
 twelfth?" 
 
 " Oh," said Yolande, with her face brightening, " that 
 will be a busy time — no more of going away — and I shall 
 be all the time in the hotel in Albemarle Street — and papa 
 and I dining together every night, and having a chat before 
 he goes to the House." 
 
 " I am sure you are mistaken there," said Mrs. Graham, 
 promptly. " Your father won't let you stay all that time 
 in town. He hates the very name of town. He is too fond 
 of you, too careful of you, Yolande dear, and too proud of 
 the roses in your cheeks, to let you shut yourself up in a 
 town hotel." 
 
 " But look at me ! " the girl said, indignantly. " Do I 
 look unwell? Am I sick-looking ? Why "should not I live 
 in a town hotel as well as others ? Are all unwell who live 
 in London ? No ; it is folly to say that. And if anything 
 were likely to make me unwell, it is not living in London ; 
 but it is the fretting, when I am away from London, that I 
 can be of no use to my papa, and that he is living alone 
 there. Think of his living alone in the hotel, and dining 
 alone there — worse than that still, dining at the House of 
 
YOLANDE 05 
 
 Commons ! Why, it was only last night Colonel Graham 
 and he were speaking of the bad dinners there — the heat 
 and the crush and the badly cooked joints — yes, and I sit- 
 ting there, and saying to myself, ' Very well, and what is 
 the use of having a daughter if she can not get for you a 
 })ietty dinner, with flowers on the table ?' " 
 
 " I understand you so well ; when you speak it is like 
 myself thinking," said Mrs. Graham, in her kindly way 
 (and not at all imagining that she was anything of a hypo- 
 crite, or talking for a purpose) ; " but you may put it out 
 of your head. Your father won't let you stay in town. 1 
 know that." 
 
 " Then I suppose it will be Oatlands Park," said Yo- 
 lande, with a bit of a sigh. 
 
 " No. Why should it ? " said her friend, briskly. 
 *' Come to Inverstroy. Go back with us. Then we will 
 see about the cook and the housemaid in Inverness ; and 
 Archie will get the dog-cart and horses for you ; and we 
 might even go down to Allt-nam-Ba, and see that the keeper 
 has kept on fires during the winter, and that the lodge is 
 all right. And then we will all go on to Inverstroy — 
 Archie as well ; and he will take you out salmon-fishing, 
 for I shall have my own house to attend to for a while ; 
 but we will make you just one of the family, and you will 
 amuse yourself just as you think best ; and if we don't pet 
 you, and make you comfortable, and as happy as ever you 
 were in your life, then my name isn't Mary Graham. You 
 will just see what a Highland welcome we will give you ! " 
 
 " I know — I know," said the girl. " How can I thank 
 you for such kindness? But then to think of my papa 
 being all that time left by himself in London " 
 
 " My dear Yolande, I must speak frankly to you, even 
 if you fancy it cruel. Don't you imagine your father would 
 stand a little better with his constituents, and consequently 
 be more at ease in his own mind, if he were left by himself 
 a little more than at present? Don't you think it might be 
 prudent ? Don't you think it would be better for every 
 one if he were left a little freer ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes — it is so — I can see it." 
 
 " And if you were with us, he could give his whole time 
 and attention to Parliament." 
 
 ^ " Yes, yes — though I had other wishes as well," the girl 
 Bald, with her lips becoming a little tremulous. 
 
 "It is a very awkward situation," said Mrs. Graham, 
 
Co YOLANDE. 
 
 with abundant cheerfulness ; " but I see the natural way out 
 of it. Perhaps you don't, dear Yolande ; but I do. I know 
 what will happen. You will have a house and home of 
 your own ; and your father will be M^ry glad to see you 
 happy and settled ; and he will give proper attention to 
 Parliament while Parliament is sitting ; but when Parlia- 
 ment is not sitting then he will come to you for relaxation 
 and amusement, and you must have a salmon-rod ready for 
 him in the spring, and in the autumn nice luncheons to be 
 sent up the hill, where he will be witji the others. Now 
 isn't that something to look forward to?" 
 
 " Yes — but — a house of my own? " the girl said, bewil- 
 dered. 
 
 " Of course when you marry, my dear. That is the ob- 
 vious solution of the whole difficulty : it will put every one 
 in a proper position." 
 
 She said neither yea nor nay ; there was no affectation 
 of maiden coyness ; no protest of any kind. But her eyes 
 were distant and thoughtful ; not sad exactly, but seemingly 
 filled with memories — probably memories of her own futile 
 schemes and hopes. 
 
 That afternoon they came in sight of some walls and a 
 minarat or two, half hidden by groves of palms lying along 
 the high banks of the river ; and these they were told be- 
 longed to Merhadj ; but the Reis had had orders to moor 
 the dehabeeyah by the shore at some short distance from 
 the town, so that the English party should not be quartered 
 among the confusion and squalor further along. The con- 
 sequence of this was that very soon they found themselves 
 the i^ractical owners of a portion of Africa which seemed 
 to be uninhabited ; for when the whole party got ashore 
 (with much excitement and eager interest), and waded across 
 the thick sand, and then entered a far-stretching wood of 
 acacia-trees, they could find no trace of human occupation ; 
 tlie only living things being an abundance of hoopoes — 
 the beautiful red-headed and crested birds were so tame 
 tliat one could have flung one's cap at them — and wood- 
 pigeons, the latter of a brilliant blue and gray and white. 
 But by and by, as they wandered along — highly pleased to 
 be on shore again, and grateful fo the shelter of the trees — 
 they met a slow procession of Arabs, with donkeys and 
 camels, wending their way through the dry rushes and hot 
 sand ; and as the animals were heavily laden, they made 
 DO doubt that the natives were carrying in farm produce to 
 
YOLANDE. 97 
 
 (Sell at Merhadj. Then when tliey returned to the daha. 
 beeyah, they found a note from Ism at Effendi, written in 
 excellent English, saying that his father had just returned 
 from the interior, and that they both would do themselves 
 the honor of paying a visit the following morning. 
 
 But what to do till dinner-time — now that the dahabee- 
 yah was no longer moving past the familiar features of the 
 Nile ? Ahmed came to the rescue. The chef was anxious 
 to have some pigeons: would the gentlemen go ashore and 
 shoot some for him ? The gentlemen flatly refused to go 
 and kill those half-tame creatures ; but they discovered that 
 Ahmed could shoot a little ; so they lent him a gun, and 
 offered to beat the wood for him. It was an occupation, at 
 least. And so the two women were left by themselves 
 again, with nothing before them but the choosing of a cos- 
 tume for dinner, and the donning of the same. \ 
 
 It was an opportunity not to be missed ; and yet Mrs. 
 Graham was terribly nervous. Slie had an uncomfortable 
 suspicion all day that she had not been quite ingenuous in 
 her conversation of the morning; and she was anxious to 
 confess and clear her mind, and yet afraid of the effects of 
 her confession. But Yolande had spoken so reasonably and 
 sensibly ; she seemed to recognize the situation ; why should 
 she be startled ? 
 
 For good or ill, she determined to plunge iwrnedias res; 
 and slie adopted a gay air, though her fingers were rather 
 shaky. She put her arm within Yohmde's arm. They 
 were slowly walking up and down the upper deck, under 
 the awning. They could just see the gentlemen of the 
 party, along with Ahmed, disappearing into the grove of 
 dark green acacias. 
 
 " Yolande, I am a wicked women," she said, suddenly. 
 "Hear my confession. I was not quite frank with jou this 
 morning, and i can't rest till I have told you. The fact is, 
 my dear child, when I spoke to you about the possibility of 
 your marrying, I knew of the wishes of one or two others, 
 and I ought to have told you. And now I wish to confess 
 everything ; and you will forgive me if I say anything to 
 offend or- alarm you — " 
 
 "About my marrying?" said the girl, looking rather 
 frightened. " Oh no ; I do not wish to know. I do not 
 A^ish to know of anything that any one has said to you." 
 
 *' Then you have guessed ? " 
 
 The mere question was an intimation. The girl's face 
 
98 YOLANDE. 
 
 flushed ; and she said, with an eager haste, and in obvious 
 trouble : 
 
 " Why should we speak of any such thing ? Dear Mrs. 
 Graham, why should I be afraid of the future? No ; 1 am 
 not afraid." 
 
 " But there are others to be considered — one, at least, 
 whose hopes have been clear enough to the rest of us for 
 some time back. Dearest Yolande, am I am speaking too 
 much now ? " 
 
 She stood still, and took both of the girl's hands in hers. 
 
 "Ami telling you too much? Or am I telling you 
 what you have guessed already ? I hope I haven't spoken 
 too soon. If I have done anything indiscreet, don't blame 
 him I I could not talk to you just like sister to sister, and 
 have this knowledge in the background, and be hiding it 
 like a secret from you." 
 
 Yolande drew her hands away ; she seemed scarcely 
 able to find utterance. 
 
 " Oh no, Mrs. Graham, it is a mistake, it is all a mis- 
 take ; you don't mean what you say — " 
 
 "But indeed I do !" the other said, eagerly. '* Dearest 
 Yolande, how can I help wishing to have you for a sister? 
 But if I have revealed the secret too soon, why, you must 
 forget it altogether, and let Archie speak for himself. But 
 you know I do wish it. I can't help telling you. I have 
 been thinking of what we might be to each other up there 
 in the Highlands ; for I never had a sister, and my mother 
 died when I was quite young, like yours, dear Yolande. 
 You can't tell how pleased I was when Archie began to — to 
 show you attention ; and I made sure you must have seen 
 how anxious he was to please you — " 
 
 She paused for a second here, but there was no answer : 
 the girl was too bewildered. 
 
 " Why, Jim would be like a l6ig brother to you ; you can't 
 tell how fond he is of you ; and your father approving 
 too—" 
 
 The girl started as if she had been struck, and her face 
 became quite white. 
 
 "Did you say — that my father wished it?" she said, 
 slowly. 
 
 "Oh yes, oh yes," Mrs. Graham said. "What more 
 natural ? What should he wish for more than to see you 
 happily married ? I wouldn't say that he would be more 
 free to attend to public affairs ; I wouldn't say that was 
 
YOLANDE. 99 
 
 Iiis reason, though it might be one of several reasons ; but 
 I can very well understand his being pleased at the notion 
 of seeing you married and comfortably settled among 
 ])eople who would make much of you. as I really and truly 
 think we should. Now, dear Yolande, don't say anything 
 in haste. I am not asking you on behalf of Archie; I am 
 telling you a secret to clear my own mind. Ah, and if you 
 only knew how glad we should be to have you among us ! " 
 
 The girl's eyes had slowly filled with tears, but she 
 would not own it. She had courage. She looked her 
 companion fair in the face, as if to say, "Do you think I 
 am crying? I am not." But when she smiled, it was a 
 very strange sort of smile, and very near crying. 
 
 " Then if it is a secret, let it remain a secret, dear Mrs. 
 Graham," said she, with a sort of cheerfulness. " Perhaf>s 
 it will always remain one, and no harm done. I did not 
 know that my papa wished that ; I did not suspect it. No : 
 how could I ? When we have talked of the years to come, 
 that was not the ai'rangement that seemed best." 
 
 She paused for a while. 
 
 " Now I remember what you were saying in the morn- 
 ing. And you knew then also that my papa wished 
 it ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, certainly — not that he has spoken directly to 
 me — " 
 
 But Yolande was scarcely listening. Rapid pictures 
 were ])assing before her — pictures that had been suggetsted 
 by Mrs. Grahnm herself. And Yolande's father, not liei 
 future husband, was the central figure of them. 
 
 Then she seemed to throw aside these speculations with 
 an effort of will. 
 
 " Come," she said, more cheerfully, " is it not time to 
 dress? We will put away that secret; it is just as if you 
 had never spoken; it is all away in the air — vanished. 
 And you must not tell your brother tliat you have been 
 talking to me; for you know, dear Mrs. Graham, he has 
 been very kind to me, and I would not give him pain — oh, 
 not for anything — " 
 
 " My dear Yolande, if he thought there was a chance 
 of your saying yes, he would be out of his senses with joy ! " 
 exclaimed the other. 
 
 "Oh, but that is not to be thought of!*' said the girl, 
 with quite a practical air. "It is not to be thouglit of at all 
 as yet. My papa has not said anytliing to me. And a 
 
100 YOLANDE. 
 
 little thinking between us two — what is that? Nothing — 
 air— it goes away; why should we remember it?" 
 
 Mrs. Graham could not understand this attitude at all. 
 YoUxnde had said neither yes nor no ; she seemed neitlier 
 elated or depressed ; and she certainly had not — as 'most 
 young ladies are supposed to do when they have decided 
 upon a refusal — expressed any compassion for the unfor- 
 tunate suitor. Moreover, at dinner, Mrs. Graham observed 
 that more than once Yolande regarded the young Master 
 of Lynn with a very attentive scrutiny. It was not a 
 conscious, furtive scrutiny ; it was calm and unabashed. 
 And Mrs. Graham also noticed that when her brother 
 looked up to address Yolande, and met her eyes, those eyes 
 were not hastily withdrawn in maiden confusion, but 
 rather answered his look with a pleased friendliness. She 
 was certainly studying him, the sister thought. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A SETTLEMENT. 
 
 Next morning there was much hurrying to and fro on 
 board the dahabeeyah in anticipation of the visit of the 
 Governor ; so that Mrs. Graham had no chance of having 
 an extended talk with her brother. Neverthekss, she 
 managed to convey to him a few covert words of informa- 
 tion and counsel. 
 
 " Archie," said she, '* I have spoken to Yolande — I have 
 linted something to her." 
 
 " No ! " he said, looking rather frightened. 
 
 " Oh, you need not be much alarmed," she said, with a 
 significant smile. " Rather the other way. She seems 
 quite to know how you have wished to be kind and atten- 
 tive to her — quite sensible of it, in fact ; and when I hinted 
 something — " 
 
 "She did not say *no' outright?" lie interrupted, 
 eagerly; and there was a flush of gladness on his face. 
 
 His sister glanced around. 
 
 " I thought there could be no harm if I told her that 
 Jim and I would like to have her for a sister," she answered, 
 demurely. 
 
 "And she did not say ' no ' outright? " he repeated. 
 
YOLANDE. 101 
 
 " Well," Mrs. Graham said, after a second, " I am not 
 s:oing to tell you anything more. It would not be fair. 
 It is your business, not mine. I'm out of it now. I have 
 intermeddled quite enough. But I don't think she liates 
 you. And she seems rather pleased to think of living in 
 the Higlilands, with her father having plenty of amusement 
 tliere, you know ; and perhaps she might be brought to 
 consider a permanent arr^gement of that kind not so 
 undesirable ; and — and — well, you'd better see for yourself. 
 As I say, Jim and I will be very glad to have her for a 
 sister ; and I can't say more, can I ? " 
 
 She could not say more then, at all events, for at this 
 moment Colonel Graham appeared on the upper deck with 
 tlie intelligence that the Governor's barge was just then 
 coming down the river. Mr. Winterbourne and Yolande 
 were instantly summoned from below ; some further dis- 
 position of chairs and divans was made ; some boxes of 
 cigarettes were sent for ; and presently the sound of oars 
 alongside announced the arrival of the chief notables of 
 Merhadj. 
 
 The Master of Lynn saw and heard little of what 
 followed ; he was far too busy with the glad and bewilder- 
 ing prospect that his sister's obscure hints had placed before 
 him. And again and again he glanced at Yolande, timidly, 
 and yet with an increasing w^onder. He began to ask him- 
 self whether it was really true that his sister had spoken to 
 lier. The girl betrayed no consciousness, no embarrassment ; 
 she had greeted him on that morning just as on other 
 mornings ; at this moment she was regarding the arrival of 
 those grave officials with an interest which seemed quite 
 oblivious of his presence. As for him, he looked on 
 impatiently. He wished it was all over. He wished to 
 have some private speech with her, to have some inquiry 
 of her eyes — surely her eyes would make some telltale 
 confession ? And in a vague kind of way he grew to think 
 that the Governor's son, Ismat Effendi, who was acting as 
 interpreter, and who spoke English excellently, addressed 
 a little too much of the conversation to the two ladies. 
 Moreover, it was all very w^ell for him, on coming on board, 
 to shake hands with Mrs. Graham, for he had known her 
 in India, but why with Yolande?" 
 
 The Governor — a corpulent and sallow-faced old gen- 
 tleman who looked like a huge frog — and his companions 
 eat in solemn state, while young Ismat, with much grace of 
 
1 02 YOLANDE. 
 
 manner and remarkably eloquent eyes, hoped that the visi- 
 tors were comfortable on board the dahabeeyah, and so 
 forth. He was a well-dressed young gentleman ; his black 
 frock-coat, white waistcoat, and red tarboosh were all of 
 tlie newest and smartest, and his singularly small feet 
 were incased in boots of brilliant polish. The Master of 
 Lyim considered him a coxcomb, and also a Frenchified 
 semi-theatrical coxcomb. But ^the women-folk liked his 
 pleasant manners and his speaking eyes ; and when he said 
 that he had never been to England, but intended to go tlje 
 next year, Mrs. Graham made him defitiitely. promise that 
 he would pay them a visit at Inverstroy. 
 
 "And Miss Winterbourne," said the young gentleman 
 with the swarthy face and the brilliant white teeth, " does 
 she live in Scotland also ? " / 
 
 " Well, no," said Mrs. Graham, placidly; "but 1 hope 
 you will find her tliere when you come. We want her to go 
 back with us when we go back; and if she likes her visit, 
 perhaps she will come again. I hope you will find her with 
 us.'* 
 
 " And I also, madam, hope to have the felicity of the 
 visit that you propose," said he, " if politics will* permit 
 me." 
 
 He directed an inquiring and rather curious glance at 
 Colonel Graham. 
 
 " You did not hear anything very remarkable in Cairo, 
 
 " Well, nothing remarkable," said the stout soldier. 
 " Lots of rumors. Alway plenty of that in politics. Mostly 
 lies. At the Consulate they thought we were safe enough. 
 
 The young man turned to his father, who was silently 
 and solemnly sipping his coffee, apparently quite uninterested 
 in what was going on, and spoke in Arabic to him for a 
 second or two. The old gentleman appeared to grunt as- 
 sent. 
 
 " My father says he will have much delight in sending 
 two or three soldiers to accompany your party if you are 
 making excursions into the interior. There is no danger, 
 except that some bad men will try to rob when they can. 
 Or if you will permit me — if you will have the grace to per- 
 mit me — 1 will accompany you myself." 
 
 " But to take up so much of your time — " said prettj 
 Mrs. Graham, with one of her most pleasant smiles. 
 
 He waved his hand in a deprecatory fashion. 
 
YOLA.VDE. lOo 
 
 " It will be too charminiiy for me. Perhaps your drago- 
 man does not know the district as well as I. Do you per- 
 mit me? Shall I coiue to-morrow, with everything pre- 
 pared ? " 
 
 " Look here, Mr. Israat," said Colonel Graham, " you'd 
 better come along and dine with us this evening ; then we can 
 talk it over, In t-he meantime we can't keep your father 
 and the other gentlemen waiting while we discuss our ram- 
 bles. Will you please tell his Excellency once more how 
 much obliged we are, and honored by his visit, and that we 
 will do ourselves the pleasure of coming to see him at Mer- 
 hadj to-morrow if that will suit his Excellency's conveni- 
 ence ? " 
 
 This was the final arrangement — that young Ism at 
 Effendi was to come along to dinner in the evening- — a pros- 
 pect which seemed to please him highly. Very soon after 
 the grave company was seated in the stern of the barge, 
 and the big oars were once more at work. The dahabeeyah 
 returned to its normal state of silence ; the little party of 
 Europeans were left again to their own society; and the 
 Master of Lynn, a little anxious and excited, and almost 
 fearing to meet Yolande's eyes, and yet drawn toward her 
 neighborhood by a secret spell, declined to go ashore with 
 the other two gentlemen, and remained with his sister and 
 Yolande in the Belvedere, in the cool shade of the canvas 
 awning. 
 
 No, she betrayed not the slightest embarrassment at his 
 sitting thus quite near her ; it was he who was nervous and 
 awkward in his speech. She was engaged in some delicate 
 needlework ; from time to time she spread it out on her lap 
 to regard it, and all the time she was chatting freely with 
 Mrs. Graham about the recent visitors and their grave 
 demeanor, their almost European costume, their wonder- 
 fully small feet, and so forth. 
 
 " Why do you not go ashore ? " she said, turning with 
 frank eyes to the Master of Lynn. " It is so interesting to 
 see the strange birds, the strange plants." 
 
 "It is cooler on the river," said he. 
 
 He was wondering whether his sister would get up and 
 go away and leave them together, and he was half afraid 
 she would and half afraid she would not. But at all events 
 he was now resolved that on the first opporrimity he would 
 speak to iTolande himself. He would not trust to any go- 
 between. Was it not enough that she had had some in- 
 
104 YOLANDE. 
 
 timjition made to her of his wishes and hopes, and yet 
 sliowed no signs of fear at his approach ? 
 
 The midday went by, and he found no chance of ad- 
 driessing her. His sister and she sat together, and sewed and 
 chatted, or stopped to watch some passing boat, and listen 
 to the boatmen singing a long and melancholy chorus to the 
 clanking of the oars. At lunch-time Mr. Winterbourne and 
 Colonel Graham turned up. Then in the afternoon th«3 
 whole of them got into a boat, and were rowed away to a 
 long and flat and sandy island on the other side of the Nile, 
 which they explored in a leisurely way ; and then back 
 again to the dahabeeyah for a draught of cold tea in the 
 welcome shade of the awning. 
 
 It was not until near the end of the day that the long- 
 looked-for opportunity arrived : indeed, nearly every one 
 had gone below to get ready for dinner ; but Yolande had 
 lingered above to watch the coming over of the twilight. It 
 was a strange enough sight in its way. For after the yel- 
 low color had died out of the bank of bearded corn above 
 the river's edge, and while the strip of acacia-trees over that 
 again had grown solemn and dark against the clear, pallid, 
 blue-gray sky of the south, far away in the northwestern 
 heavens there still lingered a glow of warmer light, and a 
 few clouds high up had caught a saffron tinge from the 
 sinking sun. It seemed as if they here were shut in with 
 the dark, while far away in the north, over the Surrey lanes, 
 and up among the Westmoreland waters, and out amid the 
 distant Hebrideen isles, the summer evening was still fair 
 and shining. It led one to dream of home. The imagin- 
 ation took wings. It was pleasant to think of those beauti- 
 ful and glowing scenes, here where the gloom of the silent 
 desert was gathering all around. 
 
 She was standing by the rail of the deck ; and when the 
 others had gone he quietly went over to her, and began 
 talking to her — about the Highlands mostly, and of the 
 long clear twilights there, and how he hoped she would 
 accept his sister's invitation to go back home with them 
 when they returned to England. And when she said some- 
 thing very pretty about the kindness of all of them to her, 
 he spoke a little more warmly, and asked if there was any 
 wonder. People got to know one another intimately 
 through a constant companionship like this, and got to 
 know and admire and love beautiful qualities of disposition 
 and mind. And then he told her it would not be* honest ii 
 
YOLANDE 105 
 
 he did not confess to lier that he was aware that his sister 
 had spoken to her — it was best to be frank; and he knew 
 she was so kind she would not be angry if there had been 
 any indiscretion ; and he begged for her forgiveness if she 
 had been in any way offended. He spoke in a very frank 
 and manly way; and she let him speak, for she was quite 
 incapable of saying anything. Her fingers were working 
 nervously with a small pocket-book she held, and she had 
 turned partly away, dreading to lift her eyes, and yet unable 
 to go until she had answered him somehow. Then she 
 managed to say, rather hurriedly and breathlessly, — 
 
 "Oh no, I am not offended. Why, it is — a great honor 
 — I — I knew it was your sister's kindness and friendship 
 that made her speak to me. Please let me go away now — " 
 
 He had put his hand on her arm unwittingly. 
 
 "But may 1 hope, Yolande? May I hope?*' he said 
 and he stooped down to listen for the faintest word. "I 
 don't want you to pledge yourself altogether now. Give 
 me time. May I try to win you ? Do you think sometimes 
 — some time of your own choosing, as far ahead as you may 
 wish — you will consent? May I hope for it? May I look 
 forward to it — some day. 
 
 "Oh, but I cannot tell you — I cannot tell you now," 
 she said, in the same breathless way. " I am sorry if I have 
 given any pain — any anxiety — but — some other time I will 
 try to talk to you — or my papa will tell you — but not now. 
 You have always been so kind to me that I ask it from 
 you—" 
 
 She stole away in the gathering darkness, her head bent 
 down : she had not once turned her eyes to his. And he 
 remained there for a time, scarcely knowing what he had 
 said or what she had answered, but vaguely and happily 
 conscious that she had not, at all events, refused him. 
 Was it not much ? He was harassed by all kinds of doubts, 
 surmises, hesitations; but surely prevailing over these was 
 a buoyant hope, a touch of triumph even. He would fain 
 have gone away for a long stroll in the dusk to have 
 reasoned out his hopes and guesses with himself; but here 
 was dinner-time approaching, and young Ismat was coming; 
 and he — that is, the Master of Lynn — began to have the 
 consciousness that Yolande in a measure belonged to him, 
 and that he must be there. He went down the steps with 
 a light and a proud heart. Yolande was his, he almosl felt 
 
106 YOLANDE. 
 
 assured. How should she regard him when next they 
 met? 
 
 And indeed at dinner there was no longer any of that 
 happy serenity of manner on her part that had puzzled him 
 before. Her self-consciousness and embarrassment were so 
 great as to be almost painful to witness. She never lifted 
 her eyes ; she ate and drank next to nothing; when she 
 pretended to be listening to Ismat Effendi's descriptions of 
 the troubles in the Soudan, any one who knew must have 
 seen that she was a quite perfunctory listener, and probably 
 understood but little of what was being said. But then 
 no one knew that he had spoken but himself, and he strove 
 to convince her that he was not regarding lier by entering 
 eagerly into this conversation about the False Prophet; 
 and though now and again her trouble and confusion 
 perplexed him — along with the recollection that she had 
 been so anxious to say nothing definite — still, on the whole, 
 triumph and rejoicing were in his heart. And how beautiful 
 she looked, even with the pensive face cast down ! No 
 wonder young Ismat had admired her that morning; the 
 very Englishness of her appearance must have struck him 
 — tlie tall stature, the fine complexion, the ruddy golden 
 hair, and the clear, proud, calm, self-confident look of the 
 maidenly eyes. This was a bride fit for a home coming at 
 Lynn Towers! 
 
 But, alas ! Yolande's self-confidence seemed to have 
 strangely forsaken her that evening. When they were all 
 up on deck, taking their coffee in the red glow shed by the 
 lanterns, she got hold of her father, and drew him aside 
 into the darkness. 
 
 " What is it, Yolande?" said he, in surprise. 
 
 She took hold of his hand ; both hers were trembling. 
 
 "I have something to tell you, papa — something 
 serious." 
 
 Then he knew, and for a moment his heart sank ; but he 
 maintained a gay demeanor. Had he not reasoned the 
 whole matter out with himself? He had foreseen this 
 crisis ; he had nerved himself by anticipation. 
 
 '•' Oh, I know — I know already, Yolande," said he, very 
 cheerfully. " Do you think I can't spy secrets ? And of 
 course you come to me, with your hands trembling, and 
 ^ou think you have something dreadful to confess, whereas 
 It is nothing but the most ordinary and commonplace thing 
 in the world. You need not .make any confession. Young 
 
YOLANDE. 107 
 
 Leslie has spoken to me. Quite right — very right ; I like 
 frankness. I consider him a very fine young fellow. Now 
 what have you got to say? Only I won't listen if you are 
 going to make a fuss about it, and destroy my nervous system, 
 for I tell vou it is the simplest and most ordinary affair in 
 the world?' 
 
 " Then you know everything — you approve of it, papa 
 — it is your wish ? " she said, bravely. 
 
 ** My wish ? " he said. *' What has my wish to do with 
 it, you stupid creature ! " But then he added, more gently : 
 " Of course you know Yolande, I should like to see you mar- 
 ried and settled. Yes, I should like to see that; I should 
 like to see you in a fixed home, and not liable to all the 
 changes and chances of the life that you and I have been 
 living. It would be a great relief to my mind. And then 
 it is natural and right. It is not for a young girl to be a 
 rolling stone like that ; and, besides, it couldn't last: that 
 idea about our always going on travelling wouldn't answer. 
 So whenever you think of marrying, whenever you think 
 you w^iil be happy in choosing a husband — ^just now, to- 
 morrow, or any time — don't come to me with a breathless 
 voice, and with trembling hands, as if you had done some 
 wrong, or as if I w^as going to object, for to see you happy 
 would be happiness enough for me ; and as for our society 
 together, well, you know, I could pay the people of Slag- 
 pool a little more attention, and have some more occupa- 
 tion that way; and then you, instead of having an old and 
 frail and feeble person like me to take care of you, you 
 would have one whose years would make him a fitter com- 
 panion for you, as is quite right and proper and natural. 
 And now do you understand ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, I think so, papa !" said she, quite brightly ; 
 and she regarded him with grateful and loving eyes. "And 
 you would have ever so much more time for Parliament, 
 would you not ? " 
 
 " Assuredly.*' 
 
 " And you would come to see me sometimes ; and go 
 shooting and fishing ; and take a real holiday — not in towns 
 and hotels?" 
 
 " Oh, don't be afraid. I will bother the life out of you. 
 And there are alw ays fishings and shootings to be got some* 
 how," 
 
 " And you would be quite happy then ? " 
 
 **If you were, I should be," said he ; and really this 
 
108 YOLANDE. 
 
 prospect pleased him so much that his cheerfulness now 
 was scarcely forced. " Always on this distinct and clear 
 understanding," he added, *• that, when we are coming 
 back from the shooting, you will come out to meet us and 
 walk back with us the last half-mile." 
 
 " I should be dressing for dinner, papa," she said, " and 
 just worrying my head off to think what would please 
 you." 
 
 "You will be dressing to please your husband, you 
 foolish creature, not me." 
 
 " He won't care as much as you, papa." Then she 
 added, after a second : " I should get the London news- 
 papers, yes? Quite easily? Do you know, papa, what 
 Colonel Graham believes? — that they are going to take one 
 of the extreme Liberals into the Ministry, to please the 
 northern towni," 
 
 "But what has that got to do with you, child?" said 
 he, with a laugh. " Very likely they may. But you didn't 
 bring me over here to talk politics? " 
 
 " But even if you were in the Government, papa, you 
 would have your holiday-time all the sane," she said, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "1 a member of the Government!" said he. "You 
 may as well expect to hear of me being sent to arrest the 
 False Prophet in the Soudan. Come away, then, Yolande : 
 your secret is not a secret ; so you need not trouble about 
 it ; and now, that I have expounded my views on the 
 situation, you may as well go and call to Ahmed that I 
 want another cup of coffee." 
 
 And then he hesitated. 
 
 " You have not said yes or no yet, Yolande ? " 
 ^ "Oh no; how could I, until I knew what you might 
 think ? " said she, and she regarded him now with frank 
 and unclouded eyes. "How could I? It might not have 
 been agreeable to your wishes. But I was tolU that you 
 would approve. At first — well, it is a sudden thing to 
 give up visions you have formed : but when you see it is 
 not practicable and reasonable, what is it but a small strug. 
 gle ? No ; other plans present themselves. Oh yes. I have 
 much to think of now, that looks very pleasant to antici- 
 pate. Very much to look forward to — to hope for." 
 
 He patted her lightly on the shoulder. 
 
 " And if you make half as good a wife, Yolande, as you 
 have been a daughter, you will do pretty well." 
 
YOLANDE. 109 
 
 They went back to their friends, their absence scarcely 
 having been noticed, for Isniat Effendi was a fluent and 
 interesting talker. And whether Mr. Winterbourne had 
 been playing a part or not in his interview with Yolande, 
 that cheerfulness of his soon left him. He sat somewliat 
 apart, and silent ; his eyes were fixed on the deck ; he was 
 not listening. Yolande herself bi-ought him the coffee ; 
 and she put her hand on his shoulder, and stood by him ; 
 then he brigiitened up somewhat. But he was tlioughtful 
 and distraught for the whole of the evening, except when 
 he liappened to be spoken to by Yolande and then he would 
 summon up some of his customary humor, and petulantly 
 com))lain about her un-Englishidioms. 
 
 And she ? Her anxiety and nervousness seemed to have 
 vanished. It is true, she rather avoided the Master of 
 Lynn, and rarely ventured to look in liis direction, but she 
 was in good spirits, cheerful, practical, self-possessed; and 
 when Ismat Effendi, on going away, apologized to her for 
 having talked tedious politics all the evening, she said, with 
 a charming smile, — 
 
 "No, not at all. How can politics be tedious? Ah! 
 but we will have our revenge, perhaps, in Scotland. Mrs. 
 Graham says that in their house it is nothing but deer tliat 
 is talked of all the evening. That will not interest you?" 
 
 *' I shall rejoice to be allowed to try," said the polite 
 young Egyptian ; and then he shook hands with her, and 
 bowed very low, and left. 
 
 During the rest of the evening the Master of Lynn, see- 
 ing that Yolande seemed no longer in any trouble, kept 
 near her, with some vague hope that she would herself 
 speak, or that he might have some chance of re-opening the 
 subject that engrossed bis mind. And indeed, when 
 the chance arrived, and he timidly asked her if she had not 
 a word of hope for him, she spoke very frankly, thougli 
 with some little nervousness, no doubt. She made a little 
 apology, in very pretty and stammering phrases, for not 
 having been able to give him an answer ; but since then, 
 she said, she had spoken to her father, without whose ap- 
 proval she could not have decided. 
 
 " Then you consent, Yolande; you will be my wife?" 
 be said, in a low and eager voice, upsetting in his haste all 
 the continuity of these hesitating sentences. 
 
 " But is it wise?" said she, still with her eyes cast down. 
 " Perhaps you will regret — " 
 
110 YOLANDE. 
 
 He took her hand in his, and held it tight. 
 
 " This lias been a lucky voyage for me," said he ; and 
 that was all that he had a chance of saying just then ; but 
 it was enough. 
 
 Colonel Graham heard the news that same evening. He 
 was a man of solid and fixed ideas. 
 
 " A very good thjng too," said he to his wife. " A very 
 good thing. Now tliey'll take the sheep off Allt-nam-Ba, 
 and make Corrievreak the sanctuary. Nothing could have 
 happened better." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 NEW PLANS. 
 
 Next morning, and long before any one on board the 
 dahabeeyah was awake, Mr. Winterbourne was seated in 
 the quiet little saloon writing the following letter: 
 
 " Near Merhadjh, on the Nile, May 13. 
 
 " Dear Shortlands : — 
 
 I have news for you. You will be glad to learn that 
 Yolande is engaged to be married — I think with every pros- 
 pect of happiness ; and you will also be glad to know that 
 I heartily approve, and that so far from viewing the com- 
 ing change with dread, I rather welcome it, and look on it 
 as the final removal of one of the great anxieties of my life. 
 Sometimes I wonder at myself, though. Yolande and I 
 have been so much to each other. And I dare say I shall 
 feel her absence for a while. But what does it matter? 
 My life has been broken and wasted ; what remains of it is 
 of little consequence if her life be made the fuller and hap- 
 pier and more secured ; and I think there is every chance of 
 that. After all, this definite separation will be better than 
 a series of small separations, haunted by continual fears. 
 She will be removed from all the possibilities you know of. 
 As for me, what does it matter, as I say ? And so I have 
 come to regard the handing over of my Yolande to some- 
 body else as not such a hard matter after all ; nay, I am 
 looking forward to it with a kind of satisfaction. When 1 
 can see her securely married and happily settled in a homej 
 
YOLANDE. Ill 
 
 that will be enough for me ; and maybe T inay have a chance 
 from time to time of regarding tlie pride and pleasure of 
 the young house-mistress. 
 
 " The accepted suitor is Mrs. Graham's brother (I think 
 you know we came away with Colonel Graham, of Inver- 
 stroy, and his wife), and the only son of Lord Lynn. 1 
 have had a good opportunity of studying his character; and 
 you may imagine that, when I saw a prospect of this hap- 
 pening, I regarded him very closely and jealously. Well, 
 I must say that his qualities bore the scrutiny well. I think 
 he is an honest and honorable young fellow, of fair abilities, 
 very pleasant and courteous in manner (what I especially 
 like in him is the consideration and respect he pays to 
 women, which seems to be unusual nowadays; he doesn't 
 stand and stare at them with a toothpick in his mouth) ; I 
 hear he is one af the best deer-stalkers in the Highlands, 
 and that speaks well for his hardihood and his temperance ; 
 he is not brilliant, but he is good-natured, which is of more 
 importance in the long run ; he is cheerful and high-spirited, 
 which naturally follows from his excellent constitution— 
 deer-stalking does not tend to conjestion of the liver and 
 bilious headache : he is good-looking, but not vain ; and 
 he is scrupulously exact in money matters. Indeed, he is 
 almost too exact, if criticism were to be so minute, for it 
 looks just a little bit odd, when we are playing cards for 
 counters at threepence a dozen, to see the heir of the house 
 of Lynn so very particular in claiming his due of twopence- 
 halfpenny. But this little weakness is forgivable : to be 
 prudent and economical is a very good failing in a young 
 man ; and then you must remember his training. The 
 Leslies have been poor for several generations ; but they 
 have steadily applied themselves to the retrieving of their 
 condition and the bettering of the estate, and it is only by 
 the exercise of severe economy that they now stand in so 
 good a position. So, doubtless, this young fellow has ac- 
 quired the habit of being particular about trifles, and I 
 don't object ; from my point of view it is rather praise- 
 worthy ; Yolande's fortune — and she shall have the bulk of 
 what I have — will be placed in good and careful hands. 
 
 " So now all this is well and happily settled, and as 
 every one bids fair to be content, you will ask what more 
 we have to do than to look forward to the wedding, and 
 the slippers, and the handfuls of rice. Well, it is the old 
 story, and you as an old friend, will understand. That is 
 
112 YOLANDE. 
 
 why I write to you, after a wakeful enough night — for the 
 sake of unburdening myself, even though I can't get a word 
 of your sturdy counsel at this great distance. As I say, it 
 is the old story. For the moment you delude yourself into 
 the belief that the time of peril and anxiety is past; every- 
 thing is safe now for the future; with Yolande's life made 
 secure and happy, what matters what happens elsewhere? 
 And the next moment new anxieties present themselves; 
 the old dread returns ; doubts whether you have acted for 
 the best, and fears about this future that seemed so bright. 
 There is one point about these Leslies that I forgot to men- 
 tion : they are all of them apparently — and young Leslie 
 especially — very proud of the family name, and jealous of 
 the family honor. I do not wonder at it. They have every 
 right to be, and it is rather a praiseworthy quality. But now 
 you will understand, old friend, the perplexity I am in — • 
 afraid to make any revelation that might disturb the settle- 
 ment which seems so fortunate a one, and yet afraid to 
 transfer to the future all those risks and anxieties that 
 have made the past so bitter and so terrible to me.- I do 
 not know what to do. Perhaps I should have stated the 
 whole matter plainly to the young man when he came and 
 asked permission to propose to Yolande; but then I was 
 thinking, not of that at all, but only of her happiness. It 
 seemed so easy and safe a way out of all that old trouble. 
 And why should he have been burdened with a secret which 
 he dared not reveal to her? I thought of Yolande being 
 taken away to that Highland home, living content and hap- 
 py al) through her life, and it did not occur to me to imperil 
 that prospect by any disclosure of what could concern 
 neither her nor him. But now I have begun to torture my- 
 self in the old way again, and in spite of myself conjure up 
 all sorts of ghastly anticipations. The fit does not last long ; 
 if you were here, with your firm way of looking at things, 
 possibly I could drive away these imaginings altogetlier ; 
 but you will understand me when I say that I could wish to 
 see Yolande married to-morrow, and carried away to the 
 Highlands. Then I could meet ray own troubles well 
 enough." 
 
 He was startled by the rustling of a dress ; he looked up, 
 and there was Yolande herself, regarding him with a bright 
 and happy and smiling face, in which there was a trifle of 
 surprise, and also perhaps a faint flush of self-consciousness ; 
 for it was but the previous evening tliat she had told him of 
 
YOLANDE, 113 
 
 the engagement. But surely one glance of that face, so 
 young and cheerful and confident, was enough to dispel 
 those dark forebodings. The page of life lying open there 
 was not the one on which to write down pi'ognostications 
 of trouble and sorrow. His eyes lit up with pleasure ; the 
 glooms of the night were suddenly forgotten. 
 
 " Writing ? Already ? " she said, as she went forward and 
 kissed him. 
 
 " You are looking very well this morning, Yolande," lie 
 said, regarding her. " The silence of the boat does not keep 
 you from sleeping, apparently, as it sometimes does with 
 older folk. But where is your snood? — the color suits your 
 hair," 
 
 " Oh, I am not in the Highlands yet, " she said, lightly. 
 " Do you know the song Mrs. Graham sings ? — 
 
 * It's I would give my silken snood 
 To see the gallant Grahams come hame," 
 
 that was in the days of their banishment." 
 
 " But what have you to do with the home-coming of the 
 Grahams, Yolande?" her father said, to tease her. "You 
 will be a Leslie, not a Graham." 
 
 She changed the topic quickly, 
 
 "To whom are you writing?" 
 
 " To John Sliortlands." 
 
 "May I see?" 
 
 She would have taken ui> the letter had he not hastily 
 interposed. 
 
 "No."^ 
 
 " Ah ! it is about business. Very well. But may I put 
 in a postscript ?" 
 
 " What do you want to write-to Mr. Shortlands about ?" 
 her father said, in amazement. 
 
 "Perhaps it will be better for you to write, then. I was 
 going to ask him to visit us at Allt-nam-Ba." 
 
 "Well, now, Yolande, that is a most excellent idea ! " he 
 exclaimed. "You are really becoming quite a sensible and 
 
 f)ractical person. We shall want another gun. John Short- 
 ands is just the man." 
 
 "We can give him, " said she, sedately, "the bedroom 
 over the dining-room ; that will be furthest away from the 
 noise of the kennels." 
 Then he stared at her. 
 
114 YOLANDE. 
 
 *' What oTi earth do you know about the bedroom over 
 the dining-room, or the kennels either?" 
 
 " Mr. "Leslie," said' she, with a momentary flush, " gave 
 me a plan of the house — there it is, papa. Oh, you shall 
 have no trouble ; it is all quite easily arranged 
 
 She took out a piece of paper from her note-book, un- 
 folded it, and put it before him. 
 
 " There," said she, with a practical air, " is a very good 
 room, that looks down the glen — that is for you. That one 
 is for a visitor — yes, Mr. Shortlands, if he will come — so 
 that he shall not be disturbed by the dogs. That one for 
 me—" 
 
 " But why should you be disturbed by the dogs ? " 
 
 " Me ? Oh, no ! I shall be used to it. Besides," she 
 said, with a laugh, " there is nothing that will disturb me — ■ 
 no, not the cockatoo at the Chateau that Madame did not 
 keep more than three days." 
 
 " But look here, Yolande," said he, gravely, " I am afraid 
 you are going to attempt too much. Why should you ? 
 Why should you bother ? I can pay to get somebody to do all 
 that. It's all very well for Mrs. Graham, who has all her ser- 
 vants about her, trained to help her. And she has been at the 
 thing for years. But really, Yolande, you are taking too 
 great a responsibility. And why should you worry your- 
 self when I can pay to get it done ? I dare say tliere are 
 people wlio will provision a house as you provision a yacht, 
 and take back the surplus stores. I don't know ; I suppose 
 so. In any case I hire a housekeeper up there — " 
 
 She put her hand on his mouth. 
 
 "No, no, no," she said, triumphantly. "Why, it is all 
 arranged, long ago — all settled — every small point. Do I 
 not know what cartridges to buy for you, for the rifle that 
 Mr. Leslie is to lend you — do I not know even that small 
 point ? " 
 
 She referred to her note-book. 
 
 " There it is,' she said. " Eley-Boxer, 500 bore, for ex- 
 press rifle — " 
 
 " Well, you know, Yolande," said he, to test her, " I 
 should have thought that when the Master proposed to lend 
 me a rifle, he might have presented me with some cart- 
 ridges, instead of letting me buy them for myself." 
 
 But she did not see the point. 
 
 " Perhaps he did not remember," said she, lightly. 
 •* Perhaps it is not customary. No matter ; I shall have 
 
YOLANDE. 115 
 
 them. It is very obliging that you get the loan of the rifle. 
 Qaand on emprunte^ on ne choisit pas.''^ 
 
 *' Very well, then ; go away, and let me finish my let- 
 ter," said he, good-naturedly. 
 
 When she had gone he turned the sheet of paper that 
 he had placed face downward, and continued : — 
 
 " When I had wn-itten the above Yolande came into the 
 saloon. She has just gone, and everything is changed. It 
 is impossible to look at her — so full of hope and life and 
 cheerfulness — and be downcast about the future. It ap- 
 pears to me now that whatever trouble may befal will af- 
 fect me only, and that that does not much matter, and that 
 she will be living a happy life far away there in the north 
 without a care. Is it not quite simple ? She will no longer 
 bear my name. Even if she were to come to London — • 
 though it is far from probable they will ever have a London 
 house, even for the season — she will come either as the 
 Hon. Mrs. Leslie, or as Lady Lynn ; and nothing could oc- 
 cur to alarm her or annoy her husband. Everything ap- 
 pears to have happened for the best, aud I don't see how 
 any contretemps could arise. When we return to England 
 the proposal is that Yolande should go on with the Grahams 
 to Inverstroy, until I go down to a shooting that I have 
 rented for the season from Lord Lynn — Allt-nam-Ba is the 
 name of the place — and there we should be for the follow- 
 ing three months. I don't know^ how long the engage- 
 ment of the young people is likely to last ; but I should say 
 they knew each other pretty well after being constantly in 
 each other's society all this time ; and I, of course, could 
 wdsh for nothing better than a speedy marriage. Nor will 
 there be any risk about that. Whether it takes place in 
 the Higlilands, or at Weybridge, or anywhere else, there 
 need be no great ceremony or publicity ; and I would 
 gladly pay for a special license,. which I could fairly do on 
 the plea that it was merely a whim of my own. 
 
 " Now as for yourself, dear old boy. Would you be 
 surprised to hear that Yolande has just suggested — entirely 
 her own suggestion, mind — that you should come and pay 
 us a visit at that shooting-box? She has even decided that 
 you are to have the bedroom farthest removed iVoni the 
 noise of the kennels. I do hope you will be able to go 
 down with me for the Twelfth. Witli decent shooting, and 
 if the moor is in its normal state, they say we sliould get 
 1000 or 1200 brace ; and, besides that, the moor abuts on 
 
116 YOLANDE. 
 
 three deer forests, and there is no reason, moral or legal, 
 why you shouldn't have a shot at such/ercB naturoe as may 
 stray on to your ground. And then (which is, perha])8, a 
 more important thing — at all events, you would be inter- 
 ested, for I think you rather like the child) you would see 
 what kind of a choice Yolande has made, I hope I am not 
 blinded by ray own wishes; but it seems as if everything 
 promised well. 
 
 " There is another thing I want to mention to you be- 
 fore I close this screed — which more resembles the letters 
 of our youth than the staccato notes they call letters nowa- 
 days. I have talked to you about this engagement as if it 
 were a good arrangement — a solution, in fact, of a very- 
 awkward problem ; but don't think for a moment that, 
 when they do marry, it will be anything but a marriage of 
 affection. Mr. Leslie is not so poor that he need to marry 
 for money; on the contrary, the family are fairly well off 
 now, and the estates almost free ; and Yolande, on the other 
 hand, is not the sort of creature to marry for title or social 
 position. I saw that he was drawing toward her a long 
 time ago — as far back, indeed, as the time of our arriving 
 at Malta; and as for her, she made a friend and companion 
 of him almost at the beginning of the voyage in a way very 
 unusual with her ; for I have noticed again and again, in 
 travelling, how extremely reserved she was when any one 
 seemed anxious to make her acquaintance. No doubt the 
 fact that he was Mrs. Graham's brother had something to 
 do with it ; for the Grahams were very kind to her at Oat- 
 lands, and have been ever since, I need hardly say. It will 
 be very pleasant to her to have such agreeable neiglibors 
 when she marries. Mrs. Graham treats her like a sister 
 already. She will not be going among strange kinsfolk, nor 
 among those likely to judge her harshly. 
 
 " So far we have enjoyed the trip very well, though, ot 
 course, to some of us its chief interest lay in this little 
 drama that now points, I hope, to a happy conclusion. We 
 have had the whole Nile to ourselves — all the tourists gone 
 long ago. The heat considerable : yesterday at midday it 
 was 108 degrees in the shade ; but it is a dry heat, and not 
 bebilitating. Of course we keep under shelter on the 
 hottest days. I hear that the wine at dinner is of a tem- 
 perature of 90 degrees, there being no ice ; so that we 
 abstainers have rather the best of it, the water, kept in 
 porous jars, being much cooler than that. We visit 
 
YOLANDE. 117 
 
 Merhadj to-day, and thereafter begin a series of excursions 
 in tlie neighborhood — if all goes well. But we heard some 
 ugly rumors in Cairo, and may at any moment have to beat 
 a swift retreat. 
 
 ** As soon as I get back I shall begin my Parliamentary 
 attendance again, and stick close to work until the end of 
 the session, and I have no doubt the Government will give 
 nie plenty of chances of reminding the Slagpool people of 
 my existence. I wish you would have a paragraph put in 
 one of the London papers to the effect that the health of 
 the member for Slagpool being now almost re-established 
 by his visit to Egypt, he will in a few weeks be able to take 
 his place again in the House. Then the Slagpool papers 
 would copy. They have been very forbearing with me, 
 those people ; I suppose it is because I bully them. They 
 would have turned out any more complaisant person long 
 ago. 
 
 " Yolande — still harping on his daugliter, you will say ; 
 but it is only for a little while : soon I shall see and hear 
 little enough of her — has undertaken the whole control and 
 household management of the shooting-box, and I dare say 
 she will make a hash of it ; but I don't think you will be 
 severe on her, if, as I hope, you can come to us. It will be 
 an occupation and amusement for her while she is in the 
 Highlands ; and I am very glad she is going to be with the 
 Grahams during that interval. She wearied a good deal 
 at Oatlands Park, though she tried not to show it ; and as 
 for ever having her in London again — no, that is impossible. 
 Mrs. Leslie or Lady Lynn may come and live in London 
 when she pleases — though I hope it may be many a year 
 before she does so — but not Yolande Winterbourne. Poor 
 child, she little knows what kind of a shadow there is behind 
 her fair and bright young life. I hope she will never know ; 
 I am beginning to believe now that she will never know ; 
 and this that has just happened, ought to give one courage 
 and strength. 
 
 *' Do not attempt to answer this letter. The writing of 
 it has been a relief to me. I may be back in town very 
 shortly after you get it ; for we shall only stay in Cairo a 
 few days to get some things for Yolande that may be of 
 service to her after. 
 
 Always your friend, 
 
 " G. K. Winterbourne. 
 
 •* P.S. — I should not wonder at all if, before this letter 
 
118 YOLANDE. 
 
 gets posted even, that torment of fear and nervous appre* 
 heirsion should again get possession of me. I wish the 
 marriage were well over, and I left alone in London." 
 
 The various noises throughout the dahabeeyah now told 
 him that all the people were stirring ; he carefully folded 
 this letter and put it in his pocket (that he might read it 
 over again at his leisure), and then he went out and ip the 
 stairs to the higher deck. Yolande was leaning with her 
 elbows on the rail, gazing out on the wide waters and the 
 far wastes of sand. She did not hear him approach ; she 
 was carelessly singing to herself some snatch of a French 
 8ong, and doubtless not thinking at all how inappropriate 
 the words were ; 
 
 " Ohe! . . . c'est la terre de France 
 Ohe! . . . Garcons! bonne espe'rancel 
 Yois-tu, la-bas, sous le del gris 
 A I'horizon ? . . . C'est le pays I 
 
 Madelon, Ferine 
 
 Toinon, Catherine — " 
 
 " Yolande," said he ; and she started and turned round 
 quickl}'. 
 
 " Why, you don't seem to consider that you have taken 
 a very serious step in life," he said, with a smile. 
 
 ''Moi?" 
 
 Then bhe recalled herself to her proper tongue. 
 
 " I think it pleases every one ; do you not?" she said, 
 brightly ; and there were no more forebodings possible 
 when he found himself, as now, face to face with the shining 
 cheerfulness of her eyes. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 OBEDIENCE. 
 
 Yolande was right on that one point, at least : every 
 one seemed greatly pleased. There was a n«w and obvious 
 satisfaction permeating all through this little party in exile. 
 Mrs. Graham was more affectionate than ever — it M'^as " dear 
 Yolande " every other minute ; Colonel Graham was as- 
 
YOLANDE. 119 
 
 Biduons \n giving her perfectly idiotic advice about hei 
 housekeeping at AUt-nam-Ba ; and the Master of Lynn 
 sought, but sought in vain, for opportunities of having little 
 confidential talks with her. And the most light-hearted oi 
 them all was Yolande herself. Her decision once given 
 she seemed to trouble herself no more about the future. 
 Every one was plest^ed ; so was she. She betrayed no con- 
 cern ; she was not en:barrassed by that increase of attention 
 and kindness which, however slight, was easily recognizable 
 and significant. To all appearance she was occupied, not 
 in the least with her futui 2 duties as a wife^ but solely and 
 delightedly with preparations for the approaching visit to 
 Merhadj ; and she was right thankful that they were going 
 by water, for on two occasions they had found the sand of 
 the river-bank to be of a temperature of 140® in the sun, 
 which was not very pleasant for women-folk wearing thin- 
 soled boots. 
 
 When they had got into the stern of the big boat, and 
 were being rowed up the wide, yellow-green river, her father 
 could not help regarding this gayety of demeanor witli an 
 increasing wonder, and even with a touch of apprehensive 
 doubt. And then again he argued with himself. Why 
 should she anticipate the gravities of life ? Why should 
 she not be careless and light-hearted, and happy in the 
 small excitement of the moment? Would it not b^ time 
 to face the evil days, if there were to be any such, when 
 they came*? And why should they come at all? Surely 
 some lives were destined for peace. Why should not tlie 
 story of her life be like the scene now around them — placid, 
 beautiful, and calm, with unclouded skies ? To some that 
 was given, and Yolande (he gradually convinced himself) 
 would be one of those. To look at her face — so full of life 
 and pleasure and bright cheerfulness — was to acquire hope; 
 it was not possible to associate misery or despair with those 
 clear-shining, confident eyes. Her life (he returned to the 
 fancy) was to be like the scenery in which the courtship and 
 engagement passage of it had chanced to occur — pretty, 
 placid, unclouded, not too romantic. And so by the time 
 they reached Merhadj he had grown to be, or had forced 
 himself to appear, as cheerful as any of them. He knew he 
 was nervous, fretful, and liable to gloomy anticipations ; 
 but he also had a certain power of fighting against these, 
 and that he could do best when Yolande was actually beside 
 bim. Arid Avn*' slie not there now — merrv and lauehino 
 
120 YOLANDE. 
 
 and delighted ; eagerly interested in these new scenes, and 
 trying to talk to every one at once ? He began to share in 
 her excitement ; he forgot about those vague horoscopes 
 it was the crowd of boats, and the children swimming in 
 the Nile, and the women coming down with pitchers on 
 their heads, and all the other busy and picturesque features 
 along the shore that he was looking at, because she also was 
 looking at them ; and it was no visionary Yolande of the 
 future, but the very sensible and practical and light-hearted 
 Yoland of that very moment, tliat he had to grip by the 
 arm with an angry remonstrance about her attempting to 
 walk down the gangboard by herself, she only laughed ; she 
 never believed much in her father's anger. 
 
 They got ashore to find themselves in the midst of a 
 frightful tumult and confusion — at least so it appeared to 
 them after the silence and seclusion of the dahabeeyah. 
 Donkeys were being driven down to the river, raising clouds 
 of dust as they came trotting along ; the banks swarmed 
 with mules and camels and water-carriers, the women were 
 filling their pitchers, the boys their pigskin vessels ; the 
 children were diving and splashing and calling ; and 
 altogether the bustle and clamor seemed different enough 
 from the ordinary repose of Eastern life, and were even a 
 trifle bewildering. But in the midst of it all appeared 
 young Ismat Effendi, who came hurrying down the bank to 
 offer a hundred eager apologies for his not having been in 
 time to receive them; and under his guidance. they got 
 away fi-om the noise and squalor, and proceeded to cross a 
 large open square, planted with a few acacia-trees, to the 
 Governor's house just outside the town. The young Ismat 
 was delighted to be the escort of those two English ladies. 
 He talked very fast ; his eyes were eloquent ; and his 
 smiling face showed how proud and pleased he was. And 
 would they go through the town with him after they had 
 done his father the honor of a visit? 
 
 " The bazars are not like Cairo," said he. " No;, no ; 
 Avho could expect that ? We are a small town, but we are 
 more Egyptian than Cairo ; we are not half foreign, like 
 Cairo." 
 
 " I am sure it will be all the more interesting on that 
 account," said Mrs. Graham, graciously ; and Yolande was 
 pleased to express the same opinion ; and young Ismat 
 Effendi's face seemed to say that a gi-eat honor liad been 
 conferred on him and on Merhadj. 
 
YOLANDE. 121 
 
 And indeed they were sufficiently interested in wliat 
 they could already see of the place — this wide sandy square, 
 with its acacias in tubs, its strings of donkeys and camels, 
 its veiled women and dusky men ; with the high hare walls 
 of a mosque, the tapering minaret, some lower walls of 
 houses, and everywhere a profusion of palms that bounded 
 the further side. 
 
 " Hillo, Mr. Ismat ! " called out Colonel Graham, as two 
 gangs of villanous-looking convicts, all chained tcf each 
 other, came along under guard of a couple of soldiers. 
 *' What have these fellows been doing? " 
 
 " They are prisoners," said he, carelessly. " They have 
 killed somebody or stolen something. We make them carry 
 water." 
 
 The next new feature was a company of soldiers, in 
 A'hite tunics and trousers and red tarbooshes, who marched 
 quickly along to the shrill sharp music of bugles. They 
 disappeared into the archway of a large square building. 
 
 "That is my father's house," explained young Ismat to 
 the ladies. " He looks to your visit with great pleasure. 
 And the other gentlemen of the town, they are there also, 
 and the chief enojineer of the district. Your comin^c is a 
 great honor to us." 
 
 " I wish I knew a little Arabic," said Mrs. Graham. " I 
 am sure we have not thanked his Excellency half enough 
 for his kindness in lending us his dahabeeyah." 
 
 "Oh, quite enough, quite enough," said tlie polite young 
 Egyptian. " I assure you it is nothing. Though it is a 
 pity my father does not understand English, and not much 
 French either. He has been very busy all his life, and not 
 travelling. The other gentlemen speak French, like most 
 of the official Egyptians." 
 
 " And you," said Mrs. Graham, regarding him Avith her 
 pretty eyes, " do you speak French as well as you speak 
 English?" 
 
 " My English ! " he said, with a slight shrug of his 
 shoulders. " It is very bad. I know it is very, very bad. 
 I have never been in England ; I have had no practice 
 except a little in India. But, on the contrary, I have lived 
 three years in Paris ; French is much more natural to me 
 than English." 
 
 " It is so with me also, Mr. Ismat," said Yolande, a trifle 
 Bh}ly. 
 
 '• With you ! " he exclaimed. 
 
122 YOLANDE. 
 
 " I have lived nearly all my life in France. But your 
 English, that you spoke of is not in the least bad. It is 
 very good — is it not Mrs. Graham ? " 
 
 Nothing further could be said on that point, however 
 for they were just escaping from the glare of the sun into 
 a cool high archway; and from that they passed into a 
 wide, open courtyard, where the guard of soldiers they had 
 seen enter presented arms. Then ihey ascended some 
 steps, and finally were ushered into a large and lofty and 
 barely furnished saloon, where the Governor and the notables 
 of Merhadj received them with much serious courtesy. 
 But this interview, as it turned o.ut, was not quite so solemn 
 as that on th(i deck of the dahabeeyah ; for, after what 
 Ismat Effendi had said to the two ladies without, it was but 
 natural that the conversation should be conducted in French; 
 and so the colfee and cigarettes which were brought in by 
 two young lads were partaken of in anything but silence. 
 And then, as little groups were thus formed, and as Ismat's 
 services as interpreter were not in such constant demand, 
 he somehow came to devote himself to the two ladies, and as 
 Yolande naturally spoke French with much more ease and 
 fluency than Mrs. Graham, to her he chiefly addressed him- 
 self. The Master of Lynn did not at all like this arrange- 
 ment. He was silent and impatient. He regarded this 
 Frenchified Arab, who seemed to consider himself so fasci- 
 nating, with a goodly measure of robust English contempt. 
 And then he grew angry with his sister. She ought not to 
 be, and she ought not to permit Yolande to be, so familiar 
 with this Egyptian fellow. Did she not know that Egyptian 
 ladies studiously kept their faces concealed ? And what 
 must he be thinking of these two English ladies, who 
 laughed and chattered in this free and easy fashion ? 
 
 Then, as regarded Yolande, his gratitude for the great 
 gift she had given him was still full in his mind, and he was 
 willing to make every excuse for her, and to treat her with 
 a manly forbearance and leniency ; but at the same time he 
 could not get rid of a certain consciousness that she did not 
 seem to recognize as she ought that he had in a way, a right 
 of possession. She bore herself to him just as she bore 
 herself to the others; if there was any one of the party 
 whom she seemed specially to favor that morning as they 
 came up the Nile, it was Colonel Graham, who did nothing 
 but tease her. She did not seem to think there was any 
 difference between yesterday and to-day, whereas yesterdav 
 
YOLANDE. 123 
 
 she was free, and to day she was a promised bride. How- 
 ever, he threw most of the blame on his sister. Polly was 
 always trying the effect of her eyes on somebody, and this 
 Egyptian was as good as another. And he wondered kow 
 Graham allowed it. 
 
 But matters grew worse when this ceremonious interview 
 was over. For when they went to explore the narrow, 
 twisting, mud-paved, and apparently endless bazars of Mor- 
 hadj, where there was scarcely room for the camels and 
 donkeys, to pass without bumping them against the walls or 
 shop doors, of course they had to go two and two ; and as 
 young Ismat had to lead the way, and as he naturally con- 
 tinued to talk to the person with whom he had been talking 
 within it fell out that Yoland and he were the first paii-, the 
 otliers following as they pleased. Once or twice the Master 
 strugjuled forward throuofh the crowd and the dust and the 
 donkeys, and tried to detach Yolande from her companion ; 
 but in each case some circumstance happened to intervene, 
 and he failed ; and the consequence was that, bringing up 
 the rear with Mr. Winterbourne, who was not a talkative 
 person, he had abundant leisure to nurse his wrath in silence. 
 And he felt he had a right to be angry, though it was not 
 perhaps altogether her faith. She did not seem to under- 
 stand that there were relations existing between engaged 
 people different from those existing between others. He 
 had acquired a certain right : so, in fact, had she ; for he 
 put it to hinaself whether, supposing he had had the chance 
 of walking through those miserable little streets of Merhadj 
 with the prettiest young Englishwoman who ever lived, he 
 would have deserted Yolande for her side. No, he would 
 not. And he thought that he ought to remonstrate; and 
 that he would remonstrate ; but yet in a kindly way, so that 
 no offence could be taken, It would be no offence, surely, 
 to beg from her just a little bit more of her favor. 
 
 Meanwhile, this was the conversation of those two in 
 front, as they slowly made their way along the tortuous, 
 catacomb looking throughfare, with its dusky little shops, 
 in the darkness of each of which sat the merchant, cross- 
 legged, and gazing impassively out from under his large 
 white turban. 
 
 " What is it, then, you wish?" he was saying to her; 
 and he spoke in French that was much more idiomatic, if 
 not any more fluent, than his English. " Curiosities ? Brio- 
 a-brac 'i " 
 
124 YOLANDE. 
 
 " It is something very Eastern, very Egyptian, that I conld 
 send to the ladies at the Chateau where I was brought up," 
 she said, as she attentively scanned each gloomy recess. 
 *' And also I would like to buy something for Mrs. Graham — • 
 a little present — I know not what. Also for my papa. Is 
 there nothing very strange — very curious ! " 
 
 " But, alas ! mademoiselle," said he, ** we have here no 
 manufactures. Our business of the neighborhood is agri- 
 culture. All these articles in the bazar are from Cairo; we 
 have not even any of the Assiout pottery, which is pretty 
 and curious, but perhaps not safe to carry on a long journey. 
 The silver jewelry is all from Cairo ; those silks from Cairo 
 also ; those cottons from England." 
 
 " At Cairo, then, one could purchase some things truly 
 Egyptian ?" 
 
 " Certainly — certainly, mademoiselle, you will find the 
 bazars at Cairo full of interest. Ah, I wish with all my heart 
 I could accompany you ! " 
 
 " That would be to encroach entirely too much on your 
 goodness," said she with a pleasant smile. 
 
 •' Not at all," said he, earnestly. " Ah, no ; not at 
 all. It is so charming to find one's self for a time in new 
 society ; and if one can be of a little assistance, that is so 
 much the better. There is also something I would speak to 
 monsieur your father about mademoiselle, before you return 
 to the dahabeeyah. I have arranged one or two excursions 
 for you, which may interest you perhaps ; and the necessary 
 means are all prepared ; and 1 think it might be of advantage 
 to begin these at once. There is no danger — no, no ; there 
 is no cause for any alarm ; but always of late the political 
 atmosphere has been somewhat disturbed ; and if you were 
 at Cairo you would find out better what was going to hap- 
 pen then we ourselves do here. TJien as you have said, you 
 would wish to buy some things ; and you will have need of 
 plenty of time to go through the bazars — " 
 
 He seemed to speak with a little caution at this point. 
 
 *' I have heard the gentlemen speak of it," said she, with 
 no great concern, for she was far from being a nervous 
 person ; " but they seemed to think there was no danger." 
 
 " Danger ? No, no," said he. " For you there can be 
 no danger. But if there is political disquiet and disturbance, 
 it might not be quite agreeable for you ; and that is all I 
 wish to say to monsieur your father, that he would have the 
 goodness to make the excursions as soon as possible, and so 
 
X ULAN DM, 125 
 
 leave more time for judging the situation. It is a hint — it 
 IS a suggestion — that is all." 
 
 *' I am sure that my papa and Colonel Graham will do 
 whatever you think best," said she. 
 
 *' You are very good, mademoiselle. I wish to serve 
 theni," said he, with grave courtesy. 
 
 Well, not only did this young man — whether intention- 
 ally or not it was impossible to say — monopolize Yolaude'e 
 society during the remainder of their exploration of Mer- 
 hadj, but, furthermore, on their embarking in their boat to 
 return, he accepted an invitation to dine with them ♦hat 
 same evening; and the Master of Lynn was determined 
 that, before young Ismat j)ut foot on board thedahnbeeyali. 
 Yolande would be civilly but firmly requested to amend 
 her ways. It was all very well for his sister, who was a 
 born flirt, to go about making great friends with strangers ; 
 and it was all very well for Colonel Graham, who was too 
 lazy to care about anything, to look on witli good-humored 
 indift'erence. But already this audacious youth had begun 
 to pose Yolande as an exalted being. She knew nothing 
 about garrison life in India. 
 
 He had very considerable difficulty in obtaining a pri- 
 vate conversation with Yolande, for life on board the 
 dahabeeyah was distinctly public and social ; but late on in 
 the afternoon he succeeded. 
 
 '' So, Yolande," said he, with an artful carelessness, 
 " this has been the first day of our engagement." 
 
 " Oh yes," said she, looking up in a pleasant way. 
 
 " We haven't seen much of each other," he suggested. 
 
 " Ah, no ; it has been such a busy day. How much 
 nicer is the quiet here, is it not? " 
 
 *' But you seemed to find Ismat Effendi sufficiently 
 amusing," he said, somewhat coldly. 
 
 " Oh yes," she answered, quite frankly. " And so 
 clever and intelligent. I hope we shall see him when he 
 comes to England." 
 
 " I thought," said he, "that in France young ladies were 
 brought up to be rather reserved — that they were not suj)- 
 posed to become so friendly with chance acquaintances." 
 
 Perhaps there was something in tiie tone that caused her 
 to look up, this time rather seriously. 
 
 " I should not call him a chance acquaintance," slu- said, 
 •lowly. "He is the frieudof Colonel Graham, and of p.ipa, 
 
126 YOLANDE. 
 
 and of yourself." And then she added, speaking still s^lowly 
 and still regarding him, " Did you tliink I was not enough 
 reserved ? " 
 
 Well, there was a kind of obedience in her mannew — a 
 sort of biddableness in her eyes — that entirely took the 
 wind out of the sails of his intended reproof. 
 
 "You see, Yobinde," said he, in a much more frienrlly 
 way, " perhaps it was mere bad luck ; but after getting 
 engaged only last night, you may imagine I wanted to see a 
 little of you to-day ; and you can't suppose that I quite 
 liked that Egyptian fellow monopolizing you the whole time. 
 Of course I am not jealous — and not jealous of that fellow ! 
 — for jealousy implies suspicion ; and I know you too well. 
 But perhaps you don't quite understand that people who 
 are engaged have a little claim on each other, and ex})eet to 
 be treated with a little more intimacy and friendliness 
 than as if they were outsiders." 
 
 " Oh yes, I understand," she said, with her eyes cast 
 down. 
 
 " Of course I am not complaining," he continued, in the 
 most amiable way. " It would be a curious thing if I were 
 to begin to complain now, after what you said last niglit. 
 But you can't wonder if I am anxious to have nil your 
 kindness to myself, and that I should like you and me to 
 have different relations between ourselves than those we 
 have with other people. An engagement means giving up 
 something on both sides, I suppose. Do you think I sliould 
 like to see you waltzing with any one else now? It isn't 
 in human nature that I should like it." 
 
 " Then I will not waltz with any one," she said, still 
 looking down. 
 
 "And I don't think you will find me a tyrannous sort of 
 person, Yolande," said he with a smile, " even if you were 
 inclined to make an engagement a much more serious 
 matter than you seem to consider it. It is more likely you 
 who will 'prove the tyrant; for you have your own way 
 with everybody, and why not with me too? And I hope 
 you understand why I spoke, don't you? You don't think 
 it unkind ? " 
 
 " Oh no, I quite understand," she said, in the same lov?- 
 voice. 
 
 Isniat Effendi came to dinner, as he had promised. She 
 gpoke scarcely a word to him the whole evening. 
 
 V 
 
YOLA/VDE. 127 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 A CHAT IN THE DESEKT. 
 
 ** Akciiie," said his sister, on one occasion, in rather a 
 significant tone, " you will have some trouble with papa." 
 
 They were on their Avay to visit a convent some few 
 miles inland, and the only thing that varied the monotony 
 of the journey was the occasional stumbling of the wretched 
 animals they rode. He glanced round to see that the others 
 were far enough off, then he said, either carelessly or with 
 an affectation of carelessness, — 
 
 *' I dare say. Oh yes, I have no doubt of it. But there 
 would have been a row in any case, so it does not matter 
 much. If I had brought home the daughter of an arch- 
 angel he would have growled and grumbled. He gave 
 you a ])rotty warm time of it, Polly, before he let you marry 
 Graham." 
 
 And then he said, with more vehemence, — 
 
 ''Hang it all, my father doesn't understand the con- 
 dition of things nowadays ! The peerage isn't sacred any 
 longer ; you can't expect people to keep on intermarrying 
 and intermarrying, just to please Burke. We can show a 
 pretty good list, you know, and I wouldn't add any name 
 to it that would disgrace it ; but that craze of my father's 
 is all nonsense. Why, the only place nowadays where a 
 lord is worshipped and glorified is the United States; that's 
 where I should have gone if I had wanted to marry for 
 money ; I dare say they would have found out that sooner 
 or later I should succeed to a peerage. Of course my 
 father is treated with great respect when he goes to attend 
 meetings at Inverness ; and the keepers and gillies think lie- 
 is the greatest man in the kingdom ; but what would he be 
 in London ? Why, there you find governing England a 
 commoner, whose family made their money in business ; 
 and under him — and glad enough to take office too — noble- 
 men whose names are as old as the history of England — " 
 
 His sister interrupted hirn. 
 
 "My dear Master," said she, "please remember tliat 
 because a girl is pretty, her father's politics are not neces 
 
128 YOLANDE. 
 
 sarily right. If you have imbibed those frightful seati- 
 meuts from Mr. Winterbourne, for goodness' sake say 
 nothing about them at the Towers. The matter will be 
 difficult enough without that. You see, with anybody 
 else, it might be practicable to shelve politics, but Mr. Win- 
 terbourne's views and opinions are too widely known ; and 
 you will have quite enough difficulty in getting papa to re- 
 ceive Mr. Winterbourne with decent civillity, uathout your 
 talking any wild Radicalism in that way." 
 
 " Radicalism ?" said he. " It is not Radicalism. It is 
 common-sense, which is just the reverse of Radicalism. 
 However, what I have resolved on is this, Polly : his lord- 
 ship shall remain in complete ignorance of the whole affair 
 until Yolande goes to Allt-nam-Ba. Then he will see her. 
 That ought to do something to smooth the way. There is 
 another thing, too. Winterbourne has taken Allt-nam-Ba, 
 and my father ought to be well disposed to him on that ac- 
 count alone." 
 
 " Because a gentleman rents a shooting from you for 
 one year — " 
 
 •' But why one year ? " he interposed, quickly. " Why 
 shouldn't Winterbourne take a lease of it? He can well 
 afford it. And with Yolande living up there, of course he 
 would like to come and see her sometimes ; and Allt-nam- 
 Ba is just the place for a man to bring a bachelor friend or 
 two with him from London. He can well afford it. It is 
 his only amusement. It would be a good arrangement for 
 me too ; for I could lend him a hand ; and the moor wants 
 hard shooting, else we shall be having the disease back 
 again some fine day. Then we should cuntinue to let the 
 forest." 
 
 " And where are you and Yolande going to live, then ? " 
 said his sister, regarding him with a curious look. *'Are 
 you going to install her as mistress of tlie Towers?" 
 
 "Take her to Lynn!" he said, with a scornful laugh. 
 " Yes, I should think so ! Cage her up with that old cat, 
 indeed !" 
 
 " She is my aunt as well as yours, and I will not have 
 her spoken of like that," said Mrs. Graham, sharply. 
 
 *' She is my aunt," said this young man ; " and she is 
 yours ; and she is an old cat as well. Never mind, Polly. 
 You will see such things at Lynn as your small head never 
 dreamed of. The place has just been starved for want ol 
 money. You must see that when you think of Invcrstroy; 
 
YOLANDE. 129 
 
 look how well everything is done there. And then, when 
 you consider how we have been working to pay off scores 
 run up by other people — that seems rather hard, doesn't it ? ' 
 " I don't think so — I don't tliink so at all!" his sister 
 said, promptly. " Our family may have made mistakes 
 in politics ; but that was better tlian always truckling to 
 the winning side. We have nothing to be ashamed of. And 
 you ought to be very glad that so much of the land remains 
 ours," 
 
 *' Well, you will see what can be made of it," her 
 brother said, confidently. " I don't regret now the long 
 struggle to keep the place together \ and once we get back 
 Corrievreak, we'll have the watershed for the march 
 again.'* 
 
 His face brightened up at this prospect. 
 " That will be sometiiing, Polly ? " he said, gayly. 
 "What a view there is from the tops all along that march ! 
 You've got the whole of Inverness-shire spread out around 
 yon like a map. I think it was £8000 my grandfather got 
 for Corrievreak ; but I suppose Sir John will want £15,000. 
 I know he is ready to part with it, for it is of little use to 
 him ; it does not lie well with his forest. But if we had \\ 
 back — and with the sheep taken off Allt-nara-Ba — " 
 
 " Jim says you ought to make Corrievreak \c^t, 
 sanctuary," his sister remarked ; and indeed she seemed 
 quite as much interested as he in these joyful forecasts. 
 " Why, of course. There couldn't be a better — " 
 " And I was saying that if you planted the Rushen 
 slopes, and built a good large comfortable lodge there, you 
 would get a far better rent for the forest, You know it 
 isn't like the old days, Archie : the people who come from 
 the south now, come because it is the fashion ; and they 
 must have a fine house for their friends — " 
 
 " Yes, and hot luncheons sent up the hill, with cham- 
 pagne glasses and table napkins 1 " said he. "No more 
 biscuits and a flask to last you from morning till night. 
 The next thing will be a portable dining-table that can be 
 taken up into one of the corries ; and then they will have 
 finger-glasses, I suppose, after lunch. No matter. For 
 there is another thing, my sweet Mrs. Graham, that per- 
 haps you have not considered : it may come to pass that, as 
 time goes on, we may not have to let the forest at all. 
 That would be much better than being indebted to your 
 tenant for a day's stalking in your own forest." 
 
130 YOLANDE. 
 
 And then it seemed to strike him that all this planning 
 and arranging — on the basis of Yolande's fortune — sounded 
 just a little bit mercenary. 
 
 " To hear us talking like this," said he, with a laugh, 
 " any one would imagine that I was marrying in order to 
 improve the Lynn estate. Well, we haven't quite come to 
 that yet, I hope. If it were merely a question of money, I 
 could have gone to America, as I said. That would have 
 been the market for the only kind of goods I've got to sell. 
 No. I don't think any one can bring that against me." 
 
 " I, for one, would not think of accusing you of any 
 such things," said his sister, warmly. " I hope you would 
 have more pride. Jim was poor enough when I married 
 him." 
 
 "Now if I were marrying for money," said he — and he 
 seemed eager to rebut this charge — " I would have no scru- 
 ples at all about asking Yolande to go and live at Lynn. Of 
 course it would be a very economical arrangement. But 
 would I ? I should think not. I wouldn't have her shuli 
 up there for anything. But I hope she will like the house, 
 as a visitor, and get on well with my father and my aunt. 
 Don't you think she will produce a good impression? 
 What I hope for most of all is that Jack Melville may take 
 a fancy to her. That would settle it in a minute, you know. 
 Whatever Melville approves, that is right — at the Towei-g 
 or anywhere else. It's his cheek, you know. He believes 
 in himself, and everybody else believes in him. It isn't 
 only at Gress that he is the dominie. * He is a scholar and 
 a gentleman' — that is my beloved auntie's pet phrase, as if 
 his going to Oxford on the strength of the Ferguson scholar- 
 ship made him an authority ou the right construction of a 
 salmon ladder." 
 
 " Is that the way you speak of your friends behind their 
 
 *' Well, he jumps upon me considerably," said he, frankly : 
 " and I may as well take it out of him when he is at Gress 
 and I am in Egypt. No matter. If he takes a fancy to 
 Yolande it will be all right. That is how they do with 
 cigars and wines in London — ' specially selected and ap- 
 proved by Messrs. So-and-so.' It is a guarantee of genuine 
 quality. And so it will be * Yolande Winterbourne, ap- 
 proved by Jack Melville, of Monaglen, and forwarded on to 
 Lynn Towers,' ' 
 
 " If that is all, that can be easily managed." said Mj! 
 
 I 
 
YOLANDE. 131 
 
 sister, cheerfully. " When she is with us at Inverstroy we 
 will take her over to call on Mrs. Bell." 
 
 " I know what Mrs. Bell wil\ call her — I know the very 
 phrase : she will say, 'She is a bonnie doo, that.' The old 
 lady is rather proud of the Scotch she picked up in the 
 south.'* 
 
 " She ought to be prouder of the plunder she picked \\y) 
 further south still. She ' drew up wi' glaiket Englishers at 
 Carlisle Ila' ' to some purpose." 
 
 " Yes ; and Jack Melville will have every penny of it ; 
 and a good solid nest-egg it must be by this time. I am 
 certain the old lady has an eye on Monaglen. What an 
 odd thing it would be if Melville were to have Monaglen 
 handed over to him just as we were getting back Cor- 
 rievreak ! I think there are some curious changes in store in 
 that part of the world." 
 
 At this point Mrs. Graham pulled up her sorry steed, 
 and waited until the rest of the cavalcade came along. 
 
 " Yolande dear," said she, in a tone of remonstrance, 
 " Wliy don't you come on in front, and get less of the dust ? '* 
 
 Yolande did as she was bid. 
 
 " I have been so much interested," said she, brightly. 
 " What a chance it is to learn about Afghanistan and 
 Russia — from one who knows, as Colonel Graham does! 
 You read and read in Parliament; but they all contradict each 
 other. And Colonel Graham is quite of my papa's opinion." 
 
 " Well, now, the stupidity of it ! " said pretty Mrs. 
 Graham, with an affected petulance. " You people have 
 been talking away about Afghanistan, and Archie and I 
 have been talking away about the Highlands — in the African 
 desert. What is the use of it ? We ought to talk about 
 what is around us." 
 
 " I propose," said the Master of Lynn. " that Yolande 
 gives us a lecture on the antiquities of Karnac." 
 
 "' Do you know, then, that I could ? " said she. '' But 
 not this Karnac. No ; the one in Brittany. I lived near it 
 at Auray, for a long time, before I was taken to the 
 Chateau." 
 
 " My dear Yolande." exclaimed Mrs. Graham, '' if you 
 will tell us about yourself, and your early life and all that, 
 we will pack off all the mummies and tombs and pillars 
 that ever existed." 
 
 *' But there is no story at all, except a sad one," said 
 the girl. " My uncle was a French gentleman — ah, so kind 
 
132 YOLANDE. 
 
 he was ! — and one day in the winter he was shot in the 
 woods when he and the other gentlemen were out. Oh, it 
 must have been tei-rible when they brought him home — not 
 quite dead ! But they did not tell me ; and perhaps I was too 
 young to experience all the misery. But it killed my aunt, 
 who had taken me away from England when my motlier 
 died. She would not see any one ; she shut herself up ; 
 then one morning she was found dead ; and then they sent 
 for ray father, and he took me to the ladies at the Chateau. 
 That is all. Perhaps if I had been older I should have un- 
 derstood it more, and been more grieved ; but now, when I 
 look back at Auray and our living there, I think mostly of 
 the long drives with my aunt, when my uncle was away nt 
 the chase, and often and often we drove along the peninsula 
 of Quiberon, which not every one visits. And was it a 
 challenge, then," she added, in a brighter way, " about a 
 lecture on Karnac ? Oh, I can give you one very easily. 
 For I have read all the books about it, and I can give yoa 
 all the theories about it, each of which is perfectly self- 
 evident, and all of them quite contradictory, Shall I be- 
 gin ? It was a challenge.'* 
 
 " No, Yolande, I would far rather hear your own theory," 
 said he, gallantly. 
 
 " Mine ? I have not the vanity." she said, lighty. " But 
 this is what all the writers do not know, that besides the 
 long rows of stones in the open plains — oh, hundreds and 
 thousands, so thick that all the farmhouses and the stone 
 walls have been built of them besides these, all through the 
 woods, wherever you go, you come uj^on separate dolmens, 
 sometimes alniost covered over. My aunt and I used to 
 stop the carriage, and go wandering through the woods in 
 search ; and always we thought these were the graves of 
 pious people who wished to be buried in a sacred place — 
 near where the priests were sacrificing in the plain — and 
 perhaps that their friends had brought their bodies from 
 some distant land." 
 
 " Just as the Irish kings were carried to lona to bo 
 buried," said the Master. 
 
 '^ But, Yolande dear," said Mrs. Graham, who was more 
 interested in the story of Yolande's yoijth than in Celtic 
 monuments, ** how did you come to keep, up your English, 
 since you have lived all your life in France ? " 
 
 '*But my aunt spoke English, naturally," said she. 
 "Then at the Chateau one of the ladies also spoke it — oh, I 
 
YOLANDE. 133 
 
 assure you, there was no European language she did not 
 speak, nor any country she did not know, for she had been 
 travel ling companion to a noble lady. And always her 
 belief was that you must learn Latin as the first key." 
 
 " Then did you learn Latin, Yolande ? " the Master of 
 Lynn inquired, with some vague impression that the ques- 
 tion was jocular, for Yolande had not revealed any traces 
 of erudition. 
 
 '' If you will examine me in Virgil, 1 think I shall pass," 
 said tihe; "but in Horace — not at all. It is distressing 
 the way lie twists the meaning about the little short lines, and 
 hides it away ; I never had patience enough for him. Ah, 
 there is one who does not hide his meaning, there is one who 
 can write the line that goes straight and sounding and 
 majestic. You have not to puzzle over the meaning when 
 it is Victer Hugo who recounts to you the story of 
 Ruy Blas^ of Cromwell^ of Angela, of ITernani. That is 
 not the poetry that is made with needles." 
 
 Mrs. Graham was scarcely prepared for this declaration 
 of faith. 
 
 " My dear Yolande," said she, cautiously, " Victor 
 Hugo's dramas are very fine ; but I would not call them 
 meat for babes. At the Chateau, now — " 
 
 " Oil, they were strictly forbidden," she said, frankly. 
 "Madame would have stormed if she had known. But we 
 read them all the same. Why not ? What is the harm ? 
 Every one knows that there is crime and wrong in the 
 world ; why should one shut one's eyes? — that is folly. Is 
 it not better to be indignant that there should be such crime 
 and wrong? If there is any one who takes harm from such 
 writing, he must be a strange person." 
 
 " At all events, Yolande," said he, " I hope you don't 
 think that all kings are scoundrels, and all convicts angels 
 of light ! Victor Hugo is all very well, and he thundei-s 
 along in fine style ; but don't you think he comes awfully 
 near being ridiculous ? lie hasn't much notion of a joke, 
 has he? Don't you think he is rather too portentously 
 solemn ? " 
 
 Well, this inquiry into Yolande's 0])inions and exper- 
 iences — which was intensely interesting to him, and natu- 
 rally 80 — was eliciting some odd revelations; for it now 
 appeared that she had arrived at the conclusion that the 
 French, as a nation, were a serious and sombre peo})le. 
 
 " Do you not think so ? " she said, with wide eyes. " Oh, 
 
134 YOLANDE. 
 
 [ have found them so grave. The poor people in tlie fields, 
 when you speak to them and they answer, it is always with 
 a sigh ; they look sad and tired ; the care of work lies heavi- 
 ly on them. And at the Chateau, also, everything was so 
 serious and formal; and when we paidVisits there was none 
 of the freedom, the amusement, the good-humor, of the En- 
 Eflish house. Sometimes, indeed, at Oatlands, at Weybridge, 
 and once or twice in London, when my papa has taken me 
 to visit, I have thought the mamma a little blunt in her 
 frankness — in the expectation you would find yourself at 
 home without any trouble on her part ; but the daughters — 
 oh, they were always very kind, and then so full of interest, 
 about boating, or tennis, or something like that — always so 
 full of spirits, and cheerful — no, it was not in the least like 
 a visit to a French family. In France, how many years is 
 it before you become friends with a neighbor? In England, 
 if you are among nice people, it is — to-morrow. You, dear, 
 Mrs. Graham, when you came to Oatlands, what did you 
 know about me ? Nothing." 
 
 " Bless the child, had I not my eyes ? " Mrs. Graham ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " But before two or three days you were calling me by 
 my Christian name." 
 
 " Indeed I did," said Mrs. Graham ; " if it is a Christian 
 name, which I doubt. But this I may suggest to you, my 
 dear Yolande, that you don't pay me a compliment, after 
 the friendsliip you speak of, and the relationship we are all 
 hoping for, in calling me by my married name. The name 
 of Polly is not very romantic — " 
 
 " Oh, dear Mrs. Graham, I couldn't ! " said Yolande, 
 almost in affright. 
 
 *' Of course not," said the pretty young matron, with 
 one of her most charming smiles. " Of course you couldn't 
 be guilty of such familiarity with one of my advanced 
 age. But I suppose Jim is right; I am getting old. Only 
 he doesn't seem to consider that a reason for treating me 
 with any increasing respect." 
 
 '' I am sure I never thought of such a thing," Yolande 
 protested, almost in a voice of entreaty. " How could yon 
 imagine it ? " 
 
 " Very well. But if you consider that ' Polly ' is not in 
 accordance with my age or my serious character as a 
 mother and a wife, there is ft compromise in ' Mary,' 
 which indeed, was my proper name until 1 fell into tn« 
 
YOLANDE. 135 
 
 hands of men. I used always to be called Mary, until 
 Archie and Jim bescan with their impertinence. And when 
 we are in the Highlands together, you know, and you are 
 Htaying with us at Inverstroy, or we are visiting you at 
 Allt-nam-Ba, orwhen we are all together at the Towers, 
 whatever would the people think if they heard you call 
 me 'Mrs. Graham?' They would think we had quarrelled." 
 
 "Then you are to be my sister Mary?" said Yolande, 
 placidly ; but the Master of Lynn flushed with pleasure 
 when he heard that phrase. 
 
 '' And I will be your champion and protectress when 
 you come into our savage wilds in a way you can't dream 
 of," continued pretty Mrs. Graham. " You don't know 
 how we staud by each other in the highlands. We stand up 
 for our own ; and you will be one of us in jj;ood time, And 
 you haven't the least idea wliat a desperate person I am 
 when my temper is up — though Jim would, tell you he 
 Knows. Well, now, I suppose that is the convent over 
 there, behind those palms ; and we have been chattering 
 the whole way about the Highlands, and Victor Hugo, and 
 I don't know what; and I haven't the least idea what we 
 are going to see or what we have to do." 
 
 But here the dragoman came up to assume the leader- 
 ship of the party, and the Master of Lynn allowed himself 
 to be eclipsed. He was not sorry. He was interested far 
 less in the things around him than in the glimpses he had 
 just got of Yolande's earlier years; and he was trying to 
 place these one after another, to make a connected picture 
 of her life up till the time that this journey brought him 
 and her together. Could anything be more preoccupying 
 than this study of the companion who was to be with him 
 through all the long future time ? And already she wa« 
 related to him ; she had chosen his sister to be hers. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A PUKASE. 
 
 But these idle wanderings of theirs in Upper Egypt 
 were destined to come to a sudden end. One evening they 
 were coming down the river, and were about to pass 
 Merhad], when they saw young Ismat Effendi putting off 
 
136 YOLANDE. 
 
 in another boat, evidently with the intention of intercepting 
 them. They immediately ordered their boat to be pulled in 
 to the shore ; and as Ismat said he wanted to say something 
 to thorn, they stepped on board his father's dahabeeyah, 
 nnd went into the saloon, for the sake of coolness. 
 
 Then the bright-faced young Egyptian, who seemed at 
 oTir*e excited and embarrassed, told them, in his fluent ?ind 
 oddly phrased English, that he was much alarmed, and 
 iliat his alarm was not on account of any danger that 
 might happen to them, but was the fear that they might 
 think him discourteous and inhospitable. 
 
 " Who could think that ? " said pretty Mrs. jSraham, 
 in her sweetest way. 
 
 "Of course not. What's the matter?*' said her 
 husband, more bluntly. 
 
 Then young Ismat proceeded to explain that the latest 
 news from the capital was not satisfactory ; that many 
 Europeans were leaving the country ; that the reports in 
 the journals were very contradictory ; and that, in short, 
 no one seemed to know what might not happen. And 
 then he went on to implore them, if he Suggested that they 
 ought to return to Cairo, and satisfy themselves of their 
 safety by going to the English Consulate there, not to 
 imagine that he wished them to shorten their visit, or that 
 his father desired to dispossess them of the dahabeeyah. 
 " How could that be," he said, quite anxiously, " when 
 here was another dahabeeyah lying idle ? No ; the other 
 dahabeeyah was wholly at their service for as long as they 
 chose ; and it would be a great honor to his father, and the 
 highest happiness to himself, if they were to remain at 
 Merhadj for the longest period they could command; but 
 was he not bound, especially when there were two ladies 
 with them, to let them know what he had heard, and give 
 them counsel? " 
 
 *' My dear fellow, we understand perfectly," said Colonel 
 Graham, with his accustomed good-humor. " And much 
 obliged for the hint. Fact is, I think we ought to get back 
 to Cairo in any case ; for these women-folk want to have a 
 turn at the bazars, and by the time they have half ruined 
 us, we shall just be able to get along to Suez to catch the 
 Ganges — " 
 
 " We must have plenty of time in Cairo, " said Mrs. 
 Graham, emphatically. 
 
 '* Oh yes," said he. " Never mind the ganger. Let 
 
YOLANDE. f/Lj^ 137 
 
 them bny silver necklaces, and they wr^'^^hced anythim 
 else. Very well, Mr. Ismat, come along^^lt^ sa^, now an( 
 have some dinner, and we can talk things oi^^^Jflrj^ i^liall 
 just be in time." 
 
 "May I?" said the young Egj^ptian to Mrs. Graliam. 
 " I am not intruding ? " 
 
 '* We shall be delighted if you will come with us," said 
 she, with one of her most gracious smiles. 
 
 " It will not be pleasant for me when you go," said he. 
 " There is not much society here." * 
 
 " Nor will you find much society when you come to see 
 us at Inverstroy, Mr. Ismat," she answered." But we will 
 make up for that by giving you a true Highland welcome : 
 shall we not, Yolande dear ? " 
 
 Yolande was not in the least embarrassed. She had quite 
 grown accustomed to consider the Highlands as her future 
 home. 
 
 "I hope so," she said, simply. "We are not likely to 
 forget the kindness Mr. Ismat has shown to us." 
 
 " Oh, mademoiselle ! " said he. 
 
 Now this resolve to go back to Cairo, and to get along 
 from thence in time to catch the P. and O. steamer Ganges 
 at Suez, was hailed with satisfaction by each member of the 
 little party, though for very different reasons. Mr. Win- 
 terbourne was anxious to be at St. Stephen's before the 
 Budget ; and he could look forward to giving uninterrupted 
 attention to liis Parliamentry duties, for Yolande was going 
 on to Investroy with the Grahams. Yolande herself was glad 
 to think that soon she would be installed as house-mistress 
 at Allt-nam-Ba ; she had all her lists ready for the shops at 
 Inverness; and she wanted time to have the servants tested 
 before her father's arrival. Mrs. Graham, of course, lived 
 in the one blissful hope of seeing Baby again ; while her 
 liusband was beginning to think that a little salmon-fishing 
 would be an excellent thing. But the reason the Master of 
 Lynn had for welcoming this decision was much more 
 occult. 
 
 " Polly," he had said to his sister on the previous day, 
 "do you know, your friend Miss Yolande — " 
 
 "My friend ! " she said, staring at him, 
 
 " She seems more intimate with you than with any one 
 else, at all events," said he. "Well, I was going to say 
 that site takes things pretty c<X)lly." 
 
 " I don't understand you." 
 
138 YOLANDE. 
 
 " I say she takes things very coolly," he repeated. " No 
 one would imagine she was engaged at all." 
 
 ** Are you complaining of her already ? " 
 
 " I am not complaining ; I am stating a fact." 
 
 " What is wrong then ? Do you want her to go about 
 proclaiming her engagement? Why, she can't. You 
 haven't given her an engagement ring yet. Give her her 
 ensjagement ring j&rst and then she can go about and show 
 it.'"' 
 
 " Oh, you know very well what 1 mean. You know 
 that no one cares less about sentimentality and that sort of 
 thing than I do ; I don't believe in it much ; but still — she ie 
 just a trifle too business-like. She seeitis to say : * Did I 
 promise to marry? Oh. very well; all right, when • the 
 time comes. Call again to-morrow.' Of course my idea 
 would not be to have a languishing love-sick maiden always 
 lolloping at your elbow ; but her absolute carelessneps and 
 indifference — " 
 
 *'0h, Archie, how can you say such a thing ! She is 
 most friendly with you — " 
 
 "Friendly! Yes; so she is with Graham. ^ Is it the 
 way they bring up girls in France ? — to have precisely the 
 same amount of friendliness for everybody— lovers, husbands, 
 or even other people's husbands. It is convenient, certainly ; 
 but things might get mixed." 
 
 " I wonder to hear you," said Mrs. Graham, indignantly. 
 " You don't deserve your good fortune. The fact is, Yo- 
 lande Winterbourne happens to have very good health and 
 s|)irits, and she is naturally light-hearted ; whereas you 
 would like to have her sombre and mysterious, I suppose ; 
 or ])erhaps it is the excitement of lovers' quarrels that you 
 uant. Is that it? Do you want to be quarrelling and 
 making up again all day long? Well, to tell you the truth, 
 Archie, you haven't hit on the right sort of girl. Now 
 Sh.ena Van would have suited you ; she has a temper that 
 would have given you amusement — " 
 
 '* Leave Miss Stewiirt alone," he said, roughly. *' I 
 wish there were many woman in the world like her : if there 
 are, I haven't met them." 
 
 " Yolandc is too good for you." 
 
 *' So she seems to think, at all events." 
 
 *' Why don't you go and quarrel with her, then ? What 
 is the use of comine^ and talking over the matter with 
 m«?" 
 
YOLANDE. 130 
 
 *' Willi her? It wouldn't interest her. She would 
 rather talk about the price of coals, or the chances of the 
 Irish getting Home Rule — anything but what ought to be 
 the most important event in her life." 
 
 " Archie," said his sister, who did not attach too much 
 seriousness to these temporary moods of disappointment, " if 
 papa linds out tnat Mr. Winterbourne is half inclined, and 
 more than half inclined, to favor Home Rule, he will go 
 out of his senses." 
 
 "Let him go out of his senses," said her brother, with 
 deliberate indifference. " I suppose the worst that could 
 happen would be the breaking off of the match." 
 
 But this possibility, involving the destruction of all her 
 beautiful plans and dreams of the future, instantly awoke 
 her alarm ; and her protest was emphatic. 
 
 " Archie," said she, regarding him sternly, *' I beg you 
 to remember that you are expected to act as a gentle- 
 man." 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," he said. 
 
 " I will tell you, plain enough. You have asked this 
 girl to be your wife; she has accepted you ; your engage- 
 ment has been made known ; and I say this, that if you 
 were to throw her over — I don't care for what reason — you 
 would stamp yourself as a coward. Is that ])lain ? A girl 
 may be allowed to change her mind — at least she some- 
 times does, and there is not much said against her; but the 
 man who engages himself to a girl, and allows the engage- 
 ment to be know and talked about, and then throws her 
 over, I say is a coward, neither more nor less. And I don't 
 believe it of you. I don't believe you would allow papa or 
 any one else to interfere, now the thing is settled. The 
 Leslies are not made of stuff like that." 
 
 "That is all very well" — he was going to urge; but 
 the impetuous little woman would have her say. 
 
 "What is more, I honor her highly for her reseive. 
 There is nothing more disgusting than to see young people 
 dawdling and fondling in the presence of others. You don't 
 want to be Jenny and Jock going to the fair, do you?" 
 
 " Look here, Demosthenes " he said calmly. " You are 
 are as good as any one I know at drawing a herring across 
 the scent; but you are perfectly aware all the time of what 
 1 mean." 
 
 This somewhat disconcerted her. 
 
 " Well I am — in a way," she said ; and her tone was now 
 
140 YOLANDE. 
 
 rather one of appeal. ** But don't you see what life on board 
 this boat is? It is all in the open. You can not expect any 
 girl to be confidential when you have scarcely ever a chance 
 of talking to her by herself. You must make allowances, 
 Archie. I do know what you mean but — but I don't 
 think you are right; and I, for one, am very glad to see her 
 so light-hearted. You may depend on it, she liasn't sacrificed 
 any one else m order to accept you. Her cheerfuhiess 
 promises very well for the future — that is my idea of it ; 
 it shows that she is not thinking of somebody else, as girls 
 sometimes do, even after they are engaged. Of course it isn't 
 the girl's place to declare her sentiments ; and it does happen 
 sometimes that there is some*one they would rather h.ave 
 had speak ; and of course there is an occasional backward 
 glance, even after marriage. In Yolande's case I don't 
 think there is. One cannot be certain ; but I don't think 
 there is. And why should you be disappointed because she 
 does not too openly show her preference ? Of course she 
 can't — in tliis sort of life. But you will have the whole 
 field to yourself. You have no rival ; and she has a quickly 
 grateful nature. You will have her all to yourself in the 
 Highlands. Here she is waiting on her father half the time 
 and the other half Jim is making fun with her. , At Inves- 
 troy it will be quite different." 
 
 '^ Well, perhaps, I hope so." said he. 
 
 '* Of course it will ! You will have her all to yourself. 
 Jim will be away at his fences and his pheasant coops, and 
 I shall have plenty to do in the house. And if you want her 
 to quarrel with you, I daresay she will oblige you. Most girls 
 can manage that. But the first thing to be done, Archie — ■ 
 in sober seriousness — is to buy a very nice engagement ring 
 for her at Cairo ; and that will be always reminding her. 
 And I do hope it will be a nice one, a very handsome one 
 indeed. You ought not to consider expense on such an oc- 
 casion. If you haven't quite enough money with you, Jim 
 will lend you some. It is certainly odd that she should 
 have no family jewelry ; but it is all the greater opportunity 
 for you to give her something very pretty ; and you ought 
 to show the Winterbournes, for your own sake, and for the 
 sake of our family, that you can do the thing handsomely." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 *' To hear you, Polly, one would think you were an old 
 woman — a thorough schemer. And yet how long is it since 
 
YOLANDE. V 141 
 
 your chief deiight in life used to be to go taboggining 
 down the face Bendy erg? " 
 
 *' I have learned a little common-sense since then," said 
 pretty JNIrs. Graham, with a demure smile. 
 
 Well, he did buy a very handsome ring for her when 
 they got to Cairo ; and Yolande was greatly ])leased with it, 
 and said something very kind and pretty to him. More- 
 over, there was a good deal of buying going on. The 
 gentlemen at the Consulate had expressed the belief that 
 they were in no immediate danger of having their throats 
 cut ; and they set to work to ransack the bazars with a 
 right good will. Nor was there any concealment of the 
 intent of most of those purchases. Of course they bought 
 trinkets and bric-a-brac, mostly for presentation to their 
 friends ; and Mr. Winterbourne insisted on Mrs. Graham 
 accepting from him a costly piece of Syrian embroidery on 
 which she had set longing eyes during their previous visit. 
 But the great mass of their purchases — at least of Mr. 
 Winterbourne's purchases — was clearly and obviously meant 
 for the decoration of Yolande's future home. Under Mrs. 
 Graham's guidance he bought all sorts of silk stuffs, em- 
 broideries, and draperies. He had a huge case packed 
 with hand-graven brasswork — squat, quaint candlesticks, 
 large shields, cups, trays, and what not; and once, when in 
 an old curiosity shop, and Yolande happening to be stand- 
 ing outside, Mrs. Graham ventured to remonstrate with 
 him about the cost of some l^hodion dishes he had just said 
 he would take, he answered her thus : — 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Graham, when in Egypt we must do as 
 the Egyptians do. Don't you remember the bride who 
 came down to the river bringing with her her bales of 
 carpets and her drove of donkeys? Yolande must have 
 her plenishing — that is a good Scotch word is it not ? " 
 
 "But I should think she must have about a dozen of 
 those shieks' headdresses already," said pretty Mrs. 
 Graham. '* And we don't really have so many fancy-dress 
 balls in Inverness. Besides, she could not go as a sheik." 
 
 "Fancy-dress balls? Oh no; nothing of the kind. 
 They will do for a dozen things in a room — to be pitched 
 on to sofas or on the backs of chair — merely patches of line 
 color." 
 
 '* And that," said she, with a smile, looking at an antique 
 Persian dagger with an exquisitely carved handle and 
 
142 YOLANDE. 
 
 elaborately inlaid sheath — "of what use will that be in the 
 Highlands?" 
 
 " My dear madam," said he, with a perfectly grave face, 
 ** I have not listened to your husband and your brother 
 for nothing. Is it not necessary to have something with 
 whicli to gralloch a wounded stag ? " 
 
 "To gralloch a stag with a beautiful thing like that! " 
 she exclaimed in horror. 
 
 " And if it is too good for that, can not Yolande use it 
 as a paper-knife? You don't mean to say that when you 
 and your husband came home from India you brougiit back 
 no curiosities with you ? " 
 
 '* Of course we did, and long before that Jim had a 
 whole lot of things from the Summer Palace at Pekin ; but 
 then we are old people. These things are too expensive 
 for young people just beginning." 
 
 " The bride must have her plenishing," said he, briefly ; 
 and then he began to bargain for a number of exceedingly 
 beautiful Damascus tilfcs, which he thought would just 
 about be sufficient for the construction of a fireplace. 
 
 Nor were these people the least bit ashamed when, some 
 days after this, they managed to smuggle their valuable 
 cases on board the homeward-bound steamer without pay- 
 ing the customs dues. Mr. Winterbourne declared that a 
 nation which was so financially mad as to levy an eight per 
 cent ad valorem duty on exports — or rather that a nation 
 which was so mad as to tax exports at all — ought not to bo 
 there encouraged in its lunacy ; and he further consoled his 
 conscience by reflecting that so far from his party having 
 spoiled the Egyptians, it was doubtless all the other way ; 
 and that probably some £60 or £70 of English money had 
 been left in the Cairene bazars which had no right to be there 
 However, he was content. The things were such things as 
 he liad wanted ; he had got them as cheaply as seemed 
 possible ; he would have paid more for them had it been 
 necessary. For, he said to himself, even the rooms of a 
 Highland shooting-box might be made more picturesque 
 and interesting by these art relics of other and former 
 civilizations. He did not know what kind of home the 
 Master of Lynn was likely to provide for his bride ; but 
 good colors and good materials were appropriate anywhere; 
 and even if Yolande and her husband were to succeed to 
 the possession of Lynn Towers, and even if the rooms there 
 (as he had heard was the case at Balmoral; were decorated 
 
YOLANDE. 143 
 
 exclusively in Highland fashion, surely they could set aside 
 some chamber for the reception of those draperies, and pot- 
 teries, and tiles, and what not, that would remind Yolande 
 of hivr visit to the East. The bride must have her plenish- 
 ing, he said to himself again and again. But they bought 
 no jewelry of a good kind in Cairo ; Mr. Winterbourne 
 said he would rather trust Bond Street wares. 
 
 And at last the big steamer slowly sailed away from 
 the land, and they had begun their homeward voyage. 
 Mrs. Graham and her husband were on the hurricane-deck ; 
 she was leaning with both arms on the rail. 
 
 " Good-by, Egypt," said she, as she regarded the pale 
 yellow country under the pale turquoise sky. "You have 
 been very kind to me. You have made me a most charm- 
 ing present to take back with me to the Highlands.'* 
 " Wh&t, then ? " said her husband. 
 " A sister." 
 
 " She isn't your sister yet," he said, gruffly. 
 "She is; and she will be," she -answered, confidently. 
 ** Do you know, Jim, I had my hopes and wishes all the 
 way out, but I could never be sure, for Archie is not easily 
 caught. And I don't think she distinguished him much 
 from the others on the voyage here, except in so far as ho 
 was one of our party. Sometimes I gave it up, to tell you 
 the truth. And then again it seemed so desirable in every 
 way, for I had got to like the girl myself, and I could see 
 that Archie would be safe with her ; and I could see very 
 well, too, that Mr. Winterbourne had his eyes open, and 
 that he seemed very well disposed toward it." 
 
 " You must have been watching everybody like a cat, " 
 her husband said, in not too complimentary fashion. 
 
 " Can you wonder that I was interested ? " she said, in 
 protest. " Just fancy what it would be for us if he had 
 brought some horrid insufferable creature to Lynn ! I 
 wouldn't have gone near the place ; and we have little 
 enough society as it is. But that life on the Nile did it ; 
 and I knew it would the moment the dahabeeyah had started 
 away from Asyout — being all by ourselves like that, and he 
 paying her little attentions all day long. He couldn't help 
 doing that, could he ? — it wouldn't have been civil. And I 
 foresaw what the end would be ; and I am very glad of it, 
 and quite grateful to Egypt and the Nile, despite all tha 
 tiies and e mosquitoes." 
 
144 YOLANDE. 
 
 " I dare say it will turn out all right," her husband said, 
 indifferently. 
 
 " Well, you don't seem very delighted," she exclaimed. 
 " Is that all you have to say? Don't you think it is a very 
 good thing?" 
 
 " Well, yes, 1 do think it is a good thing. I have no 
 doubt they will get on very well together. And in other 
 respects the match will be an advantageous one." 
 
 " That is rather cold approval," said she, somewhat dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 " Oh no, it isn't," said he, and lie turned from looking at 
 tlie retreating land, and regarded her. "I say I don't think 
 he could have chosen better, and I believe they will be 
 happy enough ; and they ought to be comfortable and well 
 off. Isn't that sufticient? He seems fond of her; I think 
 they will lead a very comfortable life. What more?" 
 
 " But there is something behind what you say, Jim ; I 
 know there is," she said. 
 
 "And if there is, it is nothing very serious," said he; 
 and then he added, with a curious sort of smile: "I tell 
 you I think it will come out all right; I am sure it will. 
 But you can't deny this, Polly — well, I don't know how to 
 put it. I may be mistaken. I haven't as sharp eyes as 
 yours. But I have a fancy that this marriage, though I 
 I have no doubt it will be a happy enough one, will be, on 
 her side at least — " 
 
 " What,, then ? " said his wife, peremptorily. 
 
 " I don't quite know whether the French have a phrase 
 for it," said he, evasively, but still with the same odd smile 
 on his face. " Probably they have ; they ought to have, at 
 least. At any rate, I have a kind of fancy — now it's noth- 
 ing very terrible — I say I have a dim kind of fancy that, on 
 her side, the marriage will be something that might bo 
 called a marrmge de complaisance. Oh, you needn't go 
 away in a temper ! There have been w^orse marriageK than 
 a marriage de complaisance," 
 
YOLANDE, 145 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 AMONG THE CLOtTDS. 
 
 Far up in the wild and lonely hills that form the back- 
 bone as it were, of eastern Inverness-shire, in the desert 
 solitudes where the Findhorn and the Foyers first begin to 
 draw their waters from a thausand mystic named or name- 
 less rills, stands the lodge of ^It-nam-Ba. The plain little 
 double-gabled building, with its dependence of kennels, 
 stables, coachhouse, and keeper's bothy, occupies a pro- 
 montory formed by the confluence of two brawling streams, 
 and faces a long, wide, beautiful valley, which terminates 
 in the winding waters of a locJi. It is the only sign of habi- 
 tation in the strangely silent district, and it is the last. 
 The rough hill-road leading to it terminates there. From 
 that small plateau divergent corries — softly wooded most 
 of them are, with waterfalls half hidden by birch and rowan 
 trees — stretch up still further into a sterile wilderness of 
 moor and lochan and bare mountain-top, the haunt of the 
 ptarmigan, the red deer, and the eagle ; and the only sound 
 to be heard in these voiceless altitudes is the monotonous 
 murmur of the various burns — the White Winding Water, 
 the Dun Water, the Stream of the Red Lochan, the Stream 
 of the Fairies, the Stream of the Corrie of the Horses, as 
 they are called in the Gaelic. 
 
 At the door of this solitary little lodge, on a morning 
 toward the end of July, Yolande Winterbourne was stand- 
 ing, engaged in buttoning on her driving gloves, but oc- 
 casionally glancing out at the bewildering, changeful, 
 flashing, and gleaming day around her. For, indeed, since 
 she had come to live at AUt-nam-Ba she had acquired the 
 conviction that the place seemed very close up to the sky, 
 and that this broad valley, walled in by those great and 
 silent hills, formed a sort of cauldron, in which the elements 
 were in the habit of mixing up weather for transference, 
 to the wide world beyond. At this very moment, for ex- 
 ample, a continual phantasmagoria of cloud effects was pass- 
 ing before her eyes. Far mountain-tops grew blacker and 
 blacker in shadow ; then the gray mist of the rain stole slovrly 
 
146 YOLANDE. 
 
 across and bid thera from view ; then tliey re-appeared 
 again, and a sudden shaft of sunlight would strike on the 
 yellow-green slopes and on the boulders of wet and glitter- 
 ing granite. But she had this one consolation — that the 
 prospect in front of the lodge was much more re-assuring 
 than that behind. Behind — over the mountainous ranges 
 of the moor — the clouds were banking up in a heavy and 
 thunderous purple; and in the ominous silence the streams 
 coming down from the corries sounded loud ; whereas, 
 away before her, the valley that led down to the haunts of 
 men was for the most part flooded with brilliant sunliglu, 
 and the wide-swept loch was of the darkest and Keenest 
 blue. Altogether there was more life and motion here — 
 more color and brlliancy and change — than in the pale and 
 placid Egyptian landscape she had grown accustomed to ; 
 but there was also — she might have been pardoned for 
 thinking — for one who was about to drive fourteen miles 
 in a dog-cart, a little more anxiety, and she had already re- 
 solved to take her waterproof with her. 
 
 However, she was not much dismayed. She had lived 
 in this weather-brewing cauldron of a place for some little 
 time, and had grown familiar with its threatening glooms, 
 which generally came to nothing, and with its sudden and 
 dazzling glories, which laughed out a welcome to the lonely 
 traveller in the most surprising fashion. When the dog- 
 cart — a four-wheeled vehicle — was brought round, she 
 stepped into it lightly, and took the reins as if to the man- 
 ner bom, though she had never handled a whip until Mrs. 
 Graham had put her in training at Inverstroy. Then there 
 was a strict charge to Jane to see that brisk fires were kept 
 burning in all the rooms ; for although it was still July the 
 air of these alpine solitudes mms sometimes somewhat keen. 
 And then — the youthful and fair-haired Snndy having got 
 up behind — she released the brake ; and presently they 
 were making their way, slowly and cautiously at first, down 
 the stony path, and over the loud sounding wooden bridge 
 that here spans the roaring red-brown waters of the Allt- 
 cam-Ban. 
 
 But w^hen once they were over the bridge and into the 
 road leading down the wide strath, they quickly mended 
 their pace. There was an unusual eagerness and bright- 
 ness in her look. Sandy the groom knew that the stout 
 and serviceable cob in the shafts was a sure-footed beast ; 
 but the road was of the roughest ; and he could not und^l*- 
 
YOLANDE. 147 
 
 Stand why the young English lady, who was generally very 
 cautious, should drive so fast. Was it to get away from 
 the black thunder masses of cloud that lay over the moun- 
 tain behind them ? Here, at least, there seemed no danger 
 of any storm. The sunlight was brilliant on the wide green 
 pastures and on the flashing waters of the stream; and the 
 steep and sterile hillsides were shining now ; and the loch 
 far ahead of them had its wind-rippled surface of a blue 
 like the heart of a sapphire. Yolande's face soon showed 
 the influence of the warm sunlight and of the fresh keen 
 air; and her eyes were glad, though they seemed busy 
 with other things. Indeed, there was scarcely any sign of 
 life around to attract her attention. The sheep on the vast 
 slo|)es, where there was but a scanty pasturage among the 
 blocks of granite, were as small gray specks ; an eagle 
 slowly circling on motionless wing over the furthest moun- 
 tain range, looked no bigger than a hawk ; some young 
 falcons, whose cry sounded just overhead among the crags, 
 were invisible. But perhaps she did not heed these things 
 much. She seemed preoccupied, and yet happy and light- 
 hearted. 
 
 When, in due course of timi, they reached the end of 
 the valley, and got on to the road that wound along the 
 wooded shores of tlie loch, there was much easier going, 
 and Sandy dismissed his fears. It was a pretty loch, this 
 stretch of wind-stirred blue water, for the hills surrounding 
 it were somewhat less sterile than those at AUt-nam-Ba ; 
 here and there the banks were fringed with hazel ; and at 
 the lower end of it, where the river flowing from it wound 
 through a picturesque ravine, were the dark green planta- 
 tions surrounding Lynn Towers. They had driven for 
 about a mile and a half or so by the shores of the lake, when 
 Yolande fancied she heard some clanking noise proceeding 
 from the other side ; and thereupon she instantly asked 
 Sandy what that could be, for any sound save the bleating 
 of sheep or the croak of a raven was an unusual thing here. 
 The young Highland lad strained his eyes in the direction 
 of the distant hillside, and at last he said, — 
 
 " Oh yes, I see them now. They will be the men taking 
 up more fencing to the forest. ' Duncan was speaking about 
 that, madam." 
 
 (For he was a polite youth, as far as his English went.) 
 
 " I can't see anything, Sandy," said the young lady. 
 
 " If Miss Winterbourne would be looking about half- 
 
148 YOLANDE. 
 
 way up the hill — they are by the side of the gray corria 
 now.*' 
 
 Then he added, after a second, — 
 
 " I am tliinking that will be the Master at the top." 
 
 " Do you mean the Master of Lynn ? " she said quickly. 
 
 " Yes, madam." 
 
 " Well, your eyes are sharper than mine, Sandy. I can 
 see that black speck on the sky-line, but that is all." 
 
 " He is waving a handkercliief now," said Sandy witli 
 much coolness. 
 
 " Oh, that is impossible. How could he make us out at 
 this distance ?" 
 
 " The Master will know there is no other carriage than 
 this one coming from AUt-nam-Ba." 
 
 " Very well, then," said she taking out her handkerchief 
 and giving it a little shake or two in the sunliglit. '' 1 will 
 take the cliance ; but you know, Sandy, it is more likely to 
 be one of the keepers waving his hand to you." 
 
 " Oh no, madam ; it is the Master himself ; I am sure of 
 it. He was up at the bothy yesterday evening to see Dun- 
 can about the gillies, and he was saying something about 
 the new fence above the loch." 
 
 " Was Mr. Leslie at Allt-nam-Ba last night? " said she 
 in surprise. 
 
 " Oh yes, madam." 
 
 " Ancl he left no message for me ? " 
 
 ** I think there was not any message. But he was ask- 
 ing when Miss Winterbourne's father was coming and I 
 told him that I was to drive Miss Winterboarne into 
 Foyers this niorning." 
 
 '* Oh, that's all right," she said, with much content. 
 
 By this time they had i-eached the lower end of the lake ; 
 and when they had crossed the wooden bridge over the 
 river and ascended a bit of a hill, they found themselves 
 opposite Lynn Towers — a large, modern building, which, 
 with its numerous conservatories, stood on a level piece of 
 ground on the other side of the ravine. Then on again ; 
 and in time they beheld stretching out before them a wide 
 and variegated plain, looking rich and fertile and cultivated 
 after the mountainous solitudes they had left behind, while 
 all around them were hanging woods, with open slopes of 
 pasture, and rills running down to the river in the valley 
 beneath. As they drove on and down into that smiling 
 uttd chining country, the day grew more and more brilliant. 
 
YOLANDE. 149 
 
 The breaks of blue in the sky grew broader, the silver-gleam- 
 iiig clouds went slowly by to the east, and the air, which 
 was much warmer down here, was perfumed with the deli- 
 cate resmous odor of the sweet-gale. Wild flowers grew 
 more luxuriantly. Here and there a farmhouse appeared, 
 with fields of grain encroaching on the moorland. And at 
 last, after some miles of this gradual descent, Yolande ar 
 rived at a little sprinkling of houses sufficient in number 
 — though much scattered among the fields — to be called 
 a village, and drew up at the small wooden gate of a modest 
 little mansion, very prettily situated in the midst of a 
 garden of roses, columbine, nasturtiums, and. other cottage 
 favorites. 
 
 No sooner had the carriage stopped than instantly the 
 door was opened by a smiling and comely dame, with sil- 
 ver-gray hair, and pleasant, shrewd gray eyes, who came 
 down the garden path. She was neatly and plainly dressed 
 in a housekeeper-looking kind of costume, but her face was 
 refined and intelligent, and there was a sort of motherli- 
 ness, in the look with which she regarded the young En- 
 glish lady. 
 
 " Do you know that I meant to scold you, Mrs Bell, for 
 robbing your garden again ? " said Yolande. '' But this 
 time — no — I am not going to scold you; I can only thank 
 you; for my papa is coming to-day; and oh, you should 
 see how pretty the rooms are with the flowers you sent me ! 
 But not again now — not any more destroying the garden." 
 *' Dear me, and is your papa coming the day ? " said the 
 elderly woman in a slow, persuasive, gentle, south-country 
 sort of fashion. 
 
 " I am going now to meet him at the steamer," said 
 Yolande quickly. " That is why — " 
 
 " Well, now," said Mrs. Bell, " that is just a most ex- 
 traordinary piece of good luck ; for I happen to have a pair 
 of the finest and plumpest young ducklings that ever I set 
 eyes on." 
 
 " No, no ; no, no, no," Yolande cried, laughing ; " 1 can- 
 not have any more excuses for these kindnesses and kind 
 nesses. Every day since I came here — every day a fresh 
 excuse — and always the boy coming with Mrs. BelFs com 
 pliments — " 
 
 " Dinna ye think I know perfectly well," said the other, 
 in a tone of half-indignant renjonstrance " what it is for a 
 young leddy to be trying housekeeping in a place like yon ? 
 
loO YOLANDE. 
 
 So there's not to be another word about it. Ye'll jist stop 
 for a minute as ye're going back, and take the ducklings wi' 
 ye ; ay, and I've got a nice bunch or two o' fresh-cut lettuce 
 for ye, and a few carrots and turnips — I declare it's a 
 shame to see the things wasting in the gairden, for we canna 
 use the half of them." 
 
 " Wouldn't it be simpler for you to give me the garden 
 find the house and everything all at once ? " said Yolande 
 " Well, now, I wish to see Mr. Melville." 
 
 " Fe canna do that," was the prompt reply. 
 
 " Why ? " said the girl, with something of a stare, for 
 she had not been in the habit of having her requests refused 
 up in this part of the world. 
 
 *' He is at his work," said the elderly dame, glancing at 
 a small building that stood at right angles with the house. 
 " Do ye think I would disturb him when he is at his work? 
 Do ye think I want him to send me about my business ? " 
 
 " Tliere is a tyrant ! '* exclaimed Yolande. " Never 
 mind, then ; I wanted to thank him for sending me the 
 trout. Now I will not. Well, good-by, Mrs. Bell. I will 
 take the vegetables, and be very grateful to you, but not 
 the ducklings." 
 
 " Ye'll just take the ducklings, as I say, like a sensible 
 young leddy," said Mrs. Bell, with emphasis ; " and there 
 is not to be another word about it," 
 
 So on she drove again, on this bright and beautiful July 
 day, through a picturesque and rocky and rugged country, 
 until in time slie reached the end of her journey — the charm- 
 ing little hotel that is perched high amid the woods over- 
 looking Locli Ness, witliin sound of the thundering Foyers 
 Water. And as she had hurried mainly to give the cob a 
 long mid-day rest — the steamer not being due till the 
 afternoon — she now found herself with some hours' leisure 
 at her disposal, which she spent in idly wandering through 
 the umbrageous woods, startling many a half-tame pheasant, 
 but never coming on the real object of her quest, a roe-deer. 
 And then, at last, she heard the throbbing of paddle-wheels 
 in the intense silence, and just about as quick as any roe- 
 deer she made hei- way down through the bracken and the 
 bushes, and went right out to the end of the little pier. 
 
 She made him out at once, even at that distance ; for 
 though he was not a tall man, his shar}>featured, sun- 
 reddened face and silver-white hair made him easily reo- 
 ognixable. And of course she was gi*eatly delighted when 
 
YOLANDE. 151 
 
 he carae ashore, and excited too ; and she herself would 
 have carried gun-cases, fishing-baskets, and what not to tlve 
 dog-cart, had not the boots from the hotel interfered. And 
 she had a hundred eager questions and assurances, but 
 would pay no heed to his remonstrance about the risk of 
 her driving. 
 
 " Why, papa, I drove every day at Inverstroy ! " slie 
 exclaimed, as they briskly set out for Allt-nani-Ba. 
 
 " I suppose the Grahams were very kind to you ? " he 
 said. 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, yes." 
 
 " And the Master, how is he ? " 
 
 ** Oh, very well, T believe. Of course I Iiave not seen 
 him since Mrs. Graham left. But he has made all the ar- 
 rangments for you — ponies, panniers, everything quite 
 arranged. And he left the rifle at the bothy ; and I have 
 the cartridges all right from Inverness — oh yes, you will 
 find everything prepared ; and there is no want of provision, 
 for Mr. Melville sends me plenty of trout, and Duncan jjoes 
 up the hill now and again for a hare, and they are sending 
 me a sheep from the farm — " 
 
 " A sh'eep ! " 
 
 " Duncan said it was the best way, to have a sheep 
 killed. And we have new-laid eggs and fresh milk every 
 day. And every one is so kind an<l attentive, papa, that 
 whatever turns out wrong, that will be my fault in not ar- 
 ranging properly — " 
 
 " Oh, that will be all right," said he, good-humoredly. 
 *' I want to hear about yourself, Yolande. What do you 
 think of Lord Lynn and his sister, now that you have seen 
 something more of them ? " 
 
 This question checked her volubility, and for a second 
 a very odd expression came over her face. 
 
 " They are very serious people, papa," said she with 
 some caution. " And — and very pious, I think." 
 
 " But I suppose you are as pious as they can be ? " her 
 father said. " That is no objection." 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 " And those other people — the old woman who pretends 
 to be a housekeeper, and is a sort of Good Fairy in disguise 
 and the penniless young laird who has no land — " 
 
 Instantly her face brightened up. 
 
 '' Oh, he is the most extraoi-dinary person, papa — h 
 majiician ! I can not describe it ; you must see for vour- 
 
152 YOLANDE. 
 
 self; but really it is wonderful. He has a stream to work 
 for him — ^yes, for Mrs. Graham and I went and visited it — 
 climbing away up the hill — and there was the water-wheel 
 at work in the water, and a hut close by, and there were 
 copper wires to take the electricity away down to the 
 house, where he has a store of it. It is a genie for him ; 
 lie makes it light the lamps in the house, in the schoolroom, 
 and it makes electrotype copies for him ; it works a lathe 
 for turning wood — oh, I can't tell you all about it. And 
 he has been so kind to me ! but mostly in secret, so that 
 I could not catch him to thank him. How could I know ? 
 I complain to Mrs. Bell that it is a trouble to send to 
 Inverness for some one to set the clock going: the next 
 morning — it is all right ! It goes ; nothing wrong at all ! 
 Then the broken window in the drawing-room : Mrs, 
 Graham and I drive away to Fort Augustus ; when I come 
 back in the evening there is a new pane put in. Then the 
 filter in the water-tank up the hill — " 
 
 "But what on earth is this wonderful Jack-of all 
 trades doing here? Why, you yourself wrote to me, 
 Yolande, that he had taken the Snell Exhibition and the 
 Ferguson Scholarship, and blazed like a comet through 
 Balliol ; and now I find him tinkerin^j at window-pan ei." 
 She laughed. 
 
 " I think he works very hard : he says he is veiy lazy. 
 
 He is very fond of fishing, he is not well off, and hero he 
 
 is permitted to fish in the lakes far away among the hills 
 
 that few people will take the trouble to go to. Then 
 
 naturally he has much interest in this neighborhood, where 
 
 once his people were the great family ; and those living 
 
 here have a great respect for him ; and he has built a 
 
 school, and teaches in it — it is a free school, no charge at 
 
 all," Yolande, added, hastily. " That is Mrs. Bell's kindness, 
 
 the building of the school. Then he makes experiments 
 
 and discoveries : is it not enough of an occupation when 
 
 every one is talking about the electric light? Also he is a 
 
 great botanist; and when it is not schooltime he is away 
 
 up in the hills after rare plants, or to fish. Oh, it is terrible 
 
 the loneliness of the small lakes up in the hills, Mr. Leslie 
 
 has told me ; no road, no track, no life anywhere. And tlie 
 
 long hours of climbing : oh, I am sure I have been sorry 
 
 sometimes — many times — when day after day I receive a 
 
 present of trout and a message, to think of the long olimb- 
 
 ing and the labor — " 
 
YOLANDE. 153 
 
 ** But why doesn't he fish in the loch at All-nam-Ba ?" 
 her father exclaimed. "That can't be so difficult to get 
 at." 
 
 " He had permission last year," said she. 
 
 « Why not this ?" 
 
 " He tlionght it would be more correct to wait for you 
 to give permission." 
 
 " Well, now, Yolande, "said he, peevishly, '* how could 
 you be so stupid ?nere is a fellow who shows you all sorts 
 of kindnesses, and you haven't enough common-sense to 
 offer him a day's fishing in the loch !" 
 
 " It was not my affair," she said, cheerfully. " That 
 was for you to arrange." 
 
 " Waiting for permission to fish in si loch like that !" 
 her fathers said, more good-naturedly, for indeed his discon- 
 tent with Yolande rarely lasted for more than about the 
 fifteenth part of a second. " Leslie told me the loch would 
 be infinitely improved if five-sixths of the fish were netted 
 out of it ; the trout would run to a better size. However, 
 Miss Yolande, since you've treated him badly, you must 
 make amends. You must ask him to dinner." 
 
 " Oh yes, papa, I shall be glad to do that," she said, 
 blithely. 
 
 " If the house is anywhere near the road, we can pick 
 him up as we go along. Then I suppose you could send a 
 message to the Master ; he is not likely to have an engage- 
 ment." 
 
 " But you don't mean for to-night," she said, in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 « I do, indeed. Why not ? " 
 
 " What ! the first night that we have to ourselves to- 
 gether, to think of inviting strangers ? " 
 
 *' Strangers ? " he repeated. " That is an odd phrase to 
 be used by a young lady who wears an engaged ring." 
 
 " But I am not married, yet, papa," said she, flushing 
 slightly. " I am only engaged. When I an a wife, it may 
 be different ; but at present I am your daughter." 
 
 " And you would rather that we had this first evening 
 all by ourselves ? " 
 
 " It is not a wish papa," said she, coolly; " it is a down- 
 right certainty. There is only dinner for two, and there 
 will be only dinner for two, and these two are you and I. 
 Do you forget that I am mistress of the house ? " 
 
 Well, he seemed nothing loath ; the prospect did not at 
 
154 YOLANDE. 
 
 all overcloud his face, as they drove away through this 
 smiling and cheerful and picturesque country, with the 
 Heverer altitude beyond gradually coming into view. 
 
 The same night Yolande and her father set out for an 
 arm-in-arm stroll away down the broad silent valley. It 
 was late;. but still there was a bewilderment of light all 
 around them, for in the northwestern heavens the wan 
 twilight still lingered, while behind them, in the soutlieast, 
 the moon had risen, and now projected their shadows before 
 them as they walked Yolande was talkative and joyous — 
 the silence and the loneliness of the place did not seem to 
 op])ress her; and he was always a contented listener. They 
 walked away along the strath, under the vast solitude of 
 the hills, and by the side of this winding and murmuring 
 stream, and in time they reached the loch. For a wonder 
 it was perfectly still. The surface was like glass, and those 
 portions that were in shadow were black as jet. But these 
 were not many, for the moonlight was shining adown this 
 wide space, touching softly the overhanging crags and the 
 woods, and showing them, as they got on still further, above 
 the loch and the bridge and the river, and standing silent 
 amid the silent plantations, the pale wliite walls of Lynn. 
 
 " And so you think, Yolande," said he, *' that you wiU 
 be quite happy in living in this solitary place?" 
 
 " If you were always to be away — oh no ; but with yoa 
 coming to see me sometimes, as now— oh, yes yes: why 
 not ? " said she, cheerf ulfy. 
 
 "You wouldn't mind being cut off from the rest of the 
 world?" he said, 
 
 " I ? " she said. " What is it to me ? I know so few 
 people elsewhere." 
 
 " It would be a peaceful life, Yolande," said he, 
 thoughtfully. " Would it not ? " 
 
 " Oh yes," slie answered, brightly. " And then, papa, 
 you would take Allt-nam-Ba for the whole year, every year, 
 and not merely have a few weeks' shooting the autumn. 
 Why should it not be a pleasant place to live in? Could 
 anything be more beautiful than to-night — and the solitude ? 
 And one or two of the people are so kind. But this I must 
 tell you, papa, that the one who has been kindest to me 
 here is not Lord Lynn, nor his sister, Mrs. Colquhoun, nor 
 any one of them, but Mrs. Bell ; and the tirst chance, 
 when she is sure not to meet Mr. Melville, or Mr. Leslie — 
 for she is very particular about that, and pretends only to 
 
YOLANDE. 
 
 155| 
 
 be a housekeeper — I am going to bring her up to Allt-nam- 
 Ba ; and you will see how charming she is, and how good 
 and wise and gentle, and how proud she is of Mr. Melville. 
 As for him, he laughs at her. He laughs at every one. 
 He has no respect for any one more than another ; he talks 
 to Lord Lynn as he talks to Duncan — perhaps with more 
 kindness to Duncan. Rich or poor, it is no difference — no, 
 he does not seem to understand that there is a difference.,' 
 And all the people, the shepherds, the gillies, and Mrs. 
 Macdougal at the farm — every one thinks there is no one 
 like him. Perhaps I have learned a little from him, even 
 in so short a time ; it may be. I do not care that Mrs. 
 Bell has been a cook ; that is nothing to me ; I see that she 
 is a good woman, and clever, and kind ; and I will be her 
 friend if she pleases ; and I know that he gives her more 
 honor than to any one else, though he does not say much. 
 No, he is too sarcastic ; and not very courteous. Some- 
 times he is almost rude ; but he is a little more considerate 
 with old people — " 
 
 " Look here, Yolande," her father said, with a laugh. 
 " All this afternoon, and all this evening, and all down this 
 valley, you have done nothing but talk about this wonder- 
 ful Mr. Melville, although you say you have scarcely ever 
 seen him." 
 
 '* No, no, no, papa. I said, when he had done any kind- 
 ness to me, he had kept out of the way, and I had no chance 
 to thank him." 
 
 " Very well ; all your talking has produced nothing but 
 a jumble. I want to see this laird without land, this 
 Balliol clockmaker, this fisherman schoolmaster, this idol 
 who is worshipped by the natives. Let me see what he is 
 like, first of all. Ask him to dinner, and the Alaster too. 
 We have few neighbors, and we must make the most of 
 them. So now let us get back home again, child ; though 
 it is almost a shame to go indoors on such a night. And 
 you don't really think you would regret being shut off 
 from the world, Yolande, in this solitude ? " 
 
 She was looking along the still loch, and the wooded 
 shores, and the moonlit crags tliat were mirrored in the 
 glassy water ; and her eyes were happy enough. 
 
 " Is it not like fairyland, papa ? How could one regret 
 living in such a beautiful place ? Besides," she ndded, 
 cheerfully, "have I not promised ? *' And therewith sho 
 
156 YOLANDE. 
 
 hold out her ungloved hand for a second ; and he under- 
 stood what she meant ; for he saw the three diamonds on 
 her engagement ring clear in the moonlight. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " Melville's welcome noMB." 
 
 Amid all the hurry and bustle of preparing for the 
 Twelfth, Yolande and her affairs seemed half forgotten ; and 
 she, for one, was glad to forget them ; for she rejoiced in 
 the activity of the moment, and was proud to see that the 
 wheels of the little household worked very smoothly. And 
 long ago she had mastered all the details about the luncheon 
 to be sent up the hill, and the dinner for the gillies, and what 
 not ; she had got her instructions from Mrs. Graham at In- 
 verstroy. 
 
 In the midst of all this, however, the Master of Lynn 
 wrote the following note to his sister ; 
 
 " Lynn Towers, August^ 8. 
 " Deab Polly, — I wish to goodness you would come 
 over here for a couple of days and put matters straight. I 
 am helpless. I go for a little quiet to Allt-nam-Ba. I would 
 ask Jack Melville to interfere, but he is so blunt- tongued he 
 would most likely make the row worse. Of course it's all 
 Tabby : if ever I succeed to Lynn, won't I make the old 
 cat skip out of that I I expected my father to be cross when 
 I suggested something about Yolande, but I thought he 
 would see the reasonableness, etc. But Tabby heard of it, 
 :md then it was all ' alliance with demagogues,' ' disgrace 
 of an ancient family,' * the Leslies selling their honor for 
 money, and other rubbish. I don't mind. It doesn't hurt 
 me. I have mot knocked about with Jack Melville for 
 nothing ; I can distinguish between missiles that are made 
 of air, and pass by you, and missiles that are made of wood, 
 and can cut your h*ead open. But the immediate thing is 
 this : they won't call on the Winterbournes, and this is not 
 only a gross discourtesy, but very impolitic. I should not 
 at all wonder, if Mr. Winterbourne has a good season this 
 
yolande. 157 
 
 year, if he were to take a lease of Allt-nam-Ba ; and Duncan 
 is reckoning on 1200 brace. As a good tenant my father 
 ought to call on Mr. Winterbourne, if for nothing else. 
 And of course matters can not remain as they are. There 
 must be an explanation. What I am dreadfully afraid of 
 is that Yolande may meet Tabby some day, and that Tabby 
 may say something. At present they have only met driving 
 — I mean since you left — so that was only a case of bowing. 
 To hear Tabby talk would make you laugh ; but it makes 
 me rather wild, I confess ; and though my father says less, 
 or notliiug at all, I can see that what she says is making him 
 more and more determined. So do come along, and bring 
 some common-sense into the atmosphere of the house. What 
 on earth has politics got to do with Yolande ? Come and 
 fight it out with Tabby. 
 
 " Your affectionate brother, 
 
 " A Leslie." 
 
 This was the answer that arrived on the evening of the 
 next day : 
 
 " Inverstboy, August 9. ;l|j 
 
 '' Deak Archie, — You must have gone mad. We have 
 visitors in the house already, and by the day after to-morrow 
 we shall be full to the hall door. It is quite absurd ; Jim 
 has not asked a single bachelor this year, and every man 
 who is coming is bringing his wife. Did you ever hear of 
 such a thing ? — really I can't understand why women should 
 be such fools : not a single invitation refused ! But there 
 is one thing — the^/ will get a good dose of grouse talk before 
 they go souths and if they are not heartily sick of hearing 
 about stags it will be a wonder. So you see, my dear Mas- 
 ter, you must worry out of that muddle in your own way ; 
 and I have no doubt you got into it through temper, and 
 being uncivil to Aunt Colquhoun. It is impossible for me 
 to leave Inverstroy at present. But whatever you do 
 don't get spiteful, and go and run away with Shena Yan, 
 
 " Your affectionate sister, 
 
 " Polly." 
 
 Well, it was not until the eve of the Twelfth that Yo- 
 lande gave her first dinner-party, the delay having chiefly 
 been occasioned by their having to wait for some wine from 
 Inverness. This was a great concession on the part of her 
 father ; but when he discovered that she was desperately 
 
158 YOLANDE. 
 
 afraid that her two gnests, the Master of Lynn an^ Mr. 
 Melville, would imagine that the absence of wine from the 
 table was due to her negligence and stupidity as a house- 
 keeper, he yielded at once. Nay, in case they might throw 
 any blame on her of any kind, her father himself wrote to 
 a firm in Inverness, laying strict injunctions on them as to 
 brands and so forth. AH of which trouble was quite thrown 
 away, as it turned out, for both the young men seemed quite 
 indifferent about drinking anything; but the wine was 
 there and Yolande could not be blamed : that was his chief 
 and only consideration. 
 
 Just before dinner Mr. Winterbourne, Yolande, and the 
 Master were standing outside the lodge, looking down the 
 wide glen, which was now flooded with sunset light. Young 
 Leslie's eyes were the eyes of a deer-stalker ; the slightest 
 movement anywhere instantly attracted them ; and when 
 two sheep — little dots they were, at the far edge of the hill 
 just above the lodge — suddenly ceased grazing and lifted 
 their heads, he knew there must be some one there. The 
 next moment a figure appeared on the sky-line. 
 
 " I suppose that is Jack Melville," he said, peevishly. 
 " I wish he wouldn't come across the forest when he is up 
 at his electric boxes." 
 
 " But does he do harm ? " said Yolande. " He cannot 
 shoot deer with copper wire." 
 
 " Oh, he's' all over the place," said the Master of Lynn. 
 "And there isn't a keeper or a watcher who will remon- 
 strate with him, and of course I can't. He's always after 
 his botany, or his fishing, or something. The best thing 
 about it is" that he is a capital hand to have with you if 
 there are any stray deer about, and you want to have a shot 
 without disturbing the herd. He knows their ways most 
 wonderfully, and can tell you the track they are certain to 
 take." 
 
 Meanwhile the object of these remarks was coming 
 down the hillside at a swinging pace, and very soon he had 
 crossed the little bridge, and was coming up the path, her- 
 alding his arrival with a frank and careless greeting to his 
 friends. He was a rather tall, lean, large-boned, and pow- 
 erful-looking man of about eight and twenty ; somewhat 
 pale in face, seeing that he lived so much out of doors ; his 
 harir a raven black : his eyes gray, penetrating, and stead- 
 fast; his mouth firm and yet mobile and expressive at 
 times ; his forehead square rather than lofty ; his voice, a 
 
YOLANDE. 159 
 
 chest voice, was heard in pleasant and well-modiilated En- 
 glish : he had not acquired any trace of the higli falsetto 
 that prevails (or prevailed a few years ago) among^ the 
 young men at Oxford. As for his manner, that was char- 
 acterized chiefly by a curious simplicity and straightfor- 
 wardness. He seemed to have no time to be self-conscious. 
 When he spoke to anyone, it was without thought or heed 
 of any bystander. VVith that one person he had to do. 
 Him or her he seized, with look and voice ; and even after 
 the most formal introduction he would s])eak to you in the 
 most simple and direct way, as if life were not long enough 
 to be wasted in conventionalities, as if truth were the main 
 thing, as if all human beings were perfectly alike, and as if 
 there was no reason in the world why this new stranger 
 should not be put on the footing of a friend. If he had an 
 affectation, it was to represent himself as a lazy and indo- 
 lent person, w^ho believed in nothing, and laughed at every- 
 thing, whereas he was extremely industrious and undefa- 
 tigable, while there were certainly two or three things that 
 he believed in — more, perhaps, than he would confess. 
 
 "Here, Miss Winterbourne," said he, "is the little vas- 
 culum I spoke to you about ; it has seen some service, but 
 it may do well enough. And here is Bentley's Manual^ 
 and a Flora. The Flora is an old one ; I brought an old 
 one purposely, for at the beginning there is a synopsis of 
 the Linnaean system of classification, and you wHU find that 
 the easiest way of making out the name of a new plant. 
 Of course," he added, when he had put the vasculum and 
 the books on the Avindow-sill and come back, " when you 
 get further on, when you begin to see how all these plants 
 have grown to be what they are, when you come lo study 
 the likenesses and relationships — and unless you mean to 
 go so far you are only wasting time to begin — you will 
 follow Jussieu and De Candolle ; but in the meantime you 
 will find the Linnaean system a very dodgy instrument 
 when you are in a difticulty. Then, another thing — mind, 
 I am assuming that you mean business ; if you want to 
 frivvle, and pick pretty posies, I shut my door on you, but, 
 I say, if you mean business, I have told Mrs. Bell you 
 are to have access to my herbarium, whether I'm there or 
 not." 
 
 But here Yolande began to laugh. 
 
 " Oh yes, that is so probable ! " said she. " Mrs. Bell 
 allowing me to go into your study ! " 
 
160 YOLANDE. 
 
 " Mrs. Bell and I understand each other very well, I 
 assuie you," he said, gravely. "We are only two augurs, 
 who wink at each other ; or rather we shut our eyes to 
 each other's humbug." 
 
 "Why, Jack, she means to buy back Monaglen for 
 you ! " the Master of Lynn exclaimed. 
 
 *' I know she has some romantic scheme of that sort in 
 her head," he said, frankly. " It is quite absurd. What 
 should I do with Monaglen ? However, in the meantime 
 I have made pretty free use of the old lady's money at 
 Gress ; and she is highly pleased, for she was fond of my fa- 
 ther's family, and she likes to hear me spoken well of, and 
 you can so easily purchase gratitude — especially with some- 
 body else's money. You see, it works well all round. Mr& 
 Bell, who is an honest, shrewd, good, kindly woman, sees 
 that her charity is administrated with some care ; the people 
 around — but especially the children — are benefited ; I have 
 leisure for any little experiments and my idle rambles ; and 
 if Mrs. Bell and I hoodwink each other, it is done very 
 openly, and there is no great harm." 
 
 " She was very indignant," said young Leslie, laughing, 
 " when you wouldn't have your name put on the tablet in 
 the schoolhouse." 
 
 " What tablet ? " said Yolande. 
 
 "Oh a tablet saying that Mr. Melville had built the 
 school and presented it to the people of Gi-ess." 
 
 "And I never contributed a farthing ! " he said. " She 
 did the whole thing. Well, now, that shows how artificial 
 the position is; and, necessarily, it won't last. We have 
 for so long been hypocrites for the public good — let us say 
 it was for the public good ; but there must come an end." 
 
 " Why, Jack, if you leave Gress you'll fairly break the 
 ol.d dame's heart. And as for the neighborhood — it will be 
 like the going away of Aikendrum." 
 
 " Who was that ? " said Yolande. 
 
 " I am sure I don't know. Mrs. Bell will sing the sonc; 
 for you, if you ask her ; she knows all those old things. I 
 don't know who the gentleman was, but they made a rare 
 fuss about his going away. 
 
 " * 'Bout him the carles were gabbin', 
 The braw laddies sabbin', 
 And a' tlie lassies greetin', 
 For that Aikendrum's awa'.* ** 
 
YOLAIVDE. IGl 
 
 " The dinner is ready, madam," said a soft-voiced and 
 pretty Highland maid-servant, appearing at the door; and 
 Yolande's heart sank within her. She summoned up her 
 courage nevertheless ; she walked into the room sedately, 
 and took her place at the head of the table with much 
 graciousness, though she was in reality very nervous and 
 terribly anxious about the result of this wild experiment. 
 Well, she need not have been anxious. The dinner was 
 excellently cooked, and very fairly served. And if those 
 two younger men seemed quite indifferent as to what they 
 ate and drank, and much more interested in a discussion 
 about certain educational matters, at least Mr. Winter- 
 bourne noted and approved ; and greatly comforted was;- 
 she from time to time to hear him say: " Yolande, this is 
 capital hare soup ; why can't we get hare soup cooked in 
 this way in the south ? " Or, " Yolande, these are most 
 delicious trout. Mr. Melville's catching, I suppose ? It 
 seems to me you have stumbled on an uncommonly good 
 cook." Or, "What? Another robbery of Mrs. Bell's 
 poultry yard ? Well, they're fine birds' — noble, noble. We 
 must send her some grouse to-morrow, Yolande." 
 
 And then outside there was a sudden and portentous 
 growl of bass drones ; and then the breaking away into the 
 shrill clear music of a quickstep ; and through the blue 
 window-panes they could see in the dusk the tall, tightly 
 built figure of young Duncan, the pipes over his shoulder, 
 marching erect and proud up and down the gravel-path. 
 That was the proper way to hear the pipes — away up there 
 in the silence of the hills, amid the gatliering gloom of the 
 night ; and now they would grow louder and shriller as he 
 drew near, and now they would grow fainter and fainter 
 as he passed by, while all around them, whether the music 
 was faint or shrill, was the continuous hushed murmur of 
 the mountain streams. 
 
 " I told Duncan," said Yolande to the Master, " that 
 it was a shame he should keep all his playing for the shep- 
 herds in the bothy. And he told me that he very well 
 knew the ' Hills of Lynn." 
 
 Young Leslie regarded her with an odd kind of smile. 
 
 *' You don't think that is the ' Hills of Lynn,' do you, 
 Yolande?" 
 
 "Is it not? I have heard very few." 
 
 "No; I am not first favorite to-niorht. It isn't the 
 ♦Hills of Lynn.' That is 'Melville's Welcome Humo.' " 
 
I(i2 YOLANDE. 
 
 Yolande looked surprised, but not in any way sjuilty. 
 
 '* I assure you, MisS Winterbourne," said JaekMelville, 
 pleasantly enough, " that I don't feel at all hurt or insulted. 
 I know Duncan means no sarcasm. He is quite well aware 
 that we haven't had a home to welcome us this many a day ; 
 but he is not playing the quickstep out of irony. He and 
 I are too old friends for that." 
 
 " Oh, I am sure he does not mean anything like that," 
 said Yolande. " It is a great compliment he means, is it 
 not?" 
 
 Then coffee came ; and cigars and pipes were produced 
 and as Yolande had no dread of tobacco smoke, they all 
 remained together, drawing in their chairs to the brisk lire 
 of wood and peat, and forming a very friendly, snug, and 
 comfortable little circle. Nor was their desultory chatting 
 about educational projects solely ; nor, on the other hand, 
 was it confined to grouse and the chances of the weather ; 
 it rambled over many and diverse subjects, while always, 
 from time to time, could be heard in the distance (for Dun- 
 can had retired to rt;gale his friends in the bothy) the faint 
 echoes of *' The Seventy-ninth's Farewell to Gibraltar," or 
 " Mackenzie's Farewell to Sutherland," or " The Barren 
 Rocks of Aden/' with occasionally the sad slow wail of a 
 Lament — "Lord Lovat's," or "Mackintosh's," or "Mao 
 Crimmon's." And as M»*. Melville proved to be a very 
 ready talker (as he lay back there in an easy-chair, with 
 the warm rays of the fire lighting up his fine intellectual 
 features and clear and penetrating gray eyes), Mr. Winter- 
 bourne had an abundant opportunity of studying this new 
 friend ; and so far from observing in him any of the brow- 
 beating and brusqueness he had heard of, on the contrary, 
 be discovered the most ample tolerance, and more than 
 that, a sort of large-hearted humanity a sympathy, a sincerrty 
 and directness of speech, that begun to explain to him why 
 Mr. Melville of Gress was such a favorite with those people 
 about there. He seemed to assume that the person he was 
 talking to was his friend ; and that it was useless to waste 
 time in formalities of conversation. His manner toward 
 Yolande (her father thought) was characterized by just a 
 little too much of indifference : but then he was a school- 
 master, and not in the habit of attaching importance to 
 the opinions of young people. 
 
 It was really a most enjoyable, confidential, pleasant 
 evening; but it had to come to an end ; and when the two 
 
YOLANDE. 163 
 
 young men left, both Yolnnde and her fathei accompanied 
 them to the door. The moon was risen now, and the long 
 wide glen looked beautiful enough. 
 
 " WelL, now, Mr Melville," said Mr. Winterbourne, as 
 they were going away, " whenever you have an idle even- 
 ing* I hope you will remember us, and take pity on us." 
 
 "You may see too much of me." 
 
 " That is impossible," said Yolande, quickly ; and then 
 she added, very prettily, "You know, Mr. Melville, if you 
 come often enough you will find it quite natural that Dun- 
 can should play for you * Melville's Welcome Home.' " 
 
 He stood for a moment uncertain ; it was the first sign 
 of embarrassment he had shown that night." 
 
 "Well," said he, "that is the most friendly thing that 
 has been said to me for many a day. Who could resist 
 such an invitation ? Good-night — good-night." 
 
 CHAPTER XXT. 
 
 NEIGHBORS. 
 
 As it turned out, John Shortlands could not come north 
 till the 20th ; so Mr. Winterbourne asked young Leslie to 
 shoot with him for the first week, and the invitation had 
 been gratefully accepted. The obligation, however, was not 
 all on one side. The Master of Lynn was possessed of a 
 long and familiar experience of the best and swiftest 
 methods of getting the birds sent to a good market; and he 
 made his arrangements in this direction with a business-like 
 forethought which amused Mr. Winterbourne, who ex- 
 prijssed some whimsical scruples over his being transformed 
 into a game-dealer. 
 
 " I don't look at it in that light at all," the Master said, 
 coolly. " Game is the only thing land like that will produce ; 
 and I like to know what it is worth. I think I can guar- 
 antee that the hire of the gillies and ponies and panniers 
 won't cost you a farthing." 
 
 " You should not be so anxious to have your ow^n moor 
 hard shot," said Mr. Winterbourne, with a smile. 
 
 " But I am," said this shrewd young man. " There is no 
 
^^ YOLANDE. 
 
 danger, on ground like this, of too small a breeding stock 
 being left. It is all the other way. What I am afraid of is 
 too big a stock, and tlie disease coming along. That is a 
 terrible business. You are congratulating yourself on the 
 number of birds, and on their fine condition ; and some 
 pleasant morning you wake up to find the place swept 
 clean." 
 
 " Not in one night ? " 
 
 " Well, a day or two will do it. This epidemic is quite 
 different from the ordinary mild forms of disease, where 
 you can see the birds pining away to death. Instead of 
 that you find them all about among the heather, dead, but 
 perfectly plump and well-looking, not a sign of disease out- 
 side or in. So, if you please, Mr. Winterbourne, don't havo 
 any scruples about turning on Duncan if you think we are 
 not doing well enough. The bigger consignment we can 
 send off the better." 
 
 Now one consequence of this arrangement was that when 
 Yolande, in the morning, had said " Good-by, papa." and 
 " Good-by, Archie," and given each of them a fiower or some 
 such trifle (for in that part of the country the presentation of 
 a small gift, no matter what, to any one going shooting, is 
 supposed to bring good luck), and when she had seen that 
 luncheon was quite prepared to be sent up the hill when 
 the first pony left, she found herself with the whole day be- 
 fore her, with no companion, and with no occupation save 
 that of wandering down the glen or up one of the hillsides 
 in search of new flowers. It is not to be wondered at, then, 
 that she should seek some variety by occasionally driving 
 into Gress, when the dog-cart was taking the game shot the 
 day before to Foyers, and spending a few hours with Mrs. 
 Bell until the trap came back to pick her up again. Foi* 
 one thing, when she discovered some plants unknown to 
 her, she found it was much easier to consult Mr. Melville's 
 herbarium than to puzzle over the descriptions of the vari- 
 ous species in the Flora ; and as he was generally occapied 
 either in the schoolhouse or in his laboratory, she did not 
 interfere with him. But 'the truth is, she liked this shrewd, 
 kindly, wise old Scotchwoman, who was the only one in 
 the neighborhood who took any notice of her. The people 
 at the Towers had neither called nor made any other over- 
 tures. And as Mrs, Bell's thoughtfulness and kindness took 
 the substantial form of sending up to Allt-nam-Ba, pretty 
 nearly every day, some article or articles likely to be of use 
 
YOLANDE. 165 
 
 to the young housekeeper, of course Yolande had to drive 
 m to thank her. 
 
 " Mrs. Bell," said she, one warm and sunny afternoon, 
 when they were together in the garden (this good woman 
 made awful havoc among her flowers when Yolande came 
 to see her), " who was Aikendrum ? " 
 
 " A young lad who went away for a sodger — so the song 
 says." 
 
 " And every one was so sorry, is it not so ? " said this 
 tall young lady, who already had her hands full of flowers. 
 " The Master was saying that if Mr. Melville leaves here, 
 every one will be quite as sorry — it will be like the going 
 away of Aikendrum." 
 
 " W y should he go ? " said Mrs. Bell, sharply. " Why 
 should he not stay among his own people — yes, and on land 
 that may be his own one day ? " And then she added, more 
 gently : '* It is not a good thing for one to be away among 
 strangers ; there's many a sore heart comes o' that. It's 
 not only them that are left behind ; sometimes -it's the one 
 that goes away that is sorrowfu' enough about it. I dare 
 say, now, ye never heard o' an old Scotch song they call 
 * Tlie sun rises bright in France ' ? " 
 
 " Oh, will you sing it for me ? " said Yolande, eagerly ; 
 for indeed the reputation of this good dame for the singing 
 of those old Scotch songs was wide in that district, though 
 it was not every one whom she would honor. And iier 
 singing was strangely effective. She had but little of a 
 voice ; she crooned rather than sang ; but she could give 
 the words a curiously pathetic quality ; and she had tlie 
 natural gift of knowing what particular airs she could make 
 tell. 
 
 She laid her hand on Yolande's arm, as if to ask for at- 
 tention : — 
 
 " * The sun rises bright in France, 
 And fair sets he ; 
 But he has tint the blink he had 
 
 In my ain countrie. 
 It's no my ain ruin 
 
 That weets aye my e'e, 
 But the dear Marie I left behind 
 Wi' sweet bairnies three.' 
 
 Ye've no heard that before ? " 
 
 "Oh no. It is a very sad air. But why Marie? — that 
 is French." 
 
 " Well ye see, the French and the Scotch were very 
 
166 YOLANDE. 
 
 thick* in former days, and Marie was a common name in 
 Scotland. I am told they spoke nothing but Frejich at 
 Holyrood ; and the young gentlemen they were all for 
 joining the French service — " 
 
 " But is there no more of tlie song, Mrs. Bell ? " 
 " Oh, ay, there are other two verses. But it's no for 
 an auld wife like me to be singing havers. " 
 " Please." 
 "Very well, then : 
 
 " ' The bud comes back to summer, 
 And the blossom to the tree, 
 But I win back, oh, never, 
 
 To my ahi countrie. 
 Gladness comes to many, 
 
 Sorrow conies to me, 
 As I look o'er the wide ocean 
 To my ain countrie. 
 
 " * Fu' bienly low'd my ain hearth, 
 
 And smiled my ain Marie : 
 Oh, I've left my heart behind 
 
 In my ain countrie ! 
 Oh, I'm leal to liigh heaven, 
 
 Wliich aj^e was leal to me, 
 And it's there I'll meet ye a' soon, 
 
 Frae my ain countrie.' ' t 
 
 " It is a beautiful air — but so sad," Yolande said. And 
 then she added, slyly, "And now ' Aikendrum.' " 
 
 But Mrs. Bell doggedly refused, 
 
 *' I tell ye it's no for an auld wife like me to be fashing 
 with such blethers ; it's for young lassies when they're out 
 at the herding. And I hope, now, that ye are no likely to 
 put any 'Aikendrum' notions into Mr, Melville's head. 
 Let him stay where he is. Maybe we'll get him a better 
 stance X in the countryside soon : stranger things have 
 come to pass." 
 
 " I ? " said Yolande ; " is it likely I should wish him to 
 go away ? Perhaps you do not know, then, that I am 
 going to live in this neighborhood — no ? " 
 
 " Oh, indeed ; is that possible, noo ?" said Mrs. Bell — and 
 she would say no more. She was herself most kindly and 
 communicable ;' but always she preserved a certain reserve 
 of manner in a case like this. However, Yolande was quite 
 frank. 
 
 *• Thick — intimate. 
 
 t The words of this song are by Allan Cunningham ; the music ii 
 an old Celtic air. J Stance — holding or position. 
 
YOLANDE. 167 
 
 " Oh yes," said the young lady, cheerfully. " Of course 
 I must live here when I am married ; and of course, too, I 
 look forward to seeing Mr. Melville always. He will be 
 our nearest friend — almost the only one. But it is so diffi- 
 cult to catch him. Either lie is in the school, or he is up at 
 the water-wheel — why, this moment, now if I could see 
 him, I would ask hira\o drive out to Allt-nam-Ba, when the 
 carriage comes and stay to dine with us." 
 
 " I wish ye would — eh, I wish ye would, my dear young 
 leddy ! " the' old dame exclaimed. " For the way he goes 
 on is just distressing. Not a settled proper meal will he sit 
 down to ; nothing but a piece of cold meat aye to be stand- 
 ing by. There it is — in there among they smelling chemi- 
 cal things — day and night there must aye be the same thing 
 on the side table waiting for him — some cold meat, a bit o* 
 bread, and a wee, scrim'pit, half-pint bottle o' that fushion- 
 less claret wine that is not one preen point better than vin- 
 egar. And then when he gives the bairns a day's holiday, 
 and starts away for Loch-na-lairige — a place that no one 
 has ever won to but the shepherd — not a thing in his pocket 
 but a piece o' bread and cheese. How he keeps up his 
 strength — a big-bonod man like that — passes me. If ye want 
 to anger him, that's the way to do it — compel him to sit doon 
 to a respectable meal, and get the lasses to prepare a few 
 things for him in a clever kind o' way, as ye would get in 
 any Christian house. Well, many a time I think if that's 
 the mainner they train young men at Oxford they would 
 be better brought up at another place. And what is the 
 use of it? His means are far beyond his wants — I take care 
 there is no wastefulness in the housekeeping, for one thing ; 
 and even if they were not, is there not my money ? — and a 
 proud woman 1 would be that day that he would take a 
 penny of it." 
 
 At this moment the object of these remarks came out of 
 the laboratory — a small building standing at right angles 
 with the house — and he was buttoning his coat as if he had 
 just put it on, 
 
 " Good-afternoon, Miss Winterbourne," said he, and he 
 seemed very pleased to see her as he took her hand for a 
 second. " I thought I heard your voice. And I have got 
 a word of approval for you." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ?" said she, smiling; for occasionally his 
 schoolmaster air and his condescending frankness amused 
 her. 
 
168 YOLANDE, 
 
 " I had a look over my herbarium last night : you have 
 been veiy careful." 
 
 " You thought I should not be ? " 
 
 '^ I did not know. But if there had been any confusion 
 or mischief done, I should not have mentioned it — no, prob- 
 ably I should have let you have your will ; only I would 
 never have allowed any one else to go near the place ; so 
 you see you would have been inflicting injury on an un- 
 known number of persons in the future." 
 
 " But how wrong not to tell me ? " she exclaimed. 
 
 ** Oh, you have been careful enough. Indeed, you have 
 taken unnecessary trouble. It is quite enough if the differ- 
 ent genera are kept separate ; it is not necessary that the 
 species should follow in the same order as they are in the 
 Flora. You must not give yourself that trouble again.*' 
 
 " When the dog-cart comes along," said she, " I hope 
 you will drive out with me to Allt-nam-Ba, and spend the 
 evening with us." 
 
 " You are very kind." 
 
 " Ko, I am scheming," she said. " The truth is the 
 fishmonger at Inverness has disappointed me — no, no, no, 
 Mrs. Bell, on the whole he has been very good ; but this 
 time there is a mistake; and do you think, Mr. Melville, if 
 you are taking your rod you could get me a few trout out 
 of the loch on the way home ? Is it too much to ask ? " 
 
 He glanced at the sky. " I think we might manage it," 
 said he, " though it is rather clear. There may be a breeze 
 on the loch ; there generally is up there. But what we 
 ought to do is to set out now and walk it ; and let the trap 
 pick us up at the loch. Can you walk so far? " 
 
 " I should think so ! " said Yolande. " And be delighted 
 
 *' Well, I will go and get my rod and basket. Then as 
 we go along I can tell you the names of any plants you 
 don't know ; or answer any questions that may be puzzling 
 you. Don't be afraid to ask. I like it. It helps to keep 
 one's recollections cle;ir. And I never laugh at ignorance; 
 it is the pretense of knowledge that is contemptible." 
 
 Tiiey did not, however, talk botany exclusively as they 
 walked away from Gress on tliis beautiful afternoon ; for he 
 very speedily discovered that she knew far more about him 
 and his family and his affairs than he could possibly have 
 imagined. 
 
 '* The days in Egypt were long," she explained, '* and 
 
YOLANDE. 169 
 
 the Master used to tell me all about this neighborhood, un- 
 til, when I came to it, everything seemed quite familiar." 
 " You have been a great traveller," he said. 
 " Yes, we have travelled about a good deal. And you ? " 
 " Not much. I think I am too lazy. The kind of travel- 
 ling that I enjoy is to sit out in the garden of a summer 
 evening, in an easy-chair, and to watch the sunset, and per- 
 haps the moon slowly rising — " 
 
 " But you said travelling," she said. 
 
 " Well, you are hurling along at a rate of 68,000 miles 
 an hour ; isn't that quick enough for anything ? " he said 
 laughing. 
 
 " It is a cheap way of travelling," said she, with a smile. 
 
 " That is why it suits me." 
 
 " But you don't see much." 
 
 " No ! Not when you can watch the stars appear one 
 by one over the hill-tops ? Don't you think they are as in- 
 teresting as the shops in the Palais Royal ? They are more 
 mysterious, at all events. It does seem odd, you know, 
 when you think of the numbers of human beings all over the 
 world-^the small, tiny creatures — sticking up their little tin 
 tubes at the midnight sky, and making guesses at what the 
 stars are made of, and how they came to be there. It is a 
 pathetic kind of thing to think about. I fancy I must try a 
 ' Zulu' and a * March Brown.' " 
 
 This startling no7i sequitur was caused by the fact that 
 by this time they had reached the loch, and that he fre- 
 quently thought aloud in this fashion, heedless of any in- 
 congruity and heedless also of his companion. He sat down 
 on a lump of granite, and took out his tly-book. 
 
 '' Won't you walk on to the lodge, Miss Winterbourne ? " 
 said he. " I am going to drift down in the boat, and it will 
 be slow work for you." 
 
 " I will wait on the bank," said she, " and watch. Do 
 you not undervStand that I am seriously interested ? " 
 
 " Then you will see whether I get any. It is a sport," 
 he added, as he was selecting the flies, " that there is less to 
 be said against than shooting, I imagine. I don't like the 
 idea of shooting birds, especially after I have missed one or 
 two. Birds are such harmless creatures. But the lish is 
 different — the fish is making a murderous snap at an in- 
 nocent fly, or what he thinks to be a fly, when a little bit ol 
 steel catcher him in the very act. It serves him right from 
 the moral point of view." 
 
170 YOLANDE. 
 
 **But surely he is justified in trying to get his dinner," 
 said she. '' Just as you are doing now." 
 
 " Well, I will put on a jay's wing also," said he, *' and if 
 they don't like one or other of those nice wholesome little 
 dishes, we must try them with something else." 
 
 As it happened, however, the trout seemed disposed tc 
 rise to anything, for it was a good fishing afternoon — warm, 
 with a light wdnd rufiiing the surface of the loch. By the 
 time the dogcart came along he had got close on two dozen 
 in his basket, averaging about three to the pound, so that a 
 selection from them would do very well for dinner ; and 
 when he got ashore, and got into the trap, Yolande thanked 
 him for them very prettily, while he, on the other hand, 
 said that the obligation was all on his side. 
 
 " Why do you not come oftener, then ? " she said as 
 they were driving along up the wide glen. 
 
 *' I might be depriving some one else of the use of the 
 boat," he answered. 
 
 *' No, no ; how can that be ? " she insisted. " They are 
 all day up the hill. Why do you not come to the loch every 
 afternoon, and then come in and spend the evenings with 
 us? Mrs. Bell says you do very wrong about your food, 
 not having proper meals at proper tii»es. Now we are 
 always very punctual ; and if you came in and dined with 
 us, it would teach you good habits." 
 
 " You are too kind. Miss Winterbourne," said he. 
 *• But please don't think that 1 have forgotten the invitation 
 yuu gave me the other night. I could not be so ungrateful 
 as tliat." 
 
 " And what is the use of rememl)ering, if you do not 
 a';t on it ? " said she ; but she could not lecture the school- 
 iiKister any further just then, for they had arrived at the 
 wooden bridge, and she had to let the cob go very cautiously 
 over that primitive structure. 
 
 After dinner that evening Mr. Winterbourne begged to 
 be excused for a short time, as he had a letter to write that 
 he wished posted at Whitebridge the same night. This was 
 the letter : • 
 
 Allt-nam-Ba, August 15. 
 
 " Dear Shortlands, — I am sending you a couple of 
 
 brace of birds, and would send you more but that I can see 
 
 that my future son-in-law regards these bequests with great 
 
 disfavor ; and as it is in my interest that he is trying to 
 
YOLANDE. 171 
 
 make as niucli as he can out of the shooting, I don't like to 
 interfere with his economical exertions. Prudence in a 
 young man should be encouraged rather than checked. I 
 hope you will not be later than the 20th. I shall be glad to 
 have you here. The fact is, I have been torturing myself 
 with doubts and questions which may appear to you uncalled 
 for. I hope they are uncalled for. Indeed, to all appear- 
 ance, everything is going on well. Yolande is in the 
 brightest spirits, and is delighted with the place, and young 
 Leslie seems very proud of her and affectionate, The only 
 thing is whether I should not have put the whole facts of 
 the case before him at the outset, and whether I am not 
 bound in honor to do so, now, before the serious step of 
 marriage is taken. I don't know. I am afraid to do it, and 
 afraid of what might happen if I remain silent. There is a 
 young man here, a Mr. Melville, who was Leslie's tutor, and 
 who remains his intimate associate and friend. He is very 
 liighly respected about here, and, as I judge, seems to 
 deserve the high opinion every one has of him. What I am 
 thinking of now is the propriety of laying the whole affair 
 before him, as Leslie's nearest friend. He knows the other 
 members of the family also. I could trust him to give an 
 honest opinion ; and if he, knowing all the circumstances 
 of tiie case, and knowing Leslie, and the ways of the family, 
 were to think it unnecessary to break silence, then I might 
 be fairly justified in letting the thing be as it is. Do you 
 think so ? But you will answer this question in person — 
 not later than the 20th, I hope. 
 
 " For a long time I thought that if only Yolande were 
 married and settled quietly in the country there would be 
 no further need for anxiety; but now 1 can not keep from 
 speculating on other possibilities, and wondering whether it 
 would not be better to prevent any future ground of com- 
 plaint and consequent unhappiuess by telling the whole 
 truth now. Surely that might be done without letting Yo- 
 lande know. Why should she ever know ? 
 
 " If you can leave on the night of the 18th you will 
 reach Inverness next forenoon, and catch the 3 p.m. boat 
 down the Caledonian Canal. Most likely you will find 
 Yolande waiting for you at the pier ; she likes driving. 
 Our prospects for the 20th are fairly good : there is more 
 cover black game up those mountainous corries than I could 
 have expected. We shoot all we find, as they don't stop 
 liere through the winter. On the 12lh we had sixty-eight 
 
172 YOLANDE. . 
 
 brace grouse, one ptarmigan, one snipe, and a few mountain 
 hares; on the 13th, seventy-one brace grouse, and also some 
 hares ; yesterday it was wet and wild, and we only went out 
 for an hour or so in the afternoon — nine brace; to-day was fine, 
 and we got sixty-two brace grouse and one and a half brace 
 ptarmigan. Young Leslie is about the best all round shot 
 I have ever seen — cool and certain. I think I get more 
 nervous year -by year ; but then he is a capital hand at 
 redeeming mistakes, and that gives me a little more con- 
 fidence. A stag and three hinds passed close by the lodge 
 late last night — at least so the shepherds say. 
 
 " I know you won't mind my asking you to bring some 
 little trifle or other for Yolande, just to show that you were 
 thinking of her. She will meet you at Foyers pier. 
 
 *' Yours faithfully, G. R. Winterboubne." 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 *'IM WALD UND AUF DEB HEIDE." 
 
 Next morning there was a sudden call on Mr. Winter- 
 bourne to dismiss these fears and anxieties. The little com- 
 munity away up there in the solitude of the hills was sud- 
 denly thrown into violent commotion. A young gillie 
 who had been wandering about had come running back 
 to the bothy, declaring that he had seen a stag go into the 
 wood just above the lodge, and of course the news was im- 
 mediately carried to the house, and instantly the two gentle- 
 men came out — Mr. Winterbourne eager and excited, the 
 Master of Lynn not quite so sure of the truth of the report. 
 Duncan, to tell the truth was also inclined to doubt; for this 
 young lad had until the previous year been a deck hand on 
 board the Dunara Castle^ and knew a great deal more 
 about skarts and sea-gulls than about stags. Moreover, tiie 
 shepherds had been through the wood this same morning 
 with their dogs. However, it was determined, after much 
 hurried consultation, not to miss the chance if there was a 
 chance. The day in any case, threatened to turn out badly 
 the clouds were coming closer and closer down ; to drive this 
 wood would be a short and prat-ticable undertakinsj that 
 
YOLANDE. 173 
 
 would carry them on conveniently to lunch-time. And so 
 it was finally arranged that Mr. Winterbourne should go 
 away by himself to a station that he knew, commanding 
 certain gullies that the stag, if there was a stag, would 
 most likely make for ; while the Master would stay behind, 
 and, after a calculated interval, go through the wood with 
 Duncan and the beaters. 
 
 In the midst of all this Miss Tolande suddenly made her 
 appearance, in a short-skirted dress, thick boots, and deer- 
 stalker's cap. 
 
 " What do you want ? " her father said, abruptly, and 
 with a stare. 
 
 " I am going with yon," was her cool answer. 
 
 ** Indeed you are not." 
 
 *' Why not, then ?" 
 
 " Women going deer-stalking !" he exclaimed. " What 
 next?" 
 
 *' Can I not be as quiet as any one ? Why should I not 
 go with you ? I have climbed the hill many times, and I 
 know very well where to hide, for Duncan showed me the 
 place." 
 
 " Go spin, you jade, go spin !" her father said, as he 
 shouldered the heavy rifle, and set off on the long and 
 weary struggle up the hill. 
 
 Yolande turned to the Master. 
 
 "Is he not unkind I" she said, in a crestfallen way. 
 
 " If I were you," said he, laughing, *' I would go all the 
 same." 
 
 " Should I do any harm ? Is it possible that I could do 
 any harm ?" she asked, quickly. 
 
 " Not a bit of it. What harm could you do ? There is 
 room for a dozen people to hide in that place ; and if you 
 keep your head just a little bit above the edge, and keep 
 perfectly still, you will see the whole performance in the 
 gully below. If there is a stag in the wood, and if I don't 
 get a shot at him, he is almost sure to go up through the 
 gullies. You won't scream, I suppose ? And don't move : 
 if you move a finger he will see you. And don't tumble 
 into too many moss-holes, Yolande, when you are crossing 
 the moor. And don't break your ankles in a peat-hag. And 
 don't topple over the edge when you get to the gullies." 
 
 " Do you think you will frighten me? No ; I am going 
 as soon as papa is out of sight." 
 
 " Oil, you can't go wrong," said he, good-naturedly. 
 
174 YOLANDE, 
 
 " The only thing is, when you get to the top of the hill, you 
 might go on some three or four lumdred yards before cross- 
 ing the moor, so as to keep well back from the wood." 
 
 *' Oh yes, certainly," said Yolande. " I understand 
 very well." 
 
 Accordingly, some little time thereafter, she set out on 
 her self-imposed task ; and she was fully aware that it was a 
 fairly arduous one. Even here at the outset it was pretty 
 stiff work ; for the hill rose sheer away from the little pla 
 teau on which the lodge stood, and the ground was rugged 
 in some parts and a morass in others, while there was an 
 abundance of treacherous holes where the heather grew 
 long among the rocks. But she had certain landmarks to 
 guide her. At first there was a sheep track ; then she 
 made for two juniper bushes ; then for certain conspicuous 
 boulders ; then, higher up, she came on a rough and stony face 
 where the climbing was pretty difficult ; then by the <i*X^;Q 
 of a little hollow that had a tree or two in it and then, as she 
 was now nearly at the top, and as there was a smooth 
 boulder convenient, she thought she would sit down a 
 minute to resjain her breath. Far below her the lodoje and 
 its dependencies looked like so many small toyhouses ; she 
 could see the tiny figures of human beings moving about ; 
 in the perfect silence she could hear the whining of the 
 dogs shut up in the kennel. Then one of those miniature 
 figures waved something white; she returned the signal. 
 Then she rose and went on again ; she crosseda little burn ; 
 she passed along the edge of some steep gullies leading 
 away down to the Corrie-an-Eich, that is, the Corrie of the 
 Horses and finally, after some further climbing, she reached 
 the broad, wide, open, undulating moorland, from whchi 
 nothing wasvisible but a wilderness of bare and bleak 
 mountain-top, all as silent as the grave. 
 
 She had been up here twice or thrice before ; but she 
 never came upon this scene of vast and voiceless desolation 
 without being struck by a sort of terror. It seemed away 
 out of the world. And on this morning a deeper gloom 
 than usual hung over it ; the clouds were low and heavy ; 
 there was a brooding stillness in the air. She was glad 
 that some one had preceded her : the solitude of this place 
 was terrible. 
 
 And now as she set out to cross the wild moorland she 
 discovered that that was a much more serious undertaking 
 than when she had a friendly hand to lend her assistance 
 
YOLANDE. 175 
 
 trom time to time. This wide plain of moss and bog and 
 heather was intersected by a succession of peat-hags, the oozy- 
 black soil of which was much more easy to slide down into 
 than to clamber out of. The Master of Lynn had taught 
 her how to cross these hags ; one step down, then a spring 
 across tlien her right hand grasped by his right 
 hand, then her elbow caught by his left hand, and she 
 stood secure on the top of the other bank. But now, as she 
 scrambled down the one side, so she had to scramble up the 
 other, generally laying hold of a bunch of heather to help 
 her ; and as she was anxious not to lose her way, she made 
 a straight course across this desert waste, and did not turn 
 aside for drier or smoother ground, as one better acquainted 
 with the moor might have done. However, she struggled 
 on bravely. The Urst chill struck by that picture of desola- 
 tion had gone. She was thinking more of the deer now. 
 She hoped she would be up in time. She hoped her father 
 would get a chance. And of course she made perfectly 
 certain that if he did get a chance he would kill the stag ; 
 and then there would be a joyful procession back to the 
 lodge, and a rare to-do among the servants and the gillies, 
 with perhaps a dance in the evening to the skirl of Dun- 
 can's pipes. 
 
 All at once a cold wind began to blow ; and about a 
 minute thereafter she had no more idea of where she was 
 than if she had been in the middle of the Atlantic. The 
 whole world had been suddenly shut out from her ; all she 
 could see was a yard or two, either way, of the wet mosa 
 and heather. This gray cloud that had come along was raw 
 to the throat and to the eyes ; but it did not deposit much 
 moisture on her clothes ; its chief effect was the bewilder- 
 ment of not seeing anything. And yet she thought she 
 ought to go on. Perhaps she might get out of it. Perhaps 
 the wind would carry it off. And so she kept on as straight 
 as she could guess, but with much more caution, for at any 
 moment she might fall into one of the deep holes worn by 
 the streams in the peat, or into one of the moss-holes where 
 the vegetation was so treacherously green. 
 
 But as she went on and on, and could find nothing that 
 she could recognize, she grew afraid. Moreover, there 
 was a roaring of a waterfall somewhere, which seemed to 
 her louder than anything she had heard about there before. 
 She began to wonder how far she had come, and to fear 
 that in the mist she had lost her direction, and mioht be in 
 
176 YOLANDE, 
 
 the immpdiate neighborhood of some dangerous precipice. 
 And then, as she was looking all round her helplessly, her 
 heart stood still with fright. There, away in that vague 
 pall that encompassed her, stood the shadow, the ghost, of 
 an animal, a large, visionary thing, motionless and noiseless, 
 at a distance that she could not compute. And now she 
 felt sure that that was the stag they were in search of ; and, 
 strangely enough, her agony of fear was not that she might 
 by accident be shot through being in the neighborhood of 
 the deer, but that she might by some movement on her part 
 scare it away. She stood motionless, her heart now beat- 
 ing with excitement, her eyes fixed on this faint shade 
 away in there, in the gray. It did not move. She kept 
 her hands clinched by her side, so that she should not 
 tremble. She dared not even sink into the heather and try 
 to hide there. But the next moment she had almost 
 screamed ; for there was a hurried rushing noise oeliind her 
 and as she (in spite of herself) wheeled round to face this 
 new danger, a troop of phantoms went flying by — awful 
 things they appeared to be until, just as they passed her, 
 she recognized them to be humble and familiar sheep. More- 
 over, when she saw that other animal out there disappear 
 along with them — the whole of them looming large and 
 mysterious in this cloud-world — she made sure that that 
 had been a sheep also, and she breathed more freely. Must 
 not these animals have been disturbed by her father? 
 Ought she not to make back in the direction from which 
 they had come ? To go any further forward she scarcely 
 dared ; the roar of water seemed perilously near. 
 
 As she thus stood, bewildered, uncertain, and full of a 
 nameless dread, she saw before her a strange thing — a thing 
 that added amazement to her terror — a belt of white, like 
 a waterfall, that seemed to connect earth and sky. It was 
 at an unknown distance, but it appeared to be perfectly 
 vertical, and she knew that no such stupendous waterfall 
 had she either seen before or heard of. That, then, tliat 
 white water, w^as the cause of the roaring noise. And tlien 
 she bethought her of a saying of Archie Leslie that tales 
 were told of people having gone into this wilderness and 
 never having been heard of again ; but that there was one 
 sure way of escape for any one who got astray — to follow 
 any one of the streams. That, he had said, must sooner or 
 later lead you down to AUt-nam-Ba. But when she thought 
 of going asvay over to tliat white torrent, ;iii(l seeking to 
 
YOLANDE. 17? 
 
 follow its course down through chasm after chasm, she 
 shuddered. For one who knew the country intimately — for 
 a man who could jump from boulder to boulder, and swing 
 himself from bush to bush — it might be possible ; for her 
 it was impossible, Nor was there the slightest use in her 
 trying to go back the way she came. She had lost all sense 
 of direction ; there was nothing to give her a clue ; she was 
 absolutely helpless. 
 
 But fortunately she had the good sense to stand still and 
 to consider her position with such calmness as she could mus- 
 ter; and that took time, insensibly to herself, the clouds 
 around were growing thinner. Then she noticed that the 
 upper part of that awe-inspiring torrent had receded very 
 considerably — that the white line was no longer vertical, but 
 seemed to stretch back into the distance. Then the moorland 
 visible around her began to grow more extended. Here and 
 there faint visions of hills appeared. And then a flood of 
 joyful recognition broke over her. That awful torrent was 
 nothing but the familiar Allt-cam-Ban,* its brawling white 
 stream not vertical at all, but merely winding down from 
 the far heights of the hills. She had come too far certainly ; 
 but now she knew that the gullies she was in search of 
 were just behind her, and that her father's hiding-place 
 was not more than three hundred yards distant. The cloud 
 that had encompassed her was now trailing along the face 
 of the hill opposite her ; the gloomy landscape was clear in 
 all its features. With a light heart she tripped along, over 
 heather, across hag,^, through sopping moss, until behind a 
 little barricade which Nature had formed at the summit of 
 a precipice overlooking certain ravines — a little box, as it 
 were, that looked as if it had been dug out for the very pur- 
 pose of deer-slaying — she found her father quietly standing, 
 and cautiously peering over the ledge. 
 
 When he heard her stealthy approach he quickly turned ; 
 then he motioned her to stoop down and come to him. 
 This she did very cautiously and breathlessly, and presently 
 blie was standing beside him, on a spot which enabled her 
 to look down into the gullies beneath. These certainly 
 formed a most admirable deer-trap, if ever there was one. 
 The place consisted of a series of little hills or lumps, prob- 
 ably not more than 150 feet in height, with sheer smooth 
 sloi)Os, here and there lightly wooded, but mostly covered 
 
 * The White Winding Water. 
 
178 YOLA^DR. 
 
 with heather. The gullies between those lumps, ngnin, 
 came to a point in a ravine just underneath where Yolande 
 was standing ; so that, whichever way the deer came, they 
 were almost certain to make up the steep face just opposite 
 this station, and so give the rifleman an excellent chance. 
 Yolande took out her housekeeper's note-book, and wrote 
 on the fly-leaf : 
 
 " Have you seen anything f " 
 
 He shook his head, and motioned to her to put the book 
 away. It was not a time for trifling. If there were a staq 
 in the unseen woods beyond, it might make its sudden a)>- 
 pearance in this silent little ravine at any moment, and 
 might make for the top by some quite unexpected track. 
 He^kept his eyes on the watch all along the gullief^; but hi:^ 
 head was motionless. Yolande too was eager and anxious 
 — but only for a while. As time passed she grew listless. 
 This solitude seemed always to have been a solitude. There 
 was no sign of life in it. Doubtless the young lad had been 
 deceived. And then she grew to thinking of the strange 
 sight she saw in the mist, when the waters of the AUt-cam- 
 Ban seemed to be one foaming white vertical torrent. 
 
 Then a shock came to her eyes — a living thing suddenly 
 appeared in that empty solitude ; and at once she clinched 
 her hands. She knew what was expected of her. She re- 
 mained rigid as a stone ; she would not even raise her head 
 to see if her father saw. She kept her eyes on this startling 
 feature in the landscape ; she held her breath ; she was 
 mainly conscious of a dim fear that this animal that was 
 coming over that hillock at such a speed was not a deer at 
 all, but a fox. It was of a light reddish-brown color. Tlion 
 it had not come up any of the gullies, as she had been told 
 to expect ; it had come right over the top of the little hill, 
 with a long, sinuous stride; and now it was descending 
 again into the ravine. But here she saw it was a deer. 
 Once out of the long heather, and coming nearer too, it Avas 
 clear that this was a deer. But surely small ? Where were 
 the great horns? Or was it a hind ? She knew rather thnn 
 saw that her father twice aimed his rifle at this animal, 
 whatever it was, as it sped across an open space at the 
 bottom of the ravine. Of course all this happened in a few 
 seconds, and she had just begun to think that the animal 
 had horns, and was a roebuck, when the lithe, red, sinuous, 
 silent object disappeared- altogether behind a ridge. Still 
 
YOLAKDE. 179 
 
 she did not move. She did not express disappointment. 
 She would not turn her head. 
 
 Then she knew that her father had quickly passed her 
 and jumped on a clump of heather whence he could get a 
 better view. She followed. The next thing she saw, clear 
 against the sky, and not more than a hundred and twenty 
 yards off, was the head of a deer, the horns thrown back, 
 the nostrils high in the air. The same instant her father fired ; 
 and that strange object (which very much frightened her) 
 disappeared. She saw her father j)ause for a second to put 
 a fresh cartridge in his rifle and tiien away he hurried to 
 the place where the deer had passed ; and so she thought 
 she might safely follow. She found her father searching all 
 about, but more particularly studying the peat-hags. 
 
 " I do believe I hit him," he said (and there was consid- 
 erable vexation in his tone). "Look about, Yolande. He 
 must have crossed the peat somewhere. If he is wounded, 
 he may not have gone far. It was only a roebuck — still — 
 such a chance! Confound it, I believe I've missed him 
 clean I " 
 
 He was evidently grievously mortified, and she was sorry, 
 for she knew he would worry about it afterward ; smaller 
 trifles than that made him fidget. But all their searching 
 was in vain. The peat-hags here were narrow : a frightened 
 deer would clear them. 
 
 " If he is wounded, papa, Duncan and the dogs will go 
 after him." 
 
 " Oh no," said he, moodily; "I believe I missed him 
 clean. If he had been hit he couldn't have got away so 
 fast. Of course it was only a buck — still — " 
 
 " But, papa, it was a most difficult shot. I never saw 
 any creature go at such a pace ; and you only saw him for 
 a moment." 
 
 "Yes, and for that moment he looked as big as a cow 
 against the sky. Nobody but an idiot could have missed 
 llie thing." 
 
 " Oh, you need not try to make me believe you are a 
 bnd shot," said she proudly. "No. Every one knows 
 better than that. I know what Mr. Leslie tells me. And 
 I supj)Ose the very best shot in the world misses some- 
 times." 
 
 " Well, there is no use waiting here," said he. " Of 
 course there was no stag. The stag that idiot of a boy saw 
 was this roebuck. If there were a stag, the noise of the 
 
180 YOLANDE. 
 
 shot must luive driven him off. Why the mischief I did 
 not fire when he was crossing the gully I don't understand ! 
 I had my rifle up twice — " 
 
 " Papa," said she, suddenly, " what is that ? " 
 
 She was looking away down into the ravine beneath 
 them — at a dusky red object that was lying in a patch of 
 green bracken. He followed the direction of her eyes. 
 
 " Why, surely — yes, it is, Yolande — that is the buck , 
 he must have fallen backward and rolled right down to the 
 bottom — " 
 
 " And you said you were such a bad shot, papa ! " 
 
 " Oh, that is no such prize," he said (but he spoke a 
 good deal more cheerfully) ; "what I wonder is whether 
 the poor beast is dead ; I suppose he must be." 
 
 " There they come — there they come — look ! " she said ; 
 and she was far more excited and delighted than he was. 
 " There is the red gillie at the top, and Duncan coming 
 along by the hollow — and there is Archie — " 
 
 She took out her hankerchief and waved it in the air. 
 
 " Don't, Yolande," said he. *' They'll think we've got 
 a stag." 
 
 « We've got all the stag there was to get," said she, 
 proudly. " And you said you were not a good shot — to 
 shoot a roebuck running at such a pace ! " 
 
 " You are the most thorough going flatterer, Yolande," 
 he said, laughing (but he was very much pleased all the 
 same). *' Why, he wasn't going at all just at the crest — 
 he stopped to sniff the air — " 
 
 " But you could only have seen him for the fiftieth part 
 of a second : isn't that the same as running?" 
 
 At this moment a voice was heard from below, where a 
 little group of figures had collected round the buck. It 
 was the Master of Lynn who was looking up to them. 
 
 " A very fine head sir," he called. 
 
 " There, didn't I tell you? "she said proudly, thouirii 
 she had never told him anything of the kind. And then in 
 the excitement of the moment she forgot that she had nevor 
 revealed to her father that little arrangement about tlie 
 whiskey that the Master had suggested to her. 
 
 " Duncan," she called down to them. 
 
 " Yes, miss.'' 
 
 " When you go back home, you will let the beaters 
 have a glass of whiskey each." 
 
 "Very well, miss," he called back; and then ho qro- 
 
YOLANDE. 181 
 
 ceeded with the slinging of the buck round the shoulders 
 of the red-headed gillie. 
 
 " Archie," she called again. 
 
 « Yes.'' 
 
 " If you are back at the lodge first, wait for us. We 
 shall be there in time for lunch." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 She was very proud and pleased as they trudged awayj 
 home again over the wild moorland. For her part she 
 could see no difference between a roe-deer and a red-deer, 
 except that the former (as she declared) was a great deal 
 pleasanter to eat, as she hoped she would be able to show 
 them. And was it not a far more difficult thing to hit a 
 deer of the size of a roebuck than to hit a stag as tall as a 
 horse ? 
 
 " Flatterer, flatterer," he said, but he was mightily well 
 pleased all the same ; and indeed to see Yolande gay and 
 cheerful like this was of itself quite enough for him ; so that 
 for the time he forj^ot all his anxieties and fears. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A CONTIDANT. 
 
 One evening John Shortlands and Jack Melville were 
 together standing at the door of the lodge, looking down the 
 glen at the very singular spectacle there presented. The 
 day had been dull and overclouded, and seemed about to sink 
 into an equally gloomy evening, when suddenly, at sunset, 
 the western heavens broke into a flame of red ; and all at 
 once the stream flowing down through the valley became 
 one sheet of vivid pink fire, only bi'oken here and there by 
 the big blocks of granite in its channel, which remained 
 of a pale and ghostly gray. 
 
 The big, burly M. P., however, did not seem wholly oc- 
 cupied with this transfiguration of the heavens. He looked 
 vexed, perturbed, impatient. 
 
 " Mr. Melville," he said, abruptly, in his broad Korth- 
 umbrian intonation, *' will you walk down the glen for a 
 bit ? '' 
 
182 YOLAXDE. 
 
 " Yes ; b it we should fetch Miss Winterboarne to show 
 her the skies on fire." 
 
 " No ; it's about her I want to speak to you. Come 
 along." 
 
 " About her ? " he repeated, with the large clear gray 
 eyes showing some astonishment. 
 
 ** Or rather," said his companion, when they had got as 
 far as the bridge, " about her father. Winterbourne is an 
 old friend of mine, and I won't just call him an ass ; but 
 the way he is going on at present, shilly-shallying, frightened 
 to say this, frightened to say that, is enough to worry a far 
 stronger man than he is into his grave. Well, if he won't 
 speak, I will. Dang -it, I hate mystery ! My motto is — 
 Out with it ! And he would never have got into this pre- 
 cious mess if he had taken my advice all through." 
 
 Melville was surprised, but he did not interrupt. John 
 Shorthands seemed a trifle angry. 
 
 " The immediate trouble with him is this : Ought he or 
 ought he not to confide certain matters to you as a friend 
 of young Leslie ? Well, I am going to take that into my 
 own hand. I am going to tell you the whole story — and a 
 miserable business it is." 
 
 " Do you think that is wise ? " the younger man said calm- 
 ly. " If there is anything disagreeable, shouldn't the knowl- 
 edge of it be kept to as few people as possible? I would 
 rather have my illusions left. The Winterbournes have 
 been kind to me since they came here, and it has been de- 
 lightful to me to look at these two — the spectacle of father 
 and daughter." 
 
 " Oh, but I have nothing to say against either of them 
 — God forbid ! — except that Winterbourne has been a con- 
 founded ass, as it seems to me ; or perhaps I should say as 
 i* used to seem to me. Well, now, I suppose you know 
 that your friend Leslie and Yolande are engaged? " 
 
 " I have understood as much." 
 
 " But did he not tell ye ? " said Shortlands, with a stare. 
 
 " Well, yes," the other said, in rather a cold way. 
 *'But we did not have much talk about it. Archie Leslie 
 is a very fine fellow ; but he and I don't always agree in 
 our ways of looking at things." 
 
 " Then, at all events, in order to disagree, you must 
 know what his way of looking at things is ; and that is just 
 the point I'm coming to," said Shortlands, in his blunt, 
 dogmatic kind of way. " Just this, that Yolande Winter 
 
YOLAMDE. 183 
 
 bourne has been brouglit up all her life to believe that her 
 mother died when she was a child ; whereas the mother is 
 not dead, but very much alive — worse luck ; and the point 
 is whether he ought to be told ; and whether he is a sensible 
 sort of chap, who would make no fuss about it, and who 
 would see that it could not matter much to him ; and, above 
 all, wliether he would consent to keep this knowledge back 
 from Yolande, who would only be shocked and horrified 
 by it. Do ye understand ? I think 1 have put it plain — 
 that is, from Winterbourne's point of view." 
 
 " But, surely," exclaimed Melville, with wide-open eyes 
 — " surely the best thing, surely the natural thing, would be 
 to tell tlie girl herself, first of all ! " 
 
 *' Man alive ! Winterbourne would rather cut his throat. 
 Don't you see that his affection for the girl is quite extraor- 
 dinary ? It is the sole passion of his life : a needle scratch 
 on Yolande's finger is like a knife to his heart. I assure 
 you the misery he has endured in keeping this secret is 
 beyond anything I can tell you ; and I do believe he would 
 go through the whole thing again just that Yolande's mind 
 should be free, happy, and careless. Mind you, it was not 
 done through any advice of mine. No ; nor was it Winter- 
 bourne either who began it ; it was his sister. Tlie child 
 was given to her charge when she w^as about two or three 
 years old, I fancy. Then they were living in Lincolnshire ; 
 afterward they went to France, and the aunt died there. It 
 was she who brought Yolande up to believe her mother 
 dead ; and then Winterbourne put off and put off telling her 
 — although twenty times I remonstrated with him — until he 
 found it quite impossible. He couldn't do it. Sometimes 
 when I look at her now I scarcely wonder. She seems such 
 a radiant kind of a creature that I doubt whether I could 
 bring myself to tell her that story — no, I could not — dang 
 it ! I could not. And even when I was having rows with 
 Winterbourne, and telling him what an ass he was, and tell- 
 ing him that the torture he was going through was quite 
 unnecessary, why, man, I thought there was something 
 fine in it too ; and again and again I have watched him 
 when he would sit and look at Yolande and listen to all her 
 nonsense, and have seen his face just filled with pleasure 
 to see her so happy aijd careless, and then I thought he had 
 bis moments of recompense also. When he goes about 
 with her he forgets all that worry — thank goodno>;s for that ! 
 antl ci-Tlainly she is higli-spirited enough for anytliing. 
 
184 YOLANDE. 
 
 You would think she had never known a care or 
 in all her existence ; and I suppose that's about the truth." 
 John Shortlands had grown quite eloquent about Yo- 
 lande — although, indeed, he was not much of an orator in 
 the House ; and his companion listened in silence — in a 
 profound reverie, in fact. At last he said slowly, — 
 
 " I suppose there is no necessity that I should know 
 why the girl has been kept in ignorance of her mother's 
 existence?" 
 
 " Oh, I will tell you the story — miserable as it is. Well, 
 
 it is a sad story, too ; for you can not imagine a pleasanter 
 
 creature than that was when Winterbourne married her. 
 
 He was older than she was, but not much : he looks a good 
 
 deal older now than he really is: those years have told on 
 
 him. It was neuralgia that began it ; she suffered horribly. 
 
 Then some idiot advised her to drink port-wine — I suppose 
 
 the very worst thing she could have tried, for if it is bad 
 
 for gout, it must be bad for rheumatism and neuralgia and 
 
 such things; at least I should think so. However, it 
 
 soothed her at first, I suppose, and no doubt she took refuge 
 
 in it whenever a bad attack caii^e on. But, mind you, it 
 
 was not that that played the mischief with her. She did 
 
 take too much — I suppose she had to go on increasing the 
 
 doses — but she had not destroyed her self-control ; for quite 
 
 suddenly she went to her husband, who had suspected 
 
 nothing of the kind, told him frankly that the habit was 
 
 growing on her, and declared her resolution to break the 
 
 thing off at once. She did that. I firmly believe she did 
 
 keep her resolution to the letter. But then the poor wretch 
 
 had worse and worse agony to bear, and then it was that 
 
 somebody or other — it wasn't Winterbourne, and he knew 
 
 nothing about it — recommended her to try small doses of 
 
 opium — as a sort of medicine, don't ye see. I think it was 
 
 opium, for I am not sure whether chlorodyne was in use 
 
 just then ; but all events it was chlorodyne soon afterward : 
 
 and it seems miraculous how women can go on destroying 
 
 themselves with those infernal drugs without being found 
 
 out. I don't know whether Winterbourne would ever have 
 
 found it out; for he is an indulgent sort of chap, and he 
 
 was very fond of her ; but one night there was a scene at 
 
 dinner. Then he discovered the whole thing. The child 
 
 was sent away for fear of further scenes, and this so terrified 
 
 the mother that she made the most solemn promises never 
 
 to touch the poison again. But by this time — here is the 
 
YOLAND^^ ^-. V^ 
 
 ^^:' ■'^* /, 
 
 mischief of those infernal things — her'j>bwer of self-con troK 
 nad been affected. Man alive ! I can't tell yieu«r4ij§^t3SZ'«iter- 
 bourne had to go through. His patience with her was 
 superhuman ; and always the promise held out to her was 
 that Yolande was to be restored to her, and sometimes she 
 Bucceeded so well that every one was hopeful, and she seemed 
 to have quite recovered. Then again there would be 
 another relapse, and a wild struggle to conceal it from the 
 friends of the family, and all the rest of it. What a life 
 lie has led all those years, trying to get her to live in some 
 safe retreat or other, and then suddenly finding that she 
 had broken out again, and gone to some people — Romneys 
 or Romfords the name is — who have a most pernicious influ- 
 ence over her, and can do anything with her when she is 
 in that semi-maudlin state! Of course they use her to 
 extort money from Winterbourne ; and she has drugged 
 half her wits away ; and it is easy for them to persuade her 
 that she has been ill-treated about Yolande. Then she will 
 go down to the House, or hunt him out at his lodgings. 
 Oh, I assure you, I can't tell you what has been going on 
 all these years. There is only one fortunate thing — that 
 the Romfords are not aware of the terror in which he lives of 
 Yolande getting to know the truth, or else they would put 
 the screw on a good deal more forcibly, I reckon. As for 
 her, poor woman, she has no idea of asking for money for 
 herself ; in fact, she has plenty. It is not a question of 
 money with Winterbourne. His dread is that she might 
 stumble on them accidentally, and Yolande have to be 
 told. That is why he has consented to her remaining all 
 these years in France, though his only delight is in her 
 society. That is why he won't let her live in London, but 
 would rather put himself to any inconvenience by her 
 living elsewhere. That is why he looks forward with very 
 fair composure to a separation : Yolande living in peace 
 and quiet in this neighborhood here, and he left in London 
 to take his chance of a stone being thrown through his 
 window at any hour of the day or night." 
 
 " But that terrorism is perfectly frightful ! " 
 " How are you to avoid it ? " said Shortlands, coolly. 
 " There is the one way, of course — there is the heroic remedy. 
 Tell Yolande the whole story ; and then, the next time the 
 stone is thrown, summon the police, give the woman in 
 charge, bind her over in recognizances, and have all your 
 
186 YOLANDE. 
 
 names in the next day's paper. Some men could do that. 
 Winterbourne couldn't ; he hasn't the nerve.' 
 
 The answer to that was a strange one. It was a re- 
 mark, or rather an exclamation, that Melville seemed to 
 make almosi to himself. 
 
 " My God ! not one of them appears to see what ought 
 to be done ! " 
 
 Bui the remark was overheard. 
 
 " What would you do, then ? " 
 
 " I ? " said Melville — and John Shortlands did not ob- 
 serve that the refined, intellectual face of his companion 
 grew a shade paler as he spoke — " I? I would go straight 
 to the girl herself, and I would say, * That is the condition 
 ill which your mother is : it is your duty to go and save 
 her.' '' 
 
 " Then let me tell you this, Mr. Melville," said Short- 
 lands, quite as warmly, " rather than bring such shame and 
 horror and suffering on his daughter, George Winterbourne 
 would cut off his fingers one by one. Why, man, you 
 don't understand what that girl is to him — his very life ! 
 Besides, everything has been tried. You don't suppose the 
 mother would have been allowed to sink to that state with- 
 out every human effort being made to save her ; and al- 
 ways Yolande herself held out to her as the future reward. 
 Now we must be getting back, I think. But I wish you 
 would think over what I have told you, and let 
 Winterbourne have your opinion as to whether all this 
 should be declared to your friend Leslie. Winterbourne's 
 first idea was that if Yolande were married and settled in 
 the country — especially in such a remote neighborhood as 
 this — there would be no heed to tell even her husband about 
 it. It could not concern them. But now he is worrying 
 himself to death about other possibilities. Supposing 
 something disagreeable were to happen in London, and the 
 family name get into the paper, then Yolande's husband 
 might turn round and ask why it had been concealed from 
 him. That might be unpleasant, you know. If he were 
 not considerate, he might put the blame on her. The fact 
 is, Winterbourne has had his nervous system so pulled to 
 pieces by all this fear and secrecy and anxiety that he ex- 
 aggerates things tremendously, and keeps speculating on 
 dangers never likely to occur. Why, he can't shoot half 
 as well as he used to ; he is always imagining something is 
 going to happen, and he does not take half his chances, 
 
YOLANDE. 187 
 
 just for fear of missing, and being mortified after. He has 
 not had a pleasant time of it these many years." 
 
 They turned now, and leisurely made their way back to 
 the lodge. The red sunset still flared up the glen ; but now 
 it was behind them, and it was a soft warm color that they 
 saw spreading over the heather slopes of the hills, and the 
 wooded corries, and the little plateau between the couver 
 gent steams. 
 
 *' May I ask your own opinion, Mr. Shortlands." said 
 Melville, after a time, " as to whether this thing should be 
 kept back from Leslie ? '' 
 
 " Well, I should say that would depend pretty much on 
 his character," was the answer, '* and as to that I know 
 very little. My own inclination would be for having a frank 
 disclosure all round ; but still I see what Winterbourne has 
 to say for himself, and I can not imagine how the existence 
 of this poor woman could concern either your friend Leslie 
 or his wife. Probably they would never hear a word of her. 
 She can't live long. She must have destroyed her constitu- 
 tion completely. Poor wretch ! one can't help pitying her ; 
 and at the same time, you know, it would be a great relief if 
 she were dead, both to herself and her relatives. Of course, 
 if Mr. Leslie were a finical sort of person — I am talking in 
 absolute confidence, you know, and in ignorance as well — 
 he might make some objection ; but if he were a man with 
 a good sound base of character, he would say, ' Well, what 
 does that matter to me ? " and he would have some con- 
 sideration for what Mr. Winterbourne has gone through in 
 order to keep this trouble concealed from the girl, and would 
 himself be as willing to conceal it from her." 
 
 " Don't you think," said Melville, after a minute's pause, 
 ** that the mere fact that he might make some objection is a 
 reason why he should be informed at once ? " 
 
 " Is he an ass ? " said John Shortlands, bluntly. " Is 
 he a worrying sort of creature ? " 
 
 *' Oh, not at all. He is remarkably sensible — very sensible. 
 He will take a perfectly calm view of the situation : you may 
 depend on that." 
 
 " Other things being equal, I am for his being told — 
 most distinctly. If he has common-sense, there need be 
 no trouble. On the other hand, you know, if you should 
 think we are making a fuss where none is necessary, I have 
 a notion that Winterbourne would be satisfied by your 
 judgment, ;is an iuUmate fi'iend of Leslie's." 
 
188 YOLANDE. 
 
 " But that is putting rather a serious responsibility on 
 me. Supposing it is decided to say nothing about the matter, 
 then I should be in the awkward position of knowing some- 
 thing affectinor Leslie's domestic affairs of which he would 
 be ignorant." 
 
 "Undoubtedly. I quite see that. But if you are afraid 
 of accepting the responsiblity, there's an easy way out of it. 
 I will go and tell it myself, and have it over. I have already 
 bi'oken away from Winterbourne's shilly-shallying by speak- 
 ing to you ; he would never have done it, and he is worrying 
 himself into his grave. He is a timid and sensitive fellow. 
 He now thinks he should have told the Master, as he calls 
 him, when he first proposed for Yolande, and perhaps it 
 might have been better to do so ; but I can see how he was 
 probably well inclined to the match for various reasons, and 
 anxious not to put any imaginary stumbling-block in the, 
 way. But now if you were to go to him and say, ' Well,I 
 have heard the whole story. It can't concern either Yolande 
 or her future husband. Forget the whole thing, and don't 
 worry any more about it, 1 do believe he would recover 
 his peace of mind, for he hi^,s confidence in your judg- 
 ment." 
 
 " It would be rather a serious thing." 
 
 " I know it." 
 * " I must take time to turn the matter over." 
 
 " Oh, certainly." 
 
 They had now reached the bridge, and happening to look 
 up they saw that Yolande had come to the door of the lodge, 
 and was standing there, and waving a handkerchief to them 
 as a sign to make haste. And what a pretty picture she made 
 as she stood there ! — the warm light from the west aglow 
 upon the tall English-looking figure clad in a light-hued 
 costume, and giving color to the fair, freckled face, and the 
 ruddy gold aureole of her hair. Melville's eyes lighted up 
 with pleasure at the very sight of her ; it was but natural — 
 biie was like a vision. 
 
 " Ah," said she, shaking her finger at them as they went 
 up the path, " you are wicked men. Seven minutes late 
 already ; and if the two-pounder that Mr. Melville brought 
 for me has fallen all to pieces you must have yourselves to 
 blame — that is true." 
 
 " I wish, Miss Winterbourne," said Jack Melville, " that 
 some noble creature would give me a day's salmon-fishing. 
 Then I could bring you something better than loch trout^' 
 
YOLANDE. 189 
 
 " Oh no," she answered imperiously," I will not have 
 anything said against the loch trout. No, I am sure there 
 is nothing ever so good as what you get from your own 
 place — nothing. Pa})a says that never, never did he have 
 such cutlets as those from the roe-deer that he shot las*^ 
 week." 
 
 " I can tell you, Miss Yolande," said John Shortland.s, 
 "that others besides your father fully appreciated tho^e 
 cutlets. The whole thing depends on whether you have 
 got a smart young housekeeper ; and I have it in my head 
 now that I am going to spend the rest of my days at Allt- 
 nam-Ba; and I will engage you, on your own terms — name 
 them; you shall have the money down; and then I will 
 have Duncan compose a march for me ; why should it be 
 always * Melville's Welcome Home'?" 
 
 " But you are also to have the ' Barren Rocks of Aden' 
 to-night," said she, brightly. " I told Duncan it was your 
 favoiite. Now come along — come along — oh, dear me! it 
 is ten minutes late ! " 
 
 Jack Melville was rather silent that night at dinner. 
 And always — when he could make perfetly certain that her 
 eyes were cast down, or turned in the direction of John 
 Shortlands or of her father — he was studying Yolande's 
 face ; and sometimes he would recall the phrase that Mrs. 
 Bell had used on the first occasion she had seen this young 
 lady, or rather, immediately after parting with her, '• Slie's 
 a braw lass, that; I fear she will make some man's heart 
 sore;" and then again he kept wondering and speculating 
 as to what possible strength of will and womanly character 
 there might lie behind those fair, soft, girlish features. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A PEACEMAKER. 
 
 Pretty Mrs. Graham was standing in her room at In- 
 verstroy, ready to go out ; her husband was in the adjacent 
 dressing-room, engaged in the operation of shaving. 
 
 " You need not be afraid, Jim," said the young matrou ; 
 '* everything has been arranged. Everything will go quite 
 
190 YOLANDE, 
 
 right till I come back. And Archie is to meet me at Fort 
 Augustus, so that the ponies won't have the long pull up 
 Glendoe." 
 
 " Why can't he manage his own affairs ? " the stout 
 warrior grumbled. 
 
 "Aunt Colquhoun isn't easy to get on with," she said. 
 " And I am beginning to feel anxious. What would you 
 say to his getting spiteful, and running away with Shena 
 Van f " 
 
 " Stuff ! " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. If I chose I could show you some- 
 thing I cut out of the Iniyerness Courier about three years 
 ago. Well, I will show it to you." 
 
 She went to a drawer in her wardrobe, and hunted 
 about for a time until she found the newspaper cutting, 
 which she brought back and put before him on the dressing- 
 table. This was what he took up and read, — 
 
 " FOR SffENA'S NEW-YEA.R'S DAY MORXIxa 
 
 *' Her eyes are dark and soft and blue, 
 She's light-stepped as the roe : 
 O Shena, Shena, my heart is true 
 To you where'er you go. 
 
 " I wish that I were by the rills 
 Above the Allt-cam-ban; 
 And wandering with me o'er the hills, 
 My own dear Shena Van. 
 
 "Far other sights and scenes I view: 
 The year goes out in snow : 
 O Shena, Shena, my heart is true 
 To you where'er you go." 
 
 " Well," said he, contemptuously throwing down again 
 the piece of paper, " you don't suppose Archie wrote that 
 i-ubbish ? That isn't his line." 
 
 " It's a line that most lads take at a certain age,*'said 
 Mrs. Graham, shrewdly. 
 
 '' More likely some moonstruck ploughboy ! " her hus- 
 band interjected; for indeed he did not seem to think 
 much of those verses, which she regarded with some fond- 
 ness. 
 
 " I am afraid," said she, looking at the lines, " that the 
 ploughboys in this part of the world don't know quite as 
 much English as all that comes to. And how many pe.)])le 
 
YOLANDE. 191 
 
 do you think now, Jim, have ever heard of the Allt-cam* 
 ban ? And then Shena, how many people have ever heard 
 of Janet Stewart's nickname? There is another tiling. 
 TlioRe verses appeared when Archie was at Edinburgh, and 
 of course he knew very well that, although he was not 
 jiilowed to write to her, the Inverness Courier will make 
 as way into the manse. 1 think they are very pretty. 
 
 * O Shena, Shena, ray heart is true 
 To you where'er you go.' 
 
 That is the worst of marrying an old man. They never 
 write poetry about you." 
 
 " You call that poetry ! " he said. 
 
 '* Well, good-by, Jim. I will tell Mackenzie when he is 
 to meet me at Fort Augustus." 
 
 *' Bring back Yolande Winterbourne with you," said 
 Colonel Graham, who had now about finished his toilette. 
 
 "How can I, without asking her father? And there 
 wouldn't be room." 
 
 " I don't want her father. I want her. There is no 
 fun in having a whole houseful of married women." 
 
 " I quite agree with you. And who wanted them ? 
 Certainly not I. There is only one thing more absurd than 
 having nothing but married women in the house, and that 
 is having nothing but married men. But you have had a 
 warning this year, Jim. Everybody acknowledges that 
 there never was such bad shooting. I hope another year 
 you will get one or two younger men who know what 
 shooting is, and who can climb. Well, good-by, Jim." 
 And presently pretty Mrs. Graham was seated in a light 
 little v/agonette of polished oak, the reins in her hand, and 
 a pair of stout little ponies trotting away down through the 
 wooded and winding deeps of Glenstroy. 
 
 It was a long drive to Fort Augustus ; and although 
 from time to time a refrain went echoing through her 
 head, — 
 
 " O Shena, Shena, my heart is true 
 To you where'er you go," 
 
 and apparently connecting itself somehow with tLe patter- 
 ing of the horses' feet on the road, still her brain was far 
 from being idle. This expedition was entirely of her own 
 proper choice and motion. In truth she had been alarmed 
 by the very fact that the Master of Lvnn had ceased to wish 
 
192 YOLANDE. 
 
 for her interference. He had refused to urge his case fur- 
 ther. If the people at Lynn Towers were blind to their own 
 interests, they might remain so. He was not going to argue 
 and stir up domestic dissension. He would not allow Yo- 
 lande's name to be drawn into any such brawl ; and certainly 
 he would not suffer any discussion of herself or hfer merits. 
 All this Mrs. Graham gathered vaguely from one or two 
 letters, and as she considered the situation as being obviously 
 dangerous, she had, at great inconvenience to herself, left 
 her house full of guests, and was now about to see what 
 could be done at I ynn Towers. 
 
 When she reached Fort Augustus, Archie Leslie was 
 waiting for her there at the hotel, and she found him in the 
 same mood. He did not wish to have anything said about 
 the matter. He professed to be indifferent. He assumed 
 that his sister had come on an ordinary filial visit, and he 
 had luncheon ready for her. He said she was looking pret- 
 tier than ever ; and was anxious to know whether they had 
 done well with the shooting at Investroy. 
 
 *' Now look here, Archie," said she, when the waiter had 
 finally left the room, " let us understand each other. You 
 know what I have come about — at some trouble to myself. 
 There is no use in your making the thing more difficult than 
 needs be. And you know perfectly well that matters can- 
 not remain as they are." 
 
 " I know perfectly well that matters cannot remain as 
 they are," he repeated, with some touch of irony, " for this 
 excellent reason, that in the course of time the Winter- 
 bournes will be going south, and that as Mr. Winterbourne 
 has never been within the doors of Lynn Towers, and isn't 
 likely to be, he will draw his own conclusions. Probably he 
 has done so already. I haven't seen much of him since his 
 friend Shortlands came. Very likely he already under- 
 stands why our family have taken no notice of them, and I 
 know he is too proud a man to allow his daughter to be 
 mixed up in any domestic squabble. They will go south. 
 That will be— Good-by." 
 
 " But, my dear Master," his sister protested, " if you 
 would only show a little conciliation — " 
 
 "What!" he said, indignantly. "Do you think I am 
 going to beg for an invitation for Mr. Winterbourne? f>o 
 you expect me to go and ask that Yolande should be re- 
 ceived at Lynn Towers ? I think not ! I don't quite seo 
 my way to tliat yet." 
 
YOLANDE. 193 
 
 "Yon needn't be angry — " 
 
 "But it is so absurd!" he exclaimed. "What have 
 Winterbourne's politics to do with Yolande ? Supposing 
 he wanted to blow up the House of Lords with dynamite, 
 what has that got to do with her? It is Burke's Peerage 
 that is at the bottom of all this nonsense. If every blessed 
 copy of that book were burued out of the woi-ld, they 
 wouldn't have another word to say. It is the fear of see- 
 ing 'daughter of Mr. Winterbourne, M. P. for Slngpool,' 
 that is setting them crazy. That comes of living out of the 
 world ; that comes of being toadied by gillies and tOAvn 
 councillors. But I am not going to trouble about it," said 
 he, with a sudden air of indifference. " I am not going to 
 make a fuss. They can go their way ; I can go mine." 
 
 " Yes, and the Winterbournea will go theirs," said his 
 sister, sharplv. 
 
 " Vei-y well." 
 
 " But it is not very well ; it is very ill. Come now, 
 Archie, be reasonable. You know the trouble 1 had before 
 I married Jim ; it was got over by a little patience and dis- 
 cretion." 
 
 "Oh, if you think I aim going to cringe and crawl about 
 for their consent, you are quite mistaken. I would not put 
 Yolande Winterbourne into such a position. Why," said 
 he, with some sense of injury in his tone, " I like the way 
 they talk — as if they were asked to sacrifice something ! If 
 there is any sacrifice in the case, it seems to me that I am 
 making it, not they. lam doing what I think best for Lynn, 
 that has always been starved for want of money. Very 
 well ; if they don't like it, they can leave it alone, I am not 
 going to beg for any favor in the matterv." 
 
 " It might be as well not to talk of any sacrifice," said 
 his sister, quietly, and yet with some significance. "I don't 
 think there will be much sacrifice. Well, now, I'm ready, 
 Archie : what have you brought — the dogcart ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Shortly thereafter they set out for Lynn ; and they did 
 not resume this conversation ; for as they had to climb the 
 steep road leading into Glendoe, the Master got down and 
 walked, leaving the reins to his sister. They passed through 
 the deep woods, and up and out on to the open heights. They 
 skirted the solitary little lake that lies in a mountain-cup 
 up there. And then, in due time, they came in sight of the 
 
194 YOLAKDE 
 
 inland country — a board and variegated plain, with here 
 and there a farmhouse or village. 
 
 They came in sight of something else too — the figure of 
 a young woman who was coming along the road. Mrs. 
 Graham's eyes were fixed on that solitary person for some 
 time before she exclaimed, — 
 
 " Archie, do you see who that is ? " 
 
 " Of course I do," said he, not with the best grace. 
 
 "It is she, isn't it?" she said, eagerly. 
 
 " I suppose you can see that for yourself," was the 
 answer. 
 
 " Perhaps it isn't the first time to-day that you have met 
 her?" said she, looking up with a quick scrutiny. 
 
 " If you want to know, I have not set eyes on her since 
 last Christmas. She has been living in Inverness." 
 
 He pulled up. This young lady whom they now stoppe<l 
 to speak to was a good-looking girl of about twenty, with 
 light brown hair and very dark blue eyes. There was some 
 firmness and shrewdness of character in the face, despite 
 the shyness that was also very visible there. For the rest, 
 she was neatly dressed— in something of a town style. 
 
 She merely nodded to the Master, who took off his hat ; 
 but as she was on Mrs. Graham's side of the dog cart, she 
 shook hands with that lady, and her bright, fresh-colored 
 upturned face had something of diflidence or self-consciuus- 
 ness in it. 
 
 " Oh, how do you do, Miss Stewart ? It is such a long 
 time since I have seen you? " said Mrs. Graham. 
 
 " You do not come often to Lynn now, Mrs. Graham," 
 said Miss Stewart, with just a touch of a very pretty accent, 
 "and I have been living in Inverness." 
 
 " Oh, indeed. And how are the people at the manse? '* 
 
 They chatted in the ordinary fashion for a few minutes, 
 and then the Master of Lynn drove on again — in silence. 
 Mrs. Graham ventured to repeat, apparently to herself, 
 though he must have overheard, 
 
 ** And wandering with me o'er the hills, 
 My own dear Sheua Van ; " 
 
 but if he did overhear, he took no notice, and certainly he 
 betrayed neither confusion nor annoyance. Perhaps the 
 verses were not his, after all? The minister's daughter 
 was the belle of those parts; she had had many admirers ; 
 
YOLANDE. 195 
 
 and the Ir.verness Courier was the nattiral medium for the 
 expression of their woes. Still, Mrs. Graham asked herself 
 how many people in the world knew of the existence of the 
 AIlt-cam-Ban, far away in the solitudes over Allt-nam-ba. 
 
 Mrs. Graham, as it turned out, had a terrible time of it 
 with her father. This short, thickset man with the volumi 
 nous brown and gray beard, shaggy eyebrows, and bald 
 head surmounted by a black velvet skull-cap, was simply 
 furious ; and so far from being affected in any degree by 
 his daughter's blandishments, he seemed inclined to direct 
 his wrath upon her as the chief aider and abettor of her 
 brother's high treason. Nor was his lordship's language 
 marked by much gentleness or reticence. 
 
 " The idea," he exclaimed, " that Dochfour, and Lochiel, 
 and Culloden, and the rest of them, might have to rub 
 shoulders with a low, scoundrelly Radical ! The mere 
 chance of such a thing happening is monstrous." 
 
 " I beg to remind you, papa," said Mrs. Graham, with 
 her face grown a little pale, "that my husband is not in the 
 habit of associating with low scoundrels of any kind. And 
 I would rather not hear such things said about the father of 
 my particular friend." 
 
 Then she saw that that line would not do. 
 
 " Papa," she pleaded, " a little civility costs nothing. 
 Why should you not call? You must have known it was 
 this Mr. Winterbourne who had taken the shooting when 
 we telegraphed you from Malta." 
 
 " I must have known ? I did know ! What has that to 
 do with it ? I do not let my friendship with my shootings. 
 What my tenant may be is nothing to me, so long as he 
 can pay; and he is welcome to everything he can find on 
 the shooting ; but it does not follow he is entitled to sit 
 down at my table, or that I shall sit down at his." 
 
 " But you were very kind to Yolande Winterbourne 
 when she came up at first, and you knew whose daughter 
 she was," pretty Mrs. Graham pleaded again. 
 
 " I did not know that that young jackass proposed to 
 make her one. of the family — it is too great an honor alto- 
 gether." 
 
 " You know, papa, it is such a pity to make trouble 
 when it is not likely to help. Archie can marry whom he 
 pleases — " 
 
 " Let him, and welcome ! " said this fierce old gentle* 
 
196 YOLANDE. 
 
 man. " He can marry whom he pleases, but he cannot 
 compel me to associate with his wife's father." 
 
 She went away somewhat crestfallen, and sought out 
 the Master, whom she found in one of the greenhouses. 
 
 " Well ? " said he, with a smile, for he had anticipated 
 the result. 
 
 " His lordship does seem opinionated about it," she had 
 to confess. "And yet I think I could talk him over if only 
 Aunt Colquhoun were absent. I suppose she will be back 
 from Foyers by dinner-time." 
 
 " I wish she were sewn in a sack, and at the bottom of 
 Loch Ness," said he. 
 
 "Archie, for shame! You see," she added, thought- 
 fully, " I must get back to Fort Augustus by four to-morrow 
 afternoon. And I haven't come all this way without being 
 resolved to see Yolande before I go. That leaves me little 
 time. But still — . Have you asked Mr. Melville to speak 
 to papa ? " 
 
 "No. Jack Melville and I nearly quarrelled over it, so 
 I dropped the subject. He doesn't understand matters, 
 don't you know, Polly ; he doesn't understand what the 
 improvement of a poor estate costs. He has forgotten his 
 Horace — pennis non homini datis — that means that human 
 beings aren't born with enough money. He made quite a 
 fuss when I showed him tbat there were prudential reasons 
 for the match, as if there were any use in blinding one's 
 eyes to obvious facts. Well, I don't care. I have done my 
 best. My intentions toward Lynn were sincere and honor- 
 able ; now they can make abash of the whole thing if they 
 like." 
 
 *' It is folly speaking like that," his sister said, sharply. 
 " Surely you have too much spirit to yield to a little oppo- 
 sition of this kind." 
 
 "A little opposition !" he said, with a laugh. "It's 
 about as bulky as Borlum Hill ; and I for one am not go- 
 ing to ram ray head against it. I prefer a quiet life." 
 
 " But you are bound in honor to Yolande Winter- 
 bourne not to let the engagement cease," she cried. " Why, 
 to think of such a thing ! You ask a girl to marry you ; 
 she consents ; and then you throw her over because this 
 person or that person objects. Well, I never heard of one 
 of the Leslies acting that way before. I was only a girl, 
 but I showed them what stuff I was made of when they 
 tried to interfere with me." 
 
YOLANDE. 197 
 
 " Oh, but that's different," he said, coolly. ** Girls are 
 romantic creatures. They rather like a shindy. Whereas 
 men prefer a quiet life." 
 
 " Well, I never heard the like of that — " 
 
 " Wait a minute. I am going to talk to you plainly, 
 Polly," said he. " I wanted to marry Janet Stewart ; and 
 I dare say she would have had me if I had definitely asked 
 her—" 
 
 " I dare say she. would." 
 
 " Oh, you tliink slie hasn't as much pride as anybody 
 else because she is only a minister's daughter ? That is 
 all you know about her. However, they all made such a 
 row, and you especially, that I consented to let the alfair 
 go. No doubt that was wise. I was young. She had no 
 money, and Lynn wanted money. Very well. I made no 
 objection. But you will observe, my dear Miss Polly, 
 that when these stumbling-blocks are again and again put 
 into the road, even the most patient of animals may begin 
 to get fractious, and might even kick over the traces. At 
 present I hope I am not in a rage. But I am older now 
 than I was then, and not in the least bit inclined to be 
 made a fool of." 
 
 " And do you really mean to say," said Mrs. Graham, 
 with her pretty dark gray eyes regarding him with aston- 
 ishment, " that you are deliberately prepared to jilt Yo- 
 lande Winterbourne merely on account of this little diffi- 
 culty ? " 
 
 " It isn't my doing," said he. " Besides, they seem bent 
 on piling up about three cart-loads of difficulty. Life isn't 
 long enough to begin and shovel that away. And if they 
 don't want to have Corrievreak back, I dare say Sir John 
 will be quite willing to keep it." 
 
 " I don't think I will speak to papa again until after 
 dinner," said she, musingly. "Then I will have another 
 try — with Corrievreak." 
 
198 YOLANDE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE AMBAgSADOE. 
 
 Now Jack Melville, or Melville of Monaglcn, as Mrs, 
 Bell (with her own dark purposes always in view) proudly 
 preferred to call him, had not only decided that the Mas- 
 ter of Lynn should know that Yolande's mother was alive, 
 but he had also undertaken himself to tell him all the facts 
 of the case, to Mr. Winterbourne's great relief. Accord- 
 ingly, one afternoon he gave the school-children a half- 
 holiday, and walked over to Lynn. He met the Muster at 
 the wooden bridge adjoining Lynn Towers, and also the 
 dog-cart conveying Mrs. Graham back to Fort Augustus. 
 
 " There she goes," said young Leslie, sardonically, as 
 he regarded the disappearing vehicle. " She is a well-in- 
 tentioned party. She thinks she can talk people over. 
 She thinks that when people are in a temper they will lis- 
 ten to common-sense. And she hasn't even now learned a 
 lesson. She thinks she would have succeeded with more 
 time ; but of course she has to get back to Inverstroy. 
 And she still believes she would have had her own way if 
 she had had a day or two to spare." 
 
 " What is the matter? " 
 
 *' Oh, nothing much," said the other, carelessly. " Only 
 his lordship in a fury at the idea of my marrying the 
 daughter of a Radical. And of course it isn't the slightest 
 use pointing out that Mr. Winterbourne's Radicalism gen- 
 erally consists in opposing what is really a Radical govern- 
 ment ; and it isn't the slightest use pointing out that poli- 
 tics don't run in the blood, and that Yolande has no more 
 wish to destroy the British Constitution than I have. How- 
 ever, what is the consequence? They can fight it out 
 amongst themselves." 
 
 But Melville did not seem inclined to treat the matter 
 in this offhand way. His thoughtful face was more grave 
 than was its wont. After a second or two he said, — 
 
 '' Look here, Archie, I have got something to say to you. 
 Will you walk along the strath a bit ? " 
 
 "You are going to try the loch?" said the Master, 
 
YOLANDE, 199 
 
 observing that his companion had his fishing-rod under his 
 arm. 
 
 " Yes, for an hour or so, if they are rising." 
 " I will come and manage the boat for you, then," said 
 the other, good-naturedly. 
 
 " Then we can go on together to Allt-nara-Ba. You 
 are dining there, I suppose." 
 
 " Well, no," said young Leslie, with a trifle of embar- 
 rassment. 
 
 "But I was told I should meet you." 
 " I was asked. Well, you see, the lodge is small, and it 
 isn't fair to overcrowd it, and give Yolande so much more 
 nousekeeping trouble. Then Macpherson may come down 
 from Inverness any afternoon almost to arrange about the 
 Glendyerg march. We have come to a compromise about 
 that — anything is better than a lawsuit — and the gully just 
 above the watcher's bothy remains ours, which is the chief 
 thing." 
 
 But Melville was not to be put off. He knew this 
 young man. 
 
 " What it the real reason of your not going up to Allt- 
 nam-Ba this evening? " 
 
 " Well, I will tell you, if you want to know. The real 
 reason is that my people have treated the Winterbournes 
 badly, and I am ashamed of it, and I don't want to go near 
 the place more than I can help. If they imagine we are all 
 very busy at Lynn, that may be some excuse for neither my 
 father nor my aunt having had the common civility to call 
 at the lodge. But I am afraid Mr. Winterbourne suspects 
 the true state of affairs, and of course that puts me into 
 rather a difficult "nosition when I am at Allt-nam-Ba ; and 
 when you see a difficult position before you, the best thing 
 you can do is not to step into it." 
 
 " And do you expect everything to be made smooth and 
 comfortable for you ? " said Melville, almost angrily. " Don't 
 you expect to have any trouble at all in the world ? When 
 you meet the difficulties of life, is your only notion to turn 
 away and run from them ? " 
 
 " Yes, as fast as I can and as far as I can. Look here, 
 Jack, different people have different views : it doesn'^ 
 follow that you are right because you look at things not as 
 I do. You think common-sense contemptible; I think 
 Quixotism contemptible ; it cuts both ways, you see. I say 
 distinctly that a man who accepts trouble when he can avoid 
 
200 YOLANDE. 
 
 it is an ass. I know there are lots of women who like woe, 
 who relish it and revel in it. There are lots of women who 
 enjoy nothing so much as a funeral — the blinds all down, a 
 mysterious gloom in the rooms, and weeping relations forti- 
 fying themselves all day long against their grief by drinking 
 glasses of muddy port wine and eating buns. Well, I don't. 
 I don't like woe. I believe in what a young Scotch fellow 
 said to me one morning on board ship when we were on 
 the way out — I think he was a bagman from Glasgow — at 
 all events he came up to me with an air of profound con- 
 viction on his face, and said, ' Man, it's a seeckening thing to 
 be seeck ! ' Well, that is the honest way of looking at it. 
 And although I am arguing not so much with you aa 
 with Polly, still I may as well say to you what I said to 
 her when she wanted me to do this, that, and the other 
 thing: ' No ; if those people don't see it would be to their 
 interest and to everybody's interest that this marriage should 
 take place, they are welcome to their opinion. I sha'n't in- 
 terfere. I don't mean to have any domestic squabble if I 
 can help it. I prefer a quiet life.' " 
 
 By this time they had reached the boat, which they 
 di'agged down to the water and shoved off, the Master of 
 Lynn good-naturedly taking the oars. It was a ],»leasant, 
 warm afternoon, and it looked a likely afternoon for fishing 
 besides ; but it was in a very silent and absent fashion that 
 Jack Melville put his rod together and began to look over 
 his casts. This speech of the young Master's was no reve- 
 lation to him ; he had known all that before. But, coming 
 in just at this moment, it seemed to make the task he had 
 undertaken more and more difficult and dangerous ; and 
 indeed there flashed across^ his mind once or twice some 
 wild doubt as to the wisdom of his decision, although that 
 decision had not been arrived at without long and anxious 
 consideration. 
 
 And it was in a very perfunctory way that he began to 
 throw out the flies upon the water, insomuch that one or 
 two rises he got he missed through carelessness in striking. 
 In any case the trout were not rising freely, and so at length 
 he said, — 
 
 " Archie, would you mind rowing over to the other side ? 
 One of the shepherds sent me word that the char have come 
 there, and Miss Winterbourne has never seen one. I only 
 want one or two to show her what they are like; I don't 
 suppose they will be worth cooking just now." 
 
YOLANDE. 201 
 
 " But you have no bait." 
 
 " I can manage with tlie fly, I think." 
 
 And so they rowed away across the pretty loch on this 
 placid afternoon; the while Melville took off the cast he had 
 been using, substituting three sea-trout flies of the most 
 brilliant hues. Then, when they had got to the other side, 
 Melville made for a "part of the shore where the banks 
 seemed to go very sheer down ; and then proceeded to 
 throw the flies over a particular part of the water, allowing 
 them slowly to sink. It was an odd sort of fly-fishing, if it 
 could be described as fly-fishing at all. For after the cast 
 had been allowed to sink some couple of yards or so, 
 the flies were slowly and cautiously trailed along ; then 
 there was a curious sensation as if an eel were swallowing 
 something at the end of the line — very different from the 
 quick snap of a trout — and then, as he carefully wound in 
 the reel there appeared in the water a golden-yellow thing. 
 not fighting for its life as a trout would, but slowly, oilily 
 circling this way and that until a scoop of the small landing- 
 net brought the lethargic, feebly flopping, but beautifully 
 golden-and-red-spotted fish into the boat. When he had 
 got the two that he wanted he had done with that : it was 
 not sport. And then he sat down in the stern of the boat, 
 and his rod was idle. 
 
 " Archie," said he, " there is something better in you than 
 you profess." 
 
 " Oh, come," said the other, " char-fishing isn't exciting, 
 but it is better than a lecture." 
 
 " This is serious," said the other, quietly ; *" you your- 
 self will admit that when I tell you." 
 
 And then, very cautiously at first, and rather in a round- 
 about way, he told him the whole sad story, begging him 
 not to interrupt until he had finished, and trying to invoke 
 the young man's pity and sympathy for what those people 
 had suffered, and trying to put their action in a natural 
 light, and trying to make clear their motives. Who was to 
 blame — the indiscreet sister who had invented the story, or 
 the foolishly affectionate father who could not confess the 
 truth — he would not say ; he would rather turn to consider 
 what they had attempted and succeeded in securing — what 
 the beautiful child-nature of this girl should grow up un- 
 tainted with sorrow and humiliation and pain. 
 
 The Master of Lynn heard him patiently to the end. 
 
202 YOLANDE. 
 
 without any expressiou of surprise or any other emotion. 
 Then he said, — 
 
 " I suppose, Jack, you have been asked to tell me all 
 this ; most likely you are expected to take an answer. Weil 
 my answer is clear. Nothing in the world would induce 
 me to have anything to do with such a system, or con 
 gpiracy, or whatever it may be called. You may think the 
 mcurring of all this suffering is fine ; I think it is folly. 
 but that is not the point. I am not going to judge them. 
 I have to decide for myself, and I tell you frankly I am not 
 such a fool as to bring any skeleton into my cupboard. I 
 don't want my steps dogged ; I don't want to have to look 
 at the morning paper with fear. If I had married and 
 found this out afterward, I should have said I had been 
 grossly deceived ; and now, with my eyes open, I consider 
 I should be behaving very badly toward my family if I let 
 them in for the possibility of any scandal or disgrace." 
 
 " Why, man, how could there be any such thing? " Mel- 
 ville exclaimed ; but he was interrupted. 
 
 " I let you have your say ; let me have mine. There is 
 no use beating about the bush. I can have nothing to do 
 with any such thing ; I am not going to run the risk of any 
 public scandal while it can be avoided." 
 
 " What would you do, then, if you were in Winter- 
 bourne's position?" 
 
 " What would I do ? What I would not do would be to 
 incur a life-long martvrdom, all for a piece of sentimental 
 folly." 
 
 " But what would you do ? I want to know what you 
 would do." 
 
 " J would lock the woman up in a lunatic asylum. Cer- 
 tainly I would. Why should such a system of terrorism be 
 permitted ? It is perfectly absurd." 
 
 " You cannot lock her up in a lunatic asylum unless 
 she is a lunatic, and the poor creature does not seem to be 
 that — not yet, at least." 
 
 " I would lock her up in a police cell, th6n." 
 
 " And would that prevent exposure ? " 
 
 " At all events, it would prevent her going down and 
 lying in wait for him in Westmister Palace Yard. But that 
 is not the point. It is not what I would do in his place-, 
 it is what I am going to do in my own. And that is clear 
 enough. I have had enough bother about this business \ 
 I am not going to have any more. I am not going to have 
 
YOLANDE. 20a 
 
 any secrets and mysteries. I am not going to submit to 
 any terrorism. Before I marry Yolande Wintei'bourne all 
 that affair of that lunatic creature must be arranged, and 
 arranged so that every one may know of it without fear 
 and trembling and dissimulation." 
 
 " The message is difinite," said Melville, absently, as his 
 companion took up the oars and began to row across to the 
 other side of the loch. 
 
 It was characteristic of this man that he should now 
 begin and try to look at this declaration from young Les- 
 lie's point of view, and endeavor to convince himself of its 
 reasonableness ; for he had a general wish to approve of 
 people and their ways and opinions, having in the long-run 
 found that that was the most comfortable way of getting 
 along in the world. And this that the Master had just said 
 was, regarded from his own position, distinctly reasonable. 
 There could be no doubt that Mr. Winterbourne had had 
 his life preverted and tortured mainly through his trying to 
 hide this secret from his daughter ; and it was but natural 
 that a young man should be unwilling to have his own life 
 clouded over in like manner. Even John Shortlands had 
 not sought to defend his friend when he told the story to 
 Melville. As for himself — that is, Melville — well, he could 
 not honestly approve of what Mr. Winterbourne had done 
 — except when he heard Yolande laugh. 
 
 They rowed over to the other side in silence, and there 
 got out. 
 
 " I hope I did not use any harsh terms, Jack," the 
 young man said. " But the thing must be made clear." 
 
 " I have been wondering," said the other, "whether it 
 would not have been better if I had held my tongue. I 
 don't see how either you or your wife could ever have heard 
 of it." 
 
 " I think it would have been most dishonorable of you 
 to have known that and to have kept it back from me" 
 
 "Oh, you do?" 
 
 " Most distinctly I do." • 
 
 " There is some consolation in that. I thought I was 
 perhaps acting the part of an idle busybody, who generally 
 only succeeds in making mischief. And I have been won- 
 dering what is the state of the law. I really don't know. 
 I don't know whether a magistrate would consider the con- 
 sumption of those infernal drugs to be drunkenness ; and I 
 
204 YOLANDE. 
 
 don't even know whether you can compulsorily keep in- 
 confinement one who is a confirmed drunkard." 
 
 " You may very well imagine that I don't want to have 
 anything to do with police courts and police magistrates, 
 or with lunatic asylums either when I get married," said 
 young Leslie, when they had pulled the boat up on the 
 bank. " But this I am sure of, that you can always get 
 sufficient protection from the law from annoyances of that 
 sort, if you choose to appeal to it. On the other hand, if 
 you don't, if you try to shelter people from having their 
 deserts, if you go in for private and perfectly hopeless 
 remedies, then you have to stand the consequences. I de- 
 clare to you that nothing would induce me to endure for 
 even a week the anxiety that seems to have haunted Win- 
 terbourne for years and years." 
 
 '• But then he is so desperately fond of Yolande, you 
 see," Jack Melville said, with a glance. 
 
 Leslie flushed slightly. 
 
 " I think you are going too far." 
 
 " Oh, I hope not. I only stated a fact. Come, now, 
 Archie," he said, in his usual friendly way, " call your 
 common-sense to you, that you are so proud of. You know 
 I feel myself rather responsible. I don't want to think I 
 have made any mischief — " 
 
 " You have made no mischief. I say you would have 
 acted most dishonorably if you had kept this back." 
 
 " Well, now, take a rational view of the situation. No 
 doubt you are vexed and annoyed by the opposition at home. 
 That is natural. No one likes his relatives to object when 
 he knows that he has the right and the power to choose for 
 himself. But don't transfer your annoyance over tliat 
 matter to this, which is quite different. Consider yourself 
 married, and living at Allt-nam-Ba or at Lynn ; how can 
 the existence of this poor creature effect you in any way ? 
 And, moreover, the poor woman can not live long — " 
 
 " She might live long enough to break some more 
 windows, and get everybody's name into the paper," said 
 he. " You don't suppose we should always be living in the 
 Highlands?" 
 
 '' I want you to come along with me now to the lodge ; 
 and you can say that, after all, you found you could come 
 to dinner — there never were people so charmingly free from, 
 ceremony of anj kind ; and after dinner you will tell Mf. 
 Wiuterbourne that ceitainly you yourself might not have 
 
YOLANDE. 205 
 
 been prepared to do what he has done during these years 
 for Yolande's sake, and perhaps that you could not approve 
 of it ; but that for the short time likely to elapse you would 
 be content also to keep silence ; and you might even un- 
 dertake to live in the Highlands until death should remove 
 that poor creature and all possible source of annoyance. 
 That would be a friendly, natural, humane sort of thing to 
 do, and ho would be grateful to you. You owe him a 
 little. He is giving you his only daughter ; and you need 
 not be afraid — he will make it easy for you to buy back 
 Corrievreak and do all the other things you were speaking 
 of. I think you might do that." 
 
 " Midsummer madness ! " the other exclaimed, with 
 some show of temper. " I can't imagine how you could ex- 
 pect such a thing. Our family is old enough to be haunted 
 by a ghost, and we haven't started one yet ; but when we 
 do start one, it won't be a police-court sort of ghost, I can 
 assure you. It is hard luck when one of one's own relatives 
 goes to the bad — I've seen that often enough in families; 
 but voluntarily to take over some one's relative who has 
 gone to the bad, without even the common protection of 
 the policeman and the magistrate — no, thanks ! " 
 
 " Then that is your message, I suppose." 
 
 " Most distinctly. I am not going into any conspiracy 
 of secrecy and terrorism — certainly not. I told you that I 
 liked a quiet life. I am not going to bother about other 
 people's family affairs — assuredly I am not going to submit 
 to any persecution or any possibility of persecution, how- 
 ever remote, about them." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 "Don't put it harshly. I wish to be reasonable. I say 
 they have been unreasonable and foolish, and I don't want 
 to involve myself in the consequences. When I marry, I 
 surely must have, as every human being in the country has, 
 the right to appeal to the law. I cannot have my mouth 
 gagged by their absurd secrets." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 *' And I fancy," the Master of Lynn added, as his eye 
 caught a figure that had just come in sight, far away up 
 the strath, "that that is Yolande Winterbourne herself. 
 You need not say that I had seen her before 1 left." And 
 so he turned and walked away in the direction of Lynn 
 Towers. 
 
 And was this indeed Yolande? Well, he would meet 
 
206 YOLANDE 
 
 her with an unclouded face, for she was quick to observe ^ 
 and all his talk would be about the golden char, and the 
 beautiful afternoon, and the rubber of whist they sometimes 
 had now after dinner. And yet he was thinking. 
 
 " I wonder if ray way would do," he was saying to him- 
 self as he still regarded that advancing figure. " Perhaps it 
 is Quixotic, as Archie would say. Statistics are against 
 me, and statistics are horribly sure things, but sometimes 
 they don't apply to individual cases. Perhaps I have no 
 business to interfere. No matter ; this evening at least she 
 shall go home to dinner with a light heart. She does not 
 know that I am going to give her my Jjinncea horealisP 
 
 The tall figure now advancing to him was undoubtedly 
 that of Yolande, and he guessed that she was smiling. She 
 had brought out for a run the dogs that had been left in the 
 kennel ; they were chasing all about the hillside and the 
 road in front of her. The light of the sunset was on her 
 face. 
 
 "Good-evening, Mis&Winterbourne," said he, when they 
 met. 
 
 "But I am going to ask you to call me Yolande," said 
 she, quite frankly and simply, as she turned to walk back 
 with him to Allt-nam-Ba ; " for I have not many friends, 
 and I like them all to call me Yolande." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A WALK HOME. 
 
 " But was not that Mr. Leslie ? " she said. 
 
 " Oh yes, it was,'' he answered, with an assumed air of 
 indifference. " Yes. It is a pity he cannot dine with you 
 this evening." 
 
 " But why did he not come along now, for a minute 
 even, when he was so far?" 
 
 She certainly was surprised, and there was nothing foi 
 him but to adopt the somewhat lame excuses that the Master 
 in the first instance had offered him. 
 
 " I think he is expecting a lawyer from Inverness," said 
 he, rather quickly slurring over the various statements, 
 
YOLANDE. 207 
 
 " and if he came by the afternoon boat he would be due just 
 about now. They have a good deal of business on hand 
 just now at Lynn." 
 
 "Yes, apparently that is true," she said, with rather a 
 singular gesture — very slight, but significant. " We have 
 not seen anything of them." 
 
 " Well, you see," he continued, in the most careless and 
 cheerful way, "no doubt they know your father is occupied 
 with the shooting, and you with your amateur housekeeping 
 — which I am told is perfect. Mr. Shortlands says the lodge 
 is beautifully managed." 
 
 "Ah, does he? " said she, with a quick flush of genuine 
 pleasure. " I am glad to hear that. Ah, it is very simple 
 now — oh yes, for they are all so diligent and punctual. And 
 now I have more and more time for my botany, and I am 
 beginning to understand a little more of the arrangement, 
 and it is interesting." 
 
 " I consider you have done very well," said he — " so well 
 that you deserve a reward." 
 
 " Ah, a prize ? " said she, with a laugh. " Do you give 
 prizes at your school ? Well now— let me see — what shall I 
 choose ? A box of chocolates." 
 
 " Did they allow you to choose your own prizes at 
 Chateau Cold Floors ? We don't do that here. No ; the 
 reward I have in store for you is the only specimen I have 
 got of the Linncea borealis — the only plant that bears the 
 name of the great master himself, and such a beautiful plant 
 too ! I don't think you are likely to find it about here. [ 
 got mine at Clova ; but you can get everything at Clova." 
 
 " It is so kind of you ! " she said ; *' but what am 1 to do 
 with it ? " 
 
 " Start a herbarium. You ought to have plenty of time ; 
 if not, get up an hour earlier. You have a fine chance here 
 of getting the Alpine species. I have got some fresh boards 
 and drying-paper down from Inverness ; and I meant to lend 
 you my hand-press ; but then I thought I might want it 
 myself for some other purpose ; and as Mrs. Bell was glad to 
 have the chance of presenting you with one, I said she might ; 
 it will down from Inverness to-morrow." 
 
 " But I cannot accept so much kindness — " she was 
 about to protest, when he interrupted her. 
 
 "You must," he said simply. "When people are in- 
 clined to be civil and kind to you, you have no right to 
 gnub them." . 
 
208 YOLANDE. 
 
 Suddenly she stopped short and faced him. There was 
 a kind of mischief in her eyes. 
 
 "Will you have the same answer," she asked, slowly, 
 and with her eyes fixed on him, " when Mrs. Bell presents 
 to you Monaglen ? " 
 
 Despite himself a flush came over the pale, handsome 
 features. 
 
 " That is absurd," said he quickly. " That is impossible. 
 I know the Master jokes about it. If Mrs. Bell has any 
 wild dreams of the kind — " 
 
 " If slie has," Yolande said, gravely, " if she wishes to 
 be civil and kind, you have no right to snub her." 
 
 " You have caught me, I confess it," he said, with a 
 good-natured laugh, as they resumed their walk along the 
 wide strnth. " But let us get back to the sphere of prac- 
 tical politics." 
 
 He then proceeded to give her instructions about the 
 formation of a herbarium ; and in this desultory conversa- 
 tion she managed very plainly to intimate to him that she 
 would not have permitted him to take so much trouble had 
 this new pursuit of hers been a mere holiday amusement. 
 No ; she hoped to make something more serious of it ; and 
 would it not be an admirable occupation for her when she 
 finally came to live in these wilds, where occupations were 
 not abundant? And he (with his mind distraught by all 
 sorts of anxieties) had to listen to her placidly talking 
 about her future life there, as if that were to be all very 
 plain sailing indeed. She knew of no trouble; and she 
 was not the one to anticipate trouble. Her chief regret at 
 present was that her botanizing (at least so far as the coi- 
 i lection of plants was concerned) would cease in the winter ! " 
 
 " But you cannot live up here in the winter ! " he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " You would be snowed up." 
 
 " Could anything be more delightful than that ? " she 
 said. " Oh, I see it all before me — like a Christmas picture. 
 Big red fires in the rooms ; outside, the sunlight on the 
 snow, the air cold and clear, and papa going away over the 
 hard, sparkling hills to shoot the ptarmigan and the white 
 hares. Don't you know, then, that papa will take Allt- 
 nam-Ba for all the year round when I come to live here ? 
 And if Duncan, the keeper, can live very well in the bothy, 
 
yOLANDE. 20S 
 
 why not we in the lodge ! Oh, I assure you it will be 
 ravishing." 
 
 " No, no, no ; you could not attempt such a thing," lie 
 said. " Why the strath might be quite impassable with 
 the snow. You might be cut off from the rest of the world 
 for a fortnight or three weeks. You would starve." 
 
 "Perhaps, then, you never heard of tinned meats? " she 
 said, with an air of superiority. 
 
 " No, no ; the people about here don't do like that. Of 
 course in the winter you would naturally go in to Inverness, 
 or go south to Edinburgh, or perhaps have a house in Lon- 
 don." 
 
 " Oh no, that is what my papa would never, never per- 
 mit — anything but London." 
 
 " Well, then, Liverness is a pleasant and cheerful town. 
 And I must say this for the Master, that he is not at all 
 likely to prove an absentee landlord, when his turn comes. 
 He is quite as diligent as his father in looking after tlie 
 estate; there won't be any reversal of policy when he suc- 
 ceeds, as sometimes happens." 
 
 " Inverness ? " said she, wistfully. " Yes ; perhaps In- 
 A'^erness — perhaps here — that is what my papa would prefer ; 
 but London — ah, no ! And sometimes I think he is so 
 sadly mistaken about me — it is his great affection, I know 
 — but he thinks if I were in London I would hear too much 
 of the attacks they make on him, and I might read the 
 stupidities they put into the newspapers about him. He is 
 so afraid of my being annoyed — oh, I know, for himself he 
 does not care — it is all me, me — and the trouble he will 
 take to watch against small annoyances that might hap])en 
 to me, it is terrible and pitiable, only it is so kind. Why 
 should I not go to the House of Commons ? Do they think 
 I care about their stupidities ? I know they are angry be- 
 cause they have one man among them who will not be the 
 slave of any party — who will not be a — a cipher, is it ? — in 
 a crowd — an atom in a majority — no, but who wishes to 
 speak what he thinks is true." 
 
 " Oh, but, Yolande," said he (venturing thus to address 
 her for the first time), " I want you to tell me ; do you ever 
 feel annoyed and vexed when you see any attack on your 
 father ? " 
 
 She hesitated ; she did not like to confess. 
 
 " It is a natural thing to be annoyed when you see 
 stupidities of malice aud spitefulness," she said, at length — 
 
210 YOLANDE. 
 
 with the fair freckled face a shade warmer in color than 
 usual. 
 
 " For I can give you a panacea for all such wounds, or 
 rather an absolute shield against them." 
 
 " Can you — can you ? " she said, eagerly. 
 
 **0h, yes,'' he said, in that carelessly indifferent way of 
 his. " When you see anybody pitching into your father, 
 in the House or in a newspaper, all you have to do is to re- 
 call a certain sonnet of Milton's. You should bear it about 
 with you in your mind ; there is a fine wholesome tone of 
 contempt in it; and neither persons in public life nor their 
 relatives should have too great a respect for other people's 
 opinions. It is not wholesome. It begets sensitiveness. 
 You should always consider that your opponents are — 
 are—'* 
 
 " Ames de boue ! " said Yolande, fiercely. " That is 
 what I think when I see what they say of my papa." 
 
 " But I don't think you would feel so much indignation 
 as that if you would carry about this sonnet with you in 
 your memory : — 
 
 *" I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs 
 By the known rules of ancient liberty, 
 When straight a barbarous noise environs me 
 Of owls, and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs ; 
 As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs 
 Railed at Latona's twin-born progeny, 
 Wliich after held the Sun and Moon in fee. 
 But this is got by casting pearls to hogs. 
 That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood, 
 And still revolt when Truth would set them free. 
 License they mean when they cry Liberty ; 
 For who loves that must first be wise and good ; 
 But from that mark how far they rove we see, 
 For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood." 
 
 There is a good, honest, satisfactory, wholesome con- 
 tempt in it." 
 
 "Yes, yes; will you write it down for me?" said she, 
 quickly and gratefully. " Will you write it down for me 
 when we get to the lodge ? " 
 
 *' If you like." 
 
 When they drew near to the lodge, however, they found 
 that something very unusual was going forward. The 
 whole of the women-servants, to begin with, were outside, 
 and gazing intently in the direction of a hillside just above 
 the conlluence of the Dun Water and the Crooked Water, 
 
YOLANDE. 211 
 
 while the pretty Highland cook was asserting something or 
 other in strenuous terms. The moment they saw Yolande 
 those young people fled into the house, like so many scun-y- 
 ing rabbits ; but Sandy, the groom, being over near the 
 kennel, did not hear, and remained perched up on the fence, 
 using an opera-glass which he had filched from the dining 
 room mantelpiece. Yolande went over to him (as she had 
 to kennel up the dogs in any case), and said to him, — 
 " What is the matter, Sandy ? " 
 
 He very nearly dropped with friglit, but instantly recov- 
 ered himself, and said, with great excitement : — 
 
 " I think they are bringing home a stag, madam ; I am 
 sure that is it. I was seeing the powny taken down to 
 cross the burn ; and it was not the panniers that was on 
 him ; and there is the chentlemen standing by the bridge, 
 looking." 
 
 Tliere certainly was a small group of figures standing 
 on the further side of that distant bridge — a slim little struct- 
 ure slung on wires, and so given to oscillation that only one 
 person could cross at a time. This performance, indeed, 
 was now carefully going on ; but what had become of the 
 pony? Presently they saw something appear on the top of 
 the bank on this side of the stream. 
 
 " It is a stag undoubtedly, Yolande," Jack Melville said, 
 (he had got hold of the opera-glass) " and 1 should say a 
 good one. Now how could that have come about? Never 
 mind, I dare say your father will be delighted enough, and 
 I should say Duncan will tune up his pipes this evening." 
 
 Yolande looked through the glass, and was very much 
 excited to see that small pony coming home with its heavy 
 burden ; but the gentlemen were now invisible, having 
 passed behind a hillock. And so she sped into the house, 
 fearful that the curiosity of the women-servants might 
 have let affairs get behindhand, and determined that every- 
 thing should be in readiness for the home-coming sports- 
 men. 
 
 Melville was left outside ; and as he regarded now the 
 gillie leading the pony, and t^ow the party of people who 
 were visible coming over the hillock, it w^as not altogether 
 of the dead stag that he was thinkhig. In this matter of the 
 Master of Lynn he had only performed his thankless duty 
 as messenger, as it were ; still, it was not pleasant to have 
 to bring back bad news. Sometimes he wished he had had 
 aothinijj whatever to do with the whole complication ; then. 
 
212 YOLANDE. 
 
 again, he reminded himself that that secret had been coii- 
 fided to him by John Shortlands unsolicited ; and that he, 
 Melville, had subsequently done what he honestly thought 
 best. And then he turned to think about Yolande. Would 
 he grudge anything he could do for that beautiful child- 
 nature — to keep it clear and bright and peaceful ? No, he 
 could not. And then he thought, with something of a sigh, 
 that those who were the lucky ones in this world did not 
 seem to place much value on the prizes that lay witliin their 
 hands' reach. 
 
 The corpulent John Shortlands, as he now came proudly 
 along, puffed and blowing and breathless, clearly showed by 
 his radiant face who had shot the stag ; and at once he 
 plunged into an account of the affair for the benefit of Jack 
 Melville. He roundly averred that no such " fluke " was 
 known in English history. They were not out after any 
 stag. No stag had any right to be there. They had passed 
 up that way in the morning with the dogs. Nor could this 
 have been the wounded stag that the shepherds had seen 
 drinking out of the Allt-corrie-an-eich some four days ago. 
 No ; this must have been some wandering stag that had got 
 startled out of some adjacent forest, and had taken refuge 
 in the glen just as the shooting party were coming back 
 from the far tops. .Duncan had proposed to have a try for 
 a few black-game when they came down to these woods ; 
 and so, by great good luck, John Shortlands had put a No. 
 4 cartridge in his left barrel, just in case an old blackcock 
 should get up wild. Then he was standing at his post, when 
 suddenly he heard a pattering; a brown animal appeared 
 with head high and horns thrown back ; the next instant it 
 passed him, not more than fifteen yards off, and he blazed 
 at it — in his nervousness with the right barrel ; then he saw 
 it stumble, only for a second ; then on it went again, he after 
 it, down to the burn, which fortunately was rushing, fed 
 with the last night's rain ; in the bed of the stream it stum- 
 bled again and fell, and as it struggled out and up the op- 
 posite bank, there being now nothing but the breadth of the 
 burn between him and it, he took more deliberate aim, fired, 
 and the stag fell back stone-dead, its head and horns, in- 
 deed, remaining partly in the water. 
 
 Then Mr. Winterbourne, when he came along, seemed 
 quite as honestly pleased at this unexpected achievement as 
 if the stag had fallen to his own gun ; while as for Duncan, 
 the grim satisfaction on his face was sufficient testimony. 
 
YOLANDE, 213 
 
 "This is something like a good day's work," said he. 
 *' And I was bringing down the stag for Miss Winterbourne 
 to see it before the dark, and now Peter will take back the 
 powny for the panniers." 
 
 But Jack Melville took occasion to say to him aside, — 
 
 " Duncan, Miss Winterbourne will look at the head and 
 horns when you have had time to take a sponge or a wet 
 cloth to them, don't you understand ? — later on in the even- 
 ing, perhaps." 
 
 " Very well, sir. And I suppose the gentleman will be 
 sending in the head to Mr. Macleay's to-morrow? It is not 
 a royal, but it is a very good head whatever." 
 
 " How many points — ten ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. It is a very good head whatever." 
 
 Yolande had so effectively hurried up everything inside 
 the lodge that when the gentlemen appeared for dinner it 
 was they who were late, and not the dinner. And of course 
 she was greatly delighted also, and all the story of the cap- 
 ture of the stag had to be told over again, to the minutest 
 points. And again there was a fierce discussion as to who 
 should have the head and horns, John Shortlands being 
 finally compelled to receive the trophy which naturally be- 
 longed to him. Then a wild skirl outside in the dark. 
 
 " What is that, now ? " said John Shortlands. 
 
 " That." said Yolande, complacently — for she had got 
 to know something of these matters — " is the pibroch of 
 Donald Dhu." 
 
 *' That is the pibroch of Donald Black, I suppose," said 
 John Shortlands, peevishly. " What the mischief have I to 
 do with Donald Black ? I want the Pibroch of John Short- 
 lands. What is the use of killing a stag if you have to have 
 somebody else's pibroch played? If ever I rent a deer for- 
 est in the Highlands, I will have my own pibroch made for 
 me, if I pay twenty pounds for it." 
 
 Indeed, as it turned out, there was so much joy diffused 
 throughout this household by the slay nig of the stag that 
 Jack Melville, communing with himself, decided that his ill 
 news might keep. He would take some other opportunity 
 of telling Shortlands the result of his mission. Why destroy 
 his very obvious satisfaction ? It was a new experience for 
 him ; he had never shot a stag before. The cup of his hap- 
 piness was full to the brim, and nobody grudged it him, for 
 he was a sound-hearted sort of man. 
 
 One rather awkward incident arose, however, out of this 
 
J14 \ OLANDE. 
 
 stngr episode. In the midst of their dinner talk Yolande 
 suddenly said, — 
 
 "Papa, ought I to stnd a haunch of venison to Lynn 
 Towers? It seems so strange to have neighbors, and not 
 any compliment one way or the other. Should I send a 
 haunch of venison to Lord Lynn ? " 
 
 Her father seemed somewhat disturbed. 
 
 " No, no, Yolande ; it would seem absurd to send a 
 haunch of venison to a man who has a deer forest of his 
 own." 
 
 " But it is let." 
 
 " Yes, I know ; but no doubt the tenant will send in a 
 haunch to the Towers if there is any occasion." 
 
 "But I know he does not, for Archie said so. Mr. Mel- 
 ville," she said, shifting the ground of her appeal, " would 
 it not be a nice compliment to pay to a neighbor. Is it not 
 customary?" 
 
 His eyes had been fixed on the table ; he did not raise 
 them. 
 
 " I — I don't think I would," said he, with some little 
 embarrassment. "You don't know what fancies old people 
 might take. And you will want the venison for yourselves. 
 Besides, Mr. Shortlands shot the stag; you should let him 
 have a haunch to send to his friends in the south." 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, yes, certainly," she cried, clapping her 
 hands. " Why did I not think of it? That will be much 
 better." 
 
 At another time John Shortlands might have protested, 
 but something in Melville's manner struck him, and he did 
 not contend that the haunch of venison should be sent to 
 Lynn Towers. 
 
 After dinner they went out into the dark, and, guided 
 by the sound of the pipes, made their way to the spacious 
 coach-house, which they found had been cleared out, and 
 in which they found two of the gillies and two of the shep- 
 herds — great, huge, red-bearded, brawny men — dancing a 
 four-some reel, while Duncan was playing as if he meant to 
 send the roof off. The head and horns of the deer were 
 hung up on one of the pillars of the loose box. The place 
 was ruddily lit up by two lamps, as well as a few candles ; 
 there was a small keg of whiskey in a dim corner. And 
 Yolande thought that the Highland girls might just as well 
 come over from the lodge (the English Jane was of no use), 
 and very soon the dancing party was made much more 
 
YOLANDE. 215 
 
 picturesque. But where was the Master of Lynn, with the 
 torchlight dance he had promised them on the occasion of 
 their killing their first stag ? 
 
 When Jack Melville was going away that night he was 
 surprised to find the dog-cart outside, Sandy in his livery, 
 tihe lamps lit, and warm rugs on the front seat. 
 
 *' This is not for me ? " he said. ' 
 
 " It is, inde'ed," said Yolande. 
 
 " Oh, but I must ask you to send it back. It is nothing 
 for me to walk to Gress. You have enough work for your 
 horses just now." 
 
 " The night is dark," she said, '* and I wish you to 
 drive ; you will have the light of the lamps." 
 
 " Why should I drive — to Gress ! " he said. 
 
 " But I wish it," she answered. 
 
 And that was enough. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 DANGER. 
 
 It might have appeared to any careful observer, who 
 also knew all the circumstances of the case, that what was 
 now happening, or about to happen, away up in those 
 remote solitudes, was obvious enough ; but certainly no 
 suspicion of any such possibilities had so far entered the 
 minds of the parties chiefly interested. Yolande regarded 
 her future as already quite settled. That was over and 
 done with. Her French training had taught her to acqui- 
 esce in any arrangement that seemed most suitable to those 
 who hitherto had guided her destiny, and as she had never 
 experienced any affection stronger than her love for her 
 fatlier, so she did not perceive the absence of any such pas- 
 sion. To English eyes her marriage might seem a mariage 
 de complaisance, as Colonel Graham had styled it ; in her 
 eyes it seemed everything that was natural and proper and 
 fitting, and she was quite content. It never occurred to her 
 to analyze the singular satisfaction she always felt in the 
 society of this new friend — the sense of safety, trust, 
 guidance, and reliance with which he inspired her. He 
 
»216 VOLANDE. 
 
 claimed a sort of schoolmasterish authority over her, and 
 she yielded ; sometimes, it is true, re-assertiiig her inde- 
 pendence by the use of feminine wiles and ^coquetries which 
 were as natural as the scamperings of a young rabbit or the 
 rustling of the leaves of a tree, but more ordinarily submit- 
 ting to his dictation and government with a placid and 
 amused sense of security ; while as for him, had he dreamed 
 that he was stealing away the affections of his friend's 
 chosen bride he would have fled from the spot on the 
 instant, with shame and ignominy haunting him. But how 
 could such an idea present itself to him? He looked on 
 her as one already set apart. She belonged to the Master 
 of Lynn. As his friend's future wife he hoped she also 
 would be his friend. He admired her bright spirits, her 
 cheerfulness, and frankness ; but it was this very frankness 
 (added to his own blunt disregard of conventionalities) 
 that was deceiving them both. Five minutes after she had 
 asked him to call her Yolande she was talking to him of 
 her future home and her married life, and she was as ready 
 to take his advice in that direction as Ir the direction of 
 drying plants and setting up a herbarium. And if some- 
 times she r^^ersed their relations, and took to lecturing 
 him on his unwise ways at Gress — his carelessness about 
 his meals, and so forth — why, then he humored her, and 
 considered her remonstrances as only an exhibition of 
 friendly interest, perhaps with a trifle of gratitude added, 
 for he knew very well that he had spent a good deal of 
 time in trying to be of service to her. 
 
 Then, at this particular moment, everything seemed to 
 conspire toward that end which neither of them foresaw. 
 Yolande found the domestic arrangements at Allt-nam-Ba 
 flow very easily and smoothly, so that practically she had 
 the bulk of the day at her own disposal, and Gress was a 
 convenient halting-place when she went for a drive, even 
 when she had no particular message or object in view. 
 But very frequently she had a distinct object in view, which 
 led to her sending on the dog-cart to Foyers and awaiting 
 its return. On the very morning, for example, after Jack 
 Melville had dined with them, she got the following letter, 
 which had been brought out from Whitebridge late the 
 night before. The letter was from Mrs. Bell, and the hand- 
 writing was singularly clear and precise for a woman now 
 over sixty, wlio had for the most part educated herself. 
 
YOLANDE. 217 
 
 " Gress, Wednesday ^ 
 "My dear young Lady, — Excuse my forwardness in 
 sending you a letter ; but I thought you would like to hear 
 the good news. The lawyers write to me from Edinburgh 
 that young Mr. Eraser is now come of age, and that the 
 trustees are now willing to sell the Monaglen estate, if they 
 can get enough for it. This is what I have looked forward 
 to for many's the day; but we must not be too eager like : 
 the lawyers are such keen bodies, and I have not saved up 
 my scraps to feed their pigs. I think I would like to go to 
 Edinburgh myself, if it was not that they lasses would let 
 everything go to rack and ruin, and would have no sense 
 to study Mr. Melville's ways ; the like of them for glaiket 
 hussies is not in the land. But I would greatly wish to 
 see you, dear young lady, if you will honor me so far, before 
 I go to Edinburgh, for I can not speak to Mr. Melville 
 about it, and I do not wish to go among they lawyers with 
 only my own head to guide me. I am, your humble servant, 
 
 *' Christina Bell." 
 
 Yolande laughed when she got this letter, partly with 
 pure joy over the great good fortune which was likely 
 to befal her friend, and partly at the humor of the notion 
 that she should be consulted about the conveyancing of an 
 estate. However, she lost no time in making her prepara- 
 tions for driving down to Gress, and indeed the dog-cart, 
 had already been ordered to take some game into Foyers, 
 and also the stag's head destined for Mr. Macleay. Yolande 
 saw that everything was right, got a brace of grouse and 
 a hare for Mrs. Bell, and then set out to drive away 
 down the strath, on this changing, gloomy, and windy day 
 that had streaked the troubled surface of the loch with 
 long white lines of foam. 
 
 She found Mrs. Bell much excited, but still scarcely 
 daring to talk above a w^hisper, while from time to time she 
 glanced at the laboratory, as if she feared Mr. Melville would 
 come out to surprise them in the discussion of this dark 
 secret. 
 
 *' He is not in the schoolhouse, then?" Yolande said. 
 
 " Not the now. Ye see, the young lad, Dalrymple, that 
 he got from Glasgow College is doing very well now, and 
 Mr. Melville is getting to be more and more his own maister. 
 He canna aye be looking after they bairns ; and if we could 
 get Monaglen for him, who could expect him to bother his head 
 
:il8 YOLANDE, 
 
 nboot a school ? He's done enough for the folk about liere ; 
 he'll have to do something for himself now — ah, Miss Win 
 tei bourne, that will be a prood day for me, when I hand him 
 over the papers." 
 
 She spoke as if it were a conspiracy between these two. 
 
 " But it will be a sair, sair job to get him to take the 
 place," she continued, reflectively, " for the man has 
 little common-sense ; but he has pride enough to move 
 mountains." 
 
 " Not common-sense ? " said Yolande, with her eyes 
 showing her wonder. " What has he then ? I think it is al- 
 ways common-sense with him. When you are talking with 
 him, and not very sure what to do, whatever he says is al- 
 ways clear, straight, and right ; you have no diflSculty ; he 
 sees just the right way before you. But how am I to help 
 you Mrs. Bell?" 
 
 " Well, I dinna ken, exactly, but the idea of an auld 
 w^oman like me going away to Edinburgh among a' they 
 lawyers is just dredfu'. It's like Daniel being put into the 
 den of lions." 
 
 " Well, you know, Mrs. Bell," Yolande said, cheerfully, 
 " no harm was done to him. The lions did not touch a 
 hair of his head." 
 
 " Ay I ken that," said Mrs. Bell grimly ; " but they dinna 
 work miracles nowadays.'' 
 
 " Surely you must have your own lawyers?" the girl 
 asked. 
 
 " I have that." 
 
 "You can trust them, then ; with them you are safe 
 enough, surely ? " 
 
 " Well, this is the way on't," said Mrs. Bell, with decis- 
 ion. " It is not in the nature o' things for a human being to 
 trust a lawyer — it's no possible. But the needcessity o ' the 
 case drives ye into their hands, and ye can only trust in Prov- 
 idence that they will make the other side suffer, and no you. 
 They're bound to make their money out o' somebody. I'm 
 no saying, ye ken, but that the lawyers that have been 
 doing business for ye for a nummer o' years might no be a 
 bit fairer; for it's their interest to carry ye on, and be freens 
 wi' ye, but, dear me, when I think of going away to Edinburgh 
 a' by mysel', among that pack o' wolves, it's enough to keep 
 one frae sleeping at nights." 
 
 " But every one says you are so shrewd, Mrs. Bell ! " 
 
 " Do they ? " she responded, with a pleased laugh. "Just 
 
YOLANDE. 219 
 
 because I kenned what they men were after? It needed no 
 much judgment to make that out. Maybe if I had been a 
 young lass they might ha' persuaded me ; but when 1 was a 
 young lass with scarcely a bawbee in my stocking, there was 
 never a word on't ; and when they did begin to come about 
 when I was an auld woman, I kenned fine it was my bank-book 
 they were after. It didna take much judgment to make 
 that out — the idiwuts ! Ay, and my lord, too — set him 
 up wi' his eight months in London by himsel,' and me find- 
 ing the money to put saut in his kail. Well, here am I 
 bletherin* about a lot o' havers like that, as if I was a young 
 lass out at the herdin,' when I wanted to tell ye, my dear 
 young leddy, just how everything was. Ye see what 
 I was left was, first of a,' the whole of tbe place in 
 Leicestershire, and a beautifu' country side it is ; and a braw 
 big house too, though it was not likely I was going to live 
 there, in a state not becoming to one like me, and me 
 wanting to be among my own people besides. Then there 
 was some money in consols, which is as safe as the Bank, as 
 the saying is; and some shares in a mine in Cornwall. The 
 shares I was advised to sell, and I did that ; for I am not 
 one that cares for risk ; but when I began to get possession 
 of my yearly money, and when I found what I could save 
 wa« mounting up, and mounting up, in jist an extraordinary 
 way, 1 put some o' that into French stock, as I thought I 
 might take a bit liberty wi' what was my own making in a 
 measure. And now, though it's no for me to boast, it's a 
 braw sum — a braw sum ; and atweel. I'm thinking that a fine 
 rich English estate, even by itsel' should be able to buy up a 
 wheen bare hillsides in Inverness-shire, even if we have to 
 take the sheep ower at a valuation — ay, and leave a pretty 
 penny besides. I declare when I think o' what might ha' 
 happened, I feel I should go down on my knees and thank 
 the Almighty for putting enough sense in my head to see 
 what they men were after? or by this time there might not 
 be stick or stone to show for it — a' squandered away in horse- 
 racing or the like — and Mr. Melville, the son of my auld 
 master, the best master that ever lived, going about from 
 one great man's house to another, teachmg the young gen- 
 tlemen, and him as fit as any o' them to have house and ha' 
 of his ain — " 
 
 Slie stopped suddenly, for both of them now saw through 
 the parlor window Jack Melville himself come out of his 
 laboratory, carelessly whistling. Doubtless he did not know 
 
220 YOLANDE. 
 
 that Yolande was in the house, else he would have walked 
 thither ; and probably he had only come out to get a breath 
 of fresh air, for he went to a rocking-chair close by the 
 garden, and threw himself into it, lying back with his 
 hands behind his head. Indeed, he looked the very incar- 
 nation of indolence, this big-boned, massive-shouldered 
 young man, who lay there idly scanning the skies. 
 
 " I am going out to scold him for laziness," said Yolande. 
 
 " Please no, my dear young leddy," Mrs. Bell said, 
 laying her hand gently on the girl's arm. *' It is now he is 
 working.'* 
 
 I *' Working ! Does it look like it ? Besides, I am not 
 so afraid of him as you are, Mrs. Ball. Oh yes, let me go." 
 
 So she went' out and through the little lobby into the 
 garden, coming upon him indeed, quite unawares. 
 
 " Mrs. Bell says I must not speak to you," she said. 
 " She says you are working, and must not be disturbed. Is 
 it so ? And what is the work ? Is it travelling at 68,000 
 miles an hour?" 
 
 " Something like that," said he ; and he forgot to rise, 
 while she remained standing. Then he glanced round the 
 threatening sky again. " You were brave to venture out on 
 a morning like this." 
 
 " Why ? What is there ?', 
 
 " Looks like the beginning of a storm," said he. " Here 
 we are fairly sheltered, but there are some squalls of wind 
 going across, I hope you won't all be blown down the strath 
 into the loch to-night.** 
 
 " Ah, but I do not believe any longer in weather proph- 
 ecies," she said, tauntingly. " No, I do not think any one 
 has any knowledge of it — at Allt-nam-Ba, at all events. It is 
 never five minutes the same. One moment you are in the 
 clouds, the next in sunlight. Duncan looks up the hill in 
 the morning, and is very serious ; before they have got to 
 the little bridge there is blue sky. It is all chance. Do you 
 think science can tell you anything ? You, now, when you 
 bought that instrument "—and here she regarded a solar 
 macliine, the mirrors and brass mountings of which were 
 shining clear even on this dull day — " did you expect to get 
 enough sunlight at Gress for you to distil water ?" 
 
 A twinkle in the clear gray eyes showed that she had 
 caught him. 
 
 " There are mysteries in science that can not be ex- 
 plained to babies," said he (and she thouijht it rather cool 
 
YOLANDE. 221 
 
 that he remained sitting, or rather lounging, instead of 
 going and fetching a chair for her). "Everything isn't as 
 easy as snipping out the name of a genus and pasting it at 
 the foot of a double sheet of white paper." 
 
 " That is good of you to remind me," she said, without in 
 the least being crushed. " One thing I came for to-day was 
 the L'fhncea horealiaP 
 
 Theri he instantly jumped to his feet. 
 
 " Certainly," said he ; " come along into the house. You 
 may as well take back the boards, and drying-paper, and so 
 forth, with you ; and I will show^ you how to use them now 
 There may be a few other things you should have out of 
 my herbarium, just to start you, as it were — not rare plants, 
 but plants you are not likely to get, up at Allt-nam-Ba. Are 
 you superstitious ? I will give you a four-leaved clover, 
 if you like." 
 
 " Did you find it ?" 
 
 " Yes ; in a marshy place in Glencoe." 
 
 " But it is the finder to whom it brings luck, as I have 
 read," Yolande said. 
 
 *^ Oh, is it so ?" he answered, carelessly. " I am not 
 learned in such things. If you like, you can have it ; and 
 in the meantime we will start you with your Linoia and 
 a few other things. I don't suppose the hand-press has ar- 
 rived yet ; but mind, you must not refuse it." 
 
 " Oh no," said she, gravely repeating the lesson of yes- 
 terday. '' When one wishes to be civil and kind to you, you 
 have no night to snub him." 
 
 The repetiton of the phrase seemed to remind him ; he 
 suddenly stopped short, regarding her with an odd, half- 
 amused look in his eyes. 
 
 " Can you keep a secret ?" 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " Well, now," he said, rather under his voice, " I am go- 
 ing to tell you a secret, which on no account must you tell 
 to Mrs. Bell. I have just heard on very good authority that 
 Monaglen is about to come into the market, after all. " 
 
 ' Oh, indeed !" said, she, with perfectly innocent eyes. 
 " Can it be possible ?" 
 
 '■' Don't mention the thing to Mrs. Bell, for you know 
 her wild sckemes and visions, and it would only make her 
 unhappv." 
 
 "Why, then?" 
 
 " Because what she means to do (if she really means to do 
 
222 YOLANDE, 
 
 it) is not practicable," he said, plainly. " Of course, if sh# 
 buys Monaglen for herself, good and well. She is welcome 
 to sit in the hall of my fathers. I daresay she will do more 
 good in the neighborhood than they ever thought of doing, 
 for she is an excellent kind of creature. And it is just 
 possible that, seeing me about the place, she may have 
 thought of some romantic project ; but when once I am 
 clear away from Gress, it will quite naturally and easily fade 
 from her mind." 
 
 " But you are not going away ! " she said ; and that 
 sudden sinking of the heart ought to have warned her ; but 
 indeed she had not had a wide experience in such matters. 
 
 " Oh yes," said he, good-naturedly. " How could this 
 makeshift last ? Of course I must be off — but not this 
 minute, or to-morrow. I have started a lot of things in this 
 neighborhood — with Mrs. Bell's money, mind — and I want 
 to see them going smoothly ; then I 'm off." 
 
 She did not speak. Her eyes were distant ; she was 
 scarcely conscious that her heart was so disappointed and 
 heavy. But she was vaguely aware that the life she had 
 been looking forward to in these far solitudes did not seem 
 half so full and rich now. There was some loneliness about 
 it — a vacancy that the mind discerned, but did not know 
 how to fill up. Was it the gloom of the day ? She thought 
 of Allt-nam-Ba in the winter ; it had no longer any charm 
 for her. There was no mischief in her brain now, no pre- 
 tended innocence in her eyes. Something had befallen — 
 she scarcely knew what. And when she followed him into 
 the house, to get the Linnma borealis, that little pathetic 
 droop of the mouth was marked. 
 
 That same afternoon as she was driving home, and just 
 above the little hill that goes down to the bridge adjacent 
 to Lynn Towers, she met the Master, who was coming 
 along on horseback. The drive had been a sombre one 
 somehow, for the skies were gloomy and threatening. But 
 when she saw him, she brightened up, and gave him a very 
 pleasant greeting. 
 
 " You are quite a stranger," said she, as they both 
 stopped. 
 
 " We have had a good many things to attend to at the 
 Towers," he said — as she thought, rather distantly. 
 
 " I hear them talking of having a hare drive some day 
 soon — avv^ay at a great distance, at the highest parts. You 
 will come and help them, I suppose ? " 
 
YOLANDE. 2-23 
 
 "I think I must go in to Inverness, and I may have to 
 bo there for some days." 
 
 "You will come and see us before you go, then?" she 
 inquired, but rather puzzled by the strangeness, almost 
 stiffness, of his manner. 
 
 " I hope so," said he. " I am glad to see you looking 
 so well. I hear they have been having good sport at Allt- 
 nam-Ba. Well, I must not detain you. Good-by." 
 
 " Good-by," and she drove on, wondering. He had not 
 even asked how her father was. But perhaps these busi- 
 ness affairs were weighing on his mind. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE GALE. 
 
 As night fell, the storm that Jack Melville had foreseen 
 began to moan along the upper reaches of the hills ; and 
 from time to time smart torrents of rain came rattling down, 
 until the roar of the confluent streams out there in the dark 
 sounded ominously enough. All through the night, too, the 
 fury of the gale steadily increased ; the gusts of wind 
 sweeping down the gorge shook the small building (although 
 solidly built of stone) to its very foundations ; and even the 
 fierce howling of the hurricane was as nothing to the thun- 
 der of the now swollen waters, that seemed to threaten to 
 carry away the whole place before them. Sleep was 
 scarcely povssible to the inmates of this remote little lodge ; 
 they knew not what might not happen up in this weather- 
 brewing cauldron of a place ; and at last, after an anxious 
 night, and toward the blurred gray of the morning, they 
 must have thought their worst fears were about to be real- 
 ized, for suddenly there was a terrific crash, as if part of 
 the building had given way. Almost instantly every bed- 
 room door was opened : clearly no one had been asleep. 
 And then, through a white cloud of dust, they began to 
 make out what had happened ; and although that was mere- 
 ly the falling in of part of the ceiling of the hall, of course 
 they did not know how much more was likely to come 
 down, and Mr. Winterbourne called to Yolande, sternly 
 
224 YOLANDE. 
 
 forbidding her to stir. John Sliortlands was the first to 
 venture out, and tlirough the cloud of plaster dust he began 
 to make his examinations, furnished with a long broom- 
 handle that he obtained from one of the frightened maids. 
 
 " It is all right," he said. " There are one or two other 
 pieces that must come down ; then the rest will be safe. 
 Yolande, you can go back to bed. What? Well, then, go 
 back and shut your door, anyway, until I get Duncan and 
 the gillies to shovel this stuff away. Don't come out 
 until I tell you." 
 
 John Shorthands then went downstairs, got a cap, and 
 opened the hall door. The spectacle outside was certainly 
 enough to deter any but the bravest. There was no rain, 
 but the raging hurricane seemed to fill the atmospliere with 
 a gray mist, while from time to time a gust would sweep 
 down into the bed of the stream, tear the water there into 
 a white smoke, and then whirl that up the opposite hillside 
 until it was dissolved in the general vapor. But these 
 water-spouts, he quickly perceived, were only formed down 
 there in the opener stretches of the strath, where the gusts 
 could get freely at the bed of the stream ; up here at Allt- 
 nam-Ba there was nothing but the violence of the wind 
 .that came in successive shocks against the lodge, shaking it 
 as if it were in the grip of a vise. 
 
 He ventured out. His first experience was to find his 
 deer-stalking cap, which he greatly prized, whirled from off 
 his head, and sent flying away in the direction of the AUt- 
 cam-Ban. But he was not to be daunted. He went in- 
 doors again and got another;, and then, going out and put- 
 ting his bullet head and his splendid bulk against the wind, 
 he fairly butted his way across to the bothy. 
 
 He found Duncan trying to put up some boards where 
 a window had been blown in ; and an angry man was he 
 when he learned from Mr. Shortlands what had happened 
 at the lodge. 
 
 " The Master will give it him ! " he said, savagely. 
 
 " Whom ? " 
 
 " The plasterer from Inverness, sir. I was telling him 
 it was no use mending and mending, but that it was a whole 
 new ceiling that was wanted, after such a wild winter as 
 the last winter. The Master will be very angry. The 
 young lady might have been hurt." 
 
 "The young lady might have been hurt!" said John 
 Shortlands, ironically. " Yes, I should think so, if she 
 
YOLANDE V 226 
 
 happened to have been passing. But in this part of the 
 country, Duncan, is it only women who are hurt when th€ 
 ceiling of a house falls on them ? The men don't mind ?" 
 
 Duncan was quite impervious to irony, however. He 
 went away to get Sandy and the rest of them to help him 
 in shovelling off the plaster — going out, indeed, into this 
 raging tempest in his shirt sleeves and with a bare head, 
 just as if nothing at all unusual were happening. 
 
 Of course with the inhabitants of the lodge there was no 
 thought of stirring out that day. They built up the fires 
 in the little dining and drawing rooms, and took to books, 
 or the arrangement of flies, or the watching at the window 
 how the gale was still playing its cantrips — tearing at the 
 scant vegetation of the place, and occasionally scooping up 
 one of those vaporous water-spouts from the bed of the 
 stream. Then Yolande managed to do a little bit of house- 
 hold adornment — with some audible grumbling. 
 
 " Dear me," she said, standing at the dining-room fire, 
 " did ever any one see two such untidy persons ? There is 
 a fine row of ornaments for a mantelshelf ! I wonder what 
 madame would say. Let us see : First, some cartridges ; 
 why are they not in the bag? Second, a dog-whistle. Third, 
 some casting-lines. Fourth, a fly-book; well, I will make a 
 little order by putting the casting-lines in the book — " 
 
 " Let them alone, Yolande," her father said, sharply. 
 " You will only make confusion." 
 
 She put them in, nevertheless, and continued her enu- 
 meration : 
 
 " Fifth, some rifle cartridges : and if one were to fall in 
 the fire, what then? Sixth, the stoppers of a fishing-rod. 
 Now, the carelessness of it ! Why does not Duncan take 
 your rod to pieces, Mr. Shortlands, and put in the stopj^ers ? 
 I know where he keeps it — outside the bothy, just over the 
 windows : and think, now, how it must have been shaken 
 last night. Think of the varnish ! " 
 
 " I believe you're right, Yolande," said he ; " but it 
 saves a heap of trouble." 
 
 " Seventh, a little silver fish in a box — a deceitful little 
 beast all covered with hooks. Eighth, a flask, with wliiskcy 
 or some horrid-smelling stuff in it: ah, madame, what 
 w^ould you think ? Then a telescope : well, that is some- 
 thing better; that is something better. AUons^ we will go 
 and look at the .storm." 
 
 Looking out of the window was clear) v impracticable. 
 
226 YOLANDE. 
 
 for the panes were blurred ; but she went to the hall door, 
 opened it, and directed the glass down the valley. She 
 was quite alone ; the others were busy with their books. 
 Then suddenly she called to them, — 
 
 " Come ! come ! There is some one that I can see — oh ! 
 imagine any one fighting against such a storm ! A stranger? 
 Perhaps a friend from England ? Ah, such a day to arrive ! 
 Or perhaps a shepherd ? — no, there are no dogs with 
 him—" 
 
 Well, the appearance of a human being on any day, let 
 alone such a day as this, in this upland strath, was an event 
 and instantly they were all at the door. They could not make 
 him out, much less could they guess on what errand any 
 one, stranger or friend, should be willing to venture himself 
 against such a gale. But that figure away down there kept 
 making headway against the wind. They could see how his 
 form was bent, his head proiecting forward. He was not 
 a shepherd : as Yolande had observed, he had no dogs with 
 him. He was not the Master of Lynn ; that figure belonged 
 to a bigger man than the Master. 
 
 " I'll tell you who it is," said John Shortlands, curtly. 
 " It's Jack Melville. Three to one on it." 
 
 " Oh, the folly ! " Yolande exclaimed, in quite real dis- 
 tress. " He will be blown over a rock." 
 
 '* Not a bit of it," said John Shortlands, to comfort her. 
 " The people about here don't think anything of a squall 
 like this. Look at Duncan there, marching down to dig 
 some potatoes for the cook. A head keeper in the South 
 wouldn't be as good-natured as that, I warrant you. They 
 are much too swell gentlemen there " 
 
 And it was Jack Melville, after all. He was very much 
 blown when he arrived, but he soon recovered breath, and 
 proceeded to say that he had been afraid that the gale 
 might catch the boat and do some mischief. 
 
 "And it has," said he. "It is blown right over to tho 
 other side, and apparently jammed between some rocks. 
 So I have come along to got Donald and one of the gillies 
 to go with me, and we will have it hauled clear up on the 
 land." 
 
 '' Indeed, no ! " Yolande protested, with pleading in her 
 face. " Oh no ! — on such a day why should you go out? 
 Come in and stay with us. What is a boat, then — " 
 
 " But," said he, with a sort of laugh, "I am afraid I am 
 
YOLANDE. 227 
 
 partly responsible for it. I was the last that used the 
 boat." 
 
 " Never mind it," said she : " what is it — a boat ! No, 
 you must not go through the storm again." 
 
 " Oh, but we are familiar with these things up here," 
 said he, good-naturedly. " If you really mean to invite 
 me in, I will come — after Donald and I have gone down 
 to the loch." 
 
 ' Will you? " she said, with her bright face full of wel- 
 come and gladness. 
 
 " I must come back with my report, you know, " said he. 
 " For I am afraid she may have got knocked about ; and if 
 there is any damage, I must make it good." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " Mr. Winterbourne interrupted. 
 
 " Oh, but I must. It is Lord Lynn's boat ; and there 
 are people from whom one is not quick to accept an obliga- 
 tion. But then there are other people," said he, turning to 
 Yolande, ** from whom you can receive any number of 
 favors with great pleasure ; and if you don't mind my stay- 
 ing to lunch with you — if I may invite myself to stay so 
 long—" 
 
 " Do you think I would have allowed you to go away 
 before ? " she said, with a touch of pride in her tone : she 
 had got to know something of Highland ways and customs. 
 
 So he and Donald and two others went away down the 
 glen, and in about a couple of hours came back with the 
 report that the boat was now placed in a secure position, 
 but that it had had two planks stove in, and would have to 
 be sent to Inverness for repair. Jack Melville insisting on 
 taking that responsibility on his own shoulders, although, 
 as a matter of fact, the Master of Lynn had assisted him in 
 dragging the boat up onthe last occasion on which it had been 
 used. As for Yolande, she did not care for any trumpery 
 boat ; was it not enough that their friend should have come 
 to keep them company on this wild and solitary day ? Then 
 there was another thing. She had determined to astonish 
 the gentlemen with the novelty of a hot luncheon, and 
 here was another who would see what the little household 
 could do ! Indeed, it was a banquet. Her father drew 
 pointed attention to the various things (although he was 
 himself far enough from being a gourmand). A venison 
 pasty Jolm Shortlands declared to have been the finest dish 
 he had encountered for many a day. He wished to heavens 
 they coulJ make a salad like that at the Abercorn Club. 
 
228 YOLANDE. 
 
 "Is it not nice to see them so gr.'iteful ? " said she, turi> 
 ing with one of her brightest smiles to the stranger guest. 
 " The poor things ! Ko wonder they are pleased. The 
 other day I climbed away up the hill to surprise them at 
 their lunch — oh, you can not imagine the miserableness oi 
 it! Duncan told me where I should find them. The day 
 was so dull and cold, the clouds low down, and before I 
 was near the top, a rainy drizzle began — " 
 
 " They generally say a drizzling rain in English," her 
 father said. 
 
 " But we are not in England. It is a rainy drizzle in 
 the Highlands, is it not, Mr. Melville?" 
 
 " It does not matter how you take it," he answered ; 
 " but we get plenty of it." 
 
 *' Then the cold wet all around, and the heather wet ; 
 and I went on and on — not a voice — not a sign of any one. 
 Then a dog came running to me — that was Belln — and I 
 said to myself, * Aha, I have found you now ! ' Then we 
 went on; and at last — the spectacle! — the poor people all 
 crouched down in a peat-hag, hiding from the rain ; papa 
 seated on a game-bag that he had put on a stone ; Mr. 
 Shortlands on another ; their coat collars up, the plates on 
 their knees, the knives, forks, cold beef, and bread all wet 
 with the rain — oh, such a picture of miserableness has never' 
 been seen ! Do you wonder that they are grateful, then — 
 do you wonder that they approve — when they have a fire, 
 and a warm room, and dry plates, and dry knives and 
 forks?" 
 
 Indeed they had a very pleasant meal, and the coffee 
 and cigars after it lasted a long time ; for of what good was 
 anything but laziness so long as the wind howled and 
 roared without? All the time, however, Jack Melville was 
 wondering how he could have a few minutes' private talk 
 with Mr. Shortlands; and as that seemed to be becoming 
 less and less probable — for Mr. Winterbourne seemed con- 
 tent to have an idle day there in his easy-chair by the fire, 
 and Yolande was seated on the hearthrug at his knees, quite 
 content to be idle too — he had to adopt a somewhat wild 
 pretext. John Shortlands was describing the newest variety 
 of haramerless gun ; then he spoke of the one he himself 
 had bought just before coming north. Melville pretended 
 a great interest. Was it in the bothy ? Yes. Might they 
 not run over for a couple of minutes ? Yolande protested ; 
 
YOLANDE. 229 
 
 but John Shortlands assented ; so these two ventured out 
 together to fight their way across. 
 
 Instead of going into the central apartment of the bothy, 
 however, where the guns stood on a rack, Melville turned 
 into the next apartment, which was untenanted, and which 
 happened to be warm enough, for Duncan liad just been 
 preparing porridge for the dogs, and a blazing fire still 
 burned under the boiler. 
 
 " I wanted to say a Word to you," 
 
 " I guessed as much. What's your news ? " 
 
 " Well, not very good," said Jack Melville, rather gloom- 
 ily, "and I don't like to be the bearer of bad news. I 
 meant to tell you the other evening, and I could not do it 
 somehow." 
 
 " Oh, out with it, man ! never fear. I like to hear the 
 worst, and then hit it on the head with a hammer if I can. 
 There would have been none of this trouble if I had had 
 my way from the beginning — however that^ neither here 
 nor there." 
 
 " I am afraid I am the bearer of an ultimatum," Mel- 
 ville said. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 It was clear that Melville divi not like this oflSce at all. 
 He kept walking up and down the earthen floor, though 
 the space was limited enough, his brows contracted, his 
 eyes bent on the ground. 
 
 " It is awkward for me," he said, rather impatiently. 
 " I wish I had had nothing to do with it. But you cannot 
 call me an intermeddler, for you yourself put this thing on 
 me ; and — and — Well, it is not my business either to jus- 
 tify or condemn my friend : I can only tell you that I con- 
 sidered it was safest and wisest he should know the true 
 state of affairs. If I have erred in that, well — " 
 
 " I don't think you have," said Shortlands, slowly. " I 
 left it open to your decision — to your knowledge of this 
 young fellow. But I think my decision would, in any case, 
 have been the same." 
 
 " Very well. I think I put the whole matter fairly to 
 him. I told him that he had practically no risk to run of 
 any annoyance, and that the cause of all this trouble, poor 
 wretch, would soon be out of the way ; and then I told him 
 what Mr. Winterbourne had gone through for the sake of 
 his daughter. Well, he did not seem to see it that way. 
 
230 YOLANDE. 
 
 He was quite frank. He said it was a mistaken Quixotism 
 that had been at the bottom of it all." 
 
 " I said so too ; but still " 
 
 " It is a matter of opinion ; it is of no immediate conse- 
 quence," Melville said. " But what he seemed quite re- 
 solved on was that he would not consent to become a party 
 to this secrecy. He says everything must be met and faced. 
 There must be no concealment. In short, Yolande must 
 be told the whole story, so that in "case of any further an- 
 noyance there should be no dread of her discovering it, but 
 only the simple remedy of appealing to a constable." 
 
 John Shortlands considered for a minute or two. 
 
 "I don't know that he isn't quite right," he said, slowly, 
 *' Yes I imagine his position is a fair one. At one time I 
 said the same. I can look at it from his point of view. I 
 think we must admit, as men of the world, that he is per- 
 fectly in the right. But" — and here he spoke a little more 
 quickly — "I can't help speaking what is on my mind ; and 
 I say that if you think of what Winterbourne has done for 
 this girl, this ultimatum, if you call it so, from the fellow 
 who pretends to be her sweetheart, from the fellow who 
 wants her for a wife — well, I call it a — shabby thing! " 
 
 Melville's face flushed. " I am not his judge," he 
 said coldly. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," John Shortlands said ; for his an- 
 ger was of short duration. " I ought to have remembered 
 that this young Leslie is your friend, as Winterbourne is 
 mine. I beg your pardon ; I can do no more." 
 
 " Yes, you can," said Melville in the same measured 
 way. '* I wish you distinctly to understand that I express 
 no opinion whatever on Mr. Leslie's decision ; and I must 
 ask you to remember that 1 certainly can not be supposed 
 to approve of it simply because I am a messenger." 
 
 " Quite so — quite so ; I quite understand," John Shor^ 
 lands said. " The least said the easiest mended. Let's see 
 what is to be done. I suppose there was no doubt in his 
 mind — no hesitation ? " 
 
 « None." 
 
 " It would be no good trying to talk him over ? " 
 
 "I, for one, will not attempt it. Xo, his message was 
 distinct. I think you may take it as final. Perhaps I ought 
 to add that he may have been influenced by the fact that 
 his people at the Towers seem to have been quarrelling 
 with him about this marriage, and he has not the best of 
 
VOLANDE, 231 
 
 tempers at times, and I think he feels injured. However, 
 that is not part of my message. My message was distinct, 
 as I say. It was, in fact, an ultimatum." 
 
 " Poor Winterbourne ! " John Shortlands said, absently. 
 " I wonder what he will look like when I tell him. All 
 his labor and care and anxiety gone for nothing. I sup- 
 pose I must tell him ; there must be an explanation ; I dare 
 say that young fellow won't come near the lodge now until 
 there is an understanding. Winterbourne will scarcely be- 
 lieve me. Poor devil — all his care and anxiety gone for 
 nothing ! I don't mind about her so much. Slie has pluck ; 
 she'll face it. But Winterbourne — I wonder what his face 
 will look like to-night when I tell him." 
 
 " Well, I have done my best and my worst, I suppose 
 however it turns out," said Jack Melville, after a second oi 
 two. " And now I will bid you good-by." 
 * But you are going into the house ? " 
 " No," 
 
 *' No ? *' said the other, in astonishment. '* You'll bid 
 them good-by, I suppose ? " 
 
 '' I cannot ! " said Melville, turning himself away in a 
 manner. " Why, to look at that girl — and to think of the 
 man she is going to marry having no more regard for her 
 than to — " But be suddenly recalled himself : this was 
 certainly not maintaining his attitude of impartiality. 
 *' Yes," said he, " I suppose I must go in to bid them good- 
 by." 
 
 They were loath to let him depart, Mr. Winterbourne, 
 indeed, wishing him to remain for dinner and stay the 
 night. But they could not prevail on him ; and soon he 
 was making his way with his long strides down the glen, 
 the gale now assisting instead of impeding his progress, 
 John Shortlands (who was apt to form sudden and rather 
 violent prepossessions and prejudices) was looking after him, 
 as the tall figure grew more and more distant. 
 
 " There goes a man," he was saying to himself ; " and I 
 wish to heavens be would kick that hound I " 
 
282 YOLANDE. 
 
 HAPTER XXIX. 
 
 SURMISES. 
 
 The gale was followed by heavy rain ; there was no %o- 
 ing out the next day. But indeed it was not of shooting 
 that those two men were thinking. 
 
 " He might have spared her ! he might have spared her ! " 
 was Mr. Winterboiirne's piteous cry, as he sat in his friend's 
 room and gazed out through the streaming window-panes 
 on the dismal landscape beyond. 
 
 And who was to tell her ? Who was to bring grief and 
 humiliation on that fair young life ? Who was to rob her 
 of that beautiful dream and vision that her mother had al- 
 ways been to her ? Not he, for one. He could not do it. 
 
 . And then (for he was a nervous, apprehensive man, al- 
 ways ready to conjure up distressing possibilities) might 
 she not misunderstand all this that had been done to keep 
 her in ignorance ? Might she not be angry at having all her 
 life been surrounded by an atmosphere of concealment ? If 
 she were to mistake the reason of her father's having 
 stooped to subterfuge and deceit ? Was Yolande going to 
 despise him, then — she, the only being in the world whose 
 opinion he cared for ? And always his speculations and fears 
 and anxious conjectures came back to this one point, — 
 
 "He might have spared her! he might have spared 
 her!" 
 
 " Now look here, Winterbourne," John Shortlands said, 
 in his plain-spoken way. " If I were you before I would 
 say a word of this story to Yolande I would make sure that 
 that would be sufficient for him. I don't know. I am not 
 sure. He says that Yolande must be told ; but will that 
 suffice ? Is that all he wants ? If I were in your place I 
 would have a clear understanding. Do you know, I can't 
 help thinking there is something behind all this that hasn't 
 come out. If this young fellow is really in earnest about 
 Yolande — if he is really fond of her — I don't think he 
 would put this stumbling-block in the way, I don't think 
 he would exact this sacrifice from you, unless there were 
 some other reason. Yesterday afternoon Melville said as 
 
YOLANDE. 233 
 
 Jittle as he could. He didn't like the job. But he hinted 
 something about a disagreement between young Leslie and 
 his family over this marriage." 
 
 " I guessed as much," said Mr. Winterbourne. " Yes, 
 I have suspected it for some time. Otherwise I suppose 
 his father and aunt would have called on Yolande. They 
 know each other. Yolande stayed a night at the Towers 
 when Mrs. Graham first brought her here — until the lodge 
 was got ready." 
 
 " Of course if the fellow has any pluck, he won't let 
 that stand in his way. In the meantime, a domestic row 
 isn't pleasant, and I dare say he is impatient and angry. 
 Why should he revenge himself on Yolande, one might ask ? 
 But that is not the fair way of putting it. I can see one 
 explanation. I didn't see it yesterday ; and the fact is, I 
 got pretty wild when I learned how matters stood, and my 
 own impression was that kicking was a sight too good for 
 him. I have been thinking over it since, though : the rain 
 last night kept me awake. And now I can understand his 
 saying, ' Well, I mean to marry in spite of them ; but I will 
 take care, before I marry, to guard against any risk of 
 their being able to taunt me afterward.' And then, no 
 doubt, he may have had some sort of notion that, when 
 there was no more concealment, when every one knew how 
 matters stood, some steps might be taken to prevent the 
 recurrence of — of — you know. Well, there is something in 
 that. I don't see that the young fellow is so unreasonable." 
 
 Mr. Winterbourne was scarcely listening, his eyes looked 
 haggard and wretched. 
 
 " When I took this shooting," he said, absently, " when 
 the place was described to me, on the voyage out, I thought 
 to myself that surely there Yolande and T would be safe 
 from all anxiety and trouble. And then again, up the Nile, 
 day after day I used to think of her being married and 
 settled in this remote place, and used to say to myself that 
 then at last everything would be right. And here we are 
 face to face with more trouble than ever." 
 
 *' Nonsense, man! nonsense!" John Shortlands said, 
 cheerfully. " You exaggerate things. I thought this moun- 
 tain work would have given you a better nerve. Every- 
 thing will be right — in time. Do you expect the young 
 people never to have any trouble at all ? I tell you every- 
 thing will be right — in time. You pull up your courage ; 
 there is nothing so dreadful about it ; and the end is certain 
 
234 YOLANDE. 
 
 — wedding bells, old slippers, speeches, and a thundering 
 headache tlie next morning after confectioner's champagne. 
 
 The liaggard eyes did not respond. 
 
 " And who is to teH her? The shock will be terrible- 
 it may kill her." 
 
 " Nonsense ! nonsense ! Whoever is to tell her, it must 
 not be yon. You would make such a fuss; you would 
 make it far more desperate than it is. Why, yon might 
 frighten her into declaring that she would not marry — that 
 she would not ask her husband to run the risk of some pub- 
 lic scandal. Tiiat would be a pretty state of affairs — and 
 not unlikely on the part of a proud, spirited girl like that. 
 No, no ; whoever tells her must put the matter in its proper 
 light. It is nothing so very desj)erate. It will turn out all 
 right. And you for one should be very glad that the Master, 
 as you call him, now knows the whole story ; for after the 
 marriage, whatever happens, he cannot come back on you 
 and say you had deceived him. 
 
 *' After the marriage ! And what sort of a happy life 
 is Yolandc likely to lead when his relatives object to her 
 already ? " \ 
 
 " Tliere ycm are off again ! More difficulties I Why, 
 man, these things must be taken as they come. You don't 
 know that they *ibject, and I don't believe they can object 
 to her, though thft old gentleman mayn't quite like the color 
 of your politics. /But supposing they do, what's the odds? 
 They can't interfere. You will settle enough on Yolande 
 to let the young/couple live comfortably enough until the 
 old gentleman and his sister arrive at common sense — or 
 the churchyard. I don't see any difficulty about it. If 
 only those people were to marry whose friends and relatives 
 on both sides approved, you might just as well cut the 
 Marriage Service out of the Prayer-book at once." 
 
 This was all that was said at the time, and it must be 
 admitted that it left Mr. Winterbourne pretty much in the 
 same mood of anxious perturbation. His careworn face 
 instantly attracted Yolande's notice, and she asked him what 
 was the matter. He answered that there was nothing the 
 matter, except the dulness of the day perhaps, and for the 
 moment she was satisfied. But she was not long satisfied. 
 She became aware that there was trouble somewhere; 
 there was a kind of constraint in the social atmosphere of 
 the house; she even found the honest and hearty John 
 Shortlands given to moody staring into the fire. So she 
 
I 
 
 YOLANDE. 235 
 
 went to her own room, and sat down and wrote the follow- 
 ing note : — 
 
 *' Allt-nam-Ba. Friday. 
 " My deak Akchie, — We are all in a state of dreadful 
 depression here, on account of the bad weather, and the 
 gentlemen shut up witli nothing to do. Please, please take 
 pity on us, and come along to dinner at seven. Last night, 
 in spite of the gale, Duncan played the * Hills of Lynn' out- 
 side after dinner, and it seemed a kind of message that you 
 ought to have been here. I believe the gentlemen have 
 iBxed next Tuesday, if the weather is fine, for the driving 
 of the hares on the far-off heights : and I know they expect 
 you to go with them ; and we have engaged a whole crowd 
 of shepherds and others to help in the beating. There is 
 to be a luncheon where the Uska-nan-Shean, as Duncan 
 calls it, but I am afraid the spelling is not right, comes into 
 the AUt Crom, and it will not be difficult for me to reach 
 there, so that I can see how you have been getting on. Do 
 ou know that Monaglen is for sale ? — what a joy it will 
 e if Mr. Melville should get it back again after all ! that 
 w^ill indeed be * Melville's Welcome Home ! " 5fou will 
 make us all very happy if you will come along at seven, 
 and spend the evening with us. Yours affectionately. 
 
 " YoLANDE." 
 
 She sent this out to be taken to Lynn Towers by one of 
 the gillies, who was to wait for an answer ; and in some- 
 thing more than an hour the lad on the sturdy little black 
 pony brought back this note : 
 
 " Lynn Towers, Friday ^ afternoon. 
 " Dear Yolande, — I regret very much that I cannot 
 dine with you to-night ; and as for Tuesday, I am afraid 
 that will be also impossible, as I go to Inverness to-morrow. 
 I hope they will have a good day. Yours sincerely, 
 
 " A. Leslie." 
 
 She regarded this answer at first with astonishment ; 
 then she felt inclined to laugh. 
 
 '*Look at this, then, for a love-letter I " she said to 
 herself. 
 
 But by and by she began to attach more importance 
 to it. The coldness of it seemed studied ; yet she had dono 
 nothing that she knew of to offend him. What was amiss ? 
 Could he be dissatisfied with her conduct in any direction? 
 
236 YOLANDE. 
 
 She had tried to be most kind to him, as was her duty, and 
 until quite recently they had been on most friendly terms. 
 What had she done ? Then she began to form the suspi- 
 cion that her father and John Shortlands were concealing 
 something — she knew not what — from her. Had it any- 
 thing to do with the Master ? Had it anything to do with 
 the singular circumstance that not even the most formal 
 visiting relationship had been established between Lynn 
 Towers and the lodge ? Why did her father seem disturbed 
 when she proposed to send a haunch of venison to the Tow 
 ers — the most common act of civility? 
 
 It was strange that, with these disquieting surmises go- 
 ing on in her brain, she should think of seeking information 
 and counsel, not from her father nor from Mr. Shortlands, 
 nor from the Master of Lynn, but from Jack Melville. It 
 was quite spontaneously and naturally that she thought she 
 would like to put all her difficulties before him ; but on re- 
 flection she justified herself to herself. He was most likely 
 to know, being on friendly terms with everybody. If there 
 was nothing to disquiet her — nothing to reproach herself 
 with — he was just the person to laugh the whole thing 
 away, and send her home satisfied. She could trust him. 
 He did not treat her quite so much as a child as the others 
 did. Even when he spoke bluntly to her, in his school- 
 masterish way, she had a vague and humorous suspicion 
 that he was quite aware that their companionship was much 
 more on a common footing than all that came to ; and that 
 she submitted because she thought it pleased him. Then 
 she had got to believe that he would do much for her. If 
 she asked him to tell her honestly what he knew, 
 he would. The others might try to hide things from her ; 
 they might wish to be considerate toward her ; they might 
 be afraid of wounding her sensitiveness ; whereas she 
 knew that if she went to John Melville he would speak 
 straight to her, for she had arrived at the still further con- 
 clusion that he knew he could trust her, as she trusted him. 
 Altogether, it was a dangerous situtation. 
 
 Next morning had an evil and threatening look about it ; 
 but fortunately there was a brisk breeze, and towards noon 
 that had so effectually swept the clouds over that the long 
 wide valley was filled with bright warm sunshine. Yolande 
 resolved to drive in to Gress. There was no game to takf 
 to Foyers ; but there were two consignments of household 
 materials from Inverness to be fetched from Whitebridge. 
 
YOLANDE. 237 
 
 Besides, she wanted to know what Mrs. Bell had done 
 about Monaglen and the lawyers. And besides, she want- 
 ed to know where Alchemilla arvensis ended and A. alpina 
 began ; for she had got one or two varieties that seemed to 
 come in between, and she had all a beginner's faith in the 
 strict lines of species. There was, in short, an abundance 
 of reasons. 
 
 On arriving at Gress, however, she found that Mr. 
 Melville, having finished his forenoon work in the school, 
 had gone off to his electric storehouse away up in the hills ; 
 and so she sent on the dog-cart to Whitebridge, and was 
 content to wait awhile with Mrs. Bell. 
 
 " ril just send him a message, and he'll come down 
 presently." 
 
 ** Oh no, please don't ; it is a long way to send any one," 
 Yolande protested. 
 
 " It's no a long way to send a wee bit flash o' fire, or 
 whatever it is that sets a bell ringing up there," said the 
 old dame. " It's wonderful, his devices' Sometimes I think 
 it's mair than naitural. Over there, in the laboratory, he 
 has got a kind of ear-trumpet ; and if you take out the stop- 
 per, and listen in quateness, you'll hear every word that's 
 going on in the school." 
 
 ** That is what they call a telephone, I suppose ? " 
 
 " The very thing ! " said Mrs. Bell, as she left the room 
 to send a message to him. 
 
 When she came back she was jubilant. 
 
 " My dear young leddy, I am that glad to see ye ! I've 
 sent the letter." 
 
 " What letter?" 
 
 *' To the lawyers. Oh, I was a lang, lang time thinking 
 o't, for they lawyers are kittle cattle to deal wi' ; and I 
 kenned fine if I was too eager tliey would jalouse what I 
 was after, and then they would be up to their pranks, So 
 I just telled them that I did not want Monaglen for mysel' 
 — whicli is as true's the Gospel — but that if they happened 
 to hear what was the lowest price that would be taken, they 
 might send me word, in case I should come across a custo- 
 mer for them. It doesna do to be too eager about a bar- 
 gain, especially wi' they lawyers ; it's just inviting tliem to 
 commit a highway robbery on ye." 
 
 "If Mr. "Melville," said Yolande, quickly, "were to 
 have Monaglen, he would still remain in this neighborhood^ 
 then ? " 
 
238 • YOLANDE. 
 
 " Nae doot about that ! It'll be a' a man's wark to put 
 the place to rights again ; for the factor is a puir body, and 
 the young gentleman never came here — he has plenty else- 
 where, I have been told." 
 
 " Mr. Melville would still be living here ? " said Yolande, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " At Monaglen, ay, and it's no so far away. But it will 
 mak* a difference to me," the old dame said, with a sigh. 
 " For I have got used to his ways about the hoose, and it 
 will seem empty like." 
 
 *' Then you will not go to Monaglen ? " 
 
 "'Deed, no ; that would never do. I wouldna like to go 
 as a servant, for I have been living too long in idleness ; 
 and I couldna go back in any other kind of a way, fori ken 
 my place. Na, na ; I will just bide where I am, and I will 
 keep £220 a year or thereabouts for myseP ; and wi' that I 
 can mak' ends meet brawly, in spite o' they spend rif hus- 
 sies." 
 
 These romantic projects seemed to have a great fascinar 
 tion for this good dame (who had seen far less that was at- 
 tractive in the prospect of being given away in marriage by 
 a famous duke), and she and Yolande kept on talking about 
 them with much interest, until a step outside on the gravel 
 caused the color to rush to the girl's face. She did not 
 know that when she rose on his entrance. She did not know 
 that she looked embarrassed, because she did not feel em- 
 barrassed. Always she had a sense of safety in his pres- 
 ence. She had not to watch her words, or think of what he 
 was thinking of what she was saying. And on this occa- 
 sion she did not even make the pretence of having come 
 about Alclhemilla alpma. She aj)ologized for having brought 
 him down from his electric works, asked him if he would 
 take a turn in the garden for a minute or two, as she had 
 something to say to him, and then went out, he following. 
 She did not notice that when she made this last remark his 
 face looked rather grave. 
 
 "Mr. Leslie went to Inverness this morning? " she said, 
 when they were out in the garden. 
 
 " Yes ; he looked in as he was passing." 
 
 " Do you know why he went ? " 
 
 " Well," said he ; "I believe they have been having 
 ■ome dispute about the marches of the forest ; but I am 
 told it is to be all amicably settled. I fancy Archie is going 
 to have the matter squared up in Inverness." 
 
YOLANDE. 239 
 
 She hesitated then. She took up a flower, regarded it 
 for a second, and then looked him fair in the face. 
 
 " Mr. Melville," said she, " do you think it strange that 
 I ask you this question ? — you are Mr. Leslie's friend : is he 
 offended with me ? " 
 
 His eyes were looking at hers too — rather watchfully. 
 He was on his guard. 
 
 ** I have not the slightest reason to suppose that he is," 
 wns the answer, given with some earnestness, for he was 
 glad to find the question so simple. 
 
 " None? I have not done anything that he could com- 
 plain of — to you or to any one ? " 
 
 " I assure you I never heard him breathe a word of the 
 kind. Besides," added he, with a very unusual warmth in 
 his pale cheeks, " I wouldn't listen. No man could be such 
 a coward — " 
 
 " Oh, pljase don't think that I am angry," she said, with 
 earnest entreaty. " Please don't think I have to complain. 
 Oh no ! But every one knows what mischief is wrought 
 sometimes by mistake; some one being offended and not 
 giving a chance of explanation ; and — I was only anxious 
 to be assured that I had done nothing to vex him. His 
 going away without seeing us seemed so strange — yes ; and 
 also his not coming of late to the lodge ; and — and my papa 
 seems to be troubled about something ; so that I became 
 anxious ; and I knew you would tell me the truth, if no one 
 else would. And it is all right then ? There is no reason 
 to be disturbed, to I'e anxious ? " 
 
 He was disturbed, at all events, and sorely perplexed. 
 He dared not meet her eyes ; they seemed to read him 
 through and through when he ventured to look up. 
 
 " Don't imagine for a moment that you have anything 
 to reproach yourself with — not for a moment," he said. 
 
 " Has any one, then ? " 
 
 *' Wliy, ne. But — but — well, I will be honest with you, 
 Yolande : there has been a little trouble — at the Towers. 
 The old people are not easy to please ; and — and Archie has 
 too much spirit to allow you to be dragged into a contro- 
 versy, you see ; and as they don't get on very well together, 
 T suppose he is glad to get off a few days to Inverness." 
 
 "Ah, I understand," she said, slowly. " That is some- 
 thing to know. But why did he not tell me ? Does he 
 think I am afraid of a little trouble like that? Does he 
 think I should be frightened ? Oh no. When I make a 
 
240 YOLANDE. 
 
 promise, it is not to break it. He should have trusted me 
 more than that. Ah, I am sorry he has to go away oa 
 my account. Why did he not speak ? It is strange." 
 
 And then she regarded him with those clear, beautiful, 
 contemplatire eyes of hers. 
 
 " Have you told me everything ? ** 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 " No. There is more. There is more to account for 
 my papa's trouble — for his going away this morning. And 
 why do I come to you ? — because I know that what you 
 know you will tell to me. You have been my friend since 
 ever we came to this place." 
 
 He could no.t withstand her appeal ; and yet he dared 
 not reveal a secret which was not his own. 
 
 " Yolande," said he, and he took her hand to emphasize 
 his words, " there is more ; but it is not I who must tell 
 you. What I can tell you, and what I hope you will be- 
 lieve, is that you are in no way the -cause of anything that 
 may have happened. You have nothing to reproach your- 
 self with. And any little trouble there may be will be re- 
 moved in time, no doubt. When you have done your best, 
 what more can you do ? * The rest is with the gods.' " 
 
 It is just possible that she might have begged him to 
 make a candid confession of all that he knew — for she had 
 a vague fear that she herself was the cause of that anxiety 
 which she saw too visibly in her father's looks — but at this 
 moment the dog-cart drove up to the front gate, and she 
 had to go. She bade him, and also Mrs. Bell, good-by al- 
 most in silence ; she went away thoughtfully. And as he 
 watched her disappear along the high-road — the warm 
 westering light touching the red gold of her hair — he was 
 thoughtful too ; and his heart yearned toward her with a 
 great pity ; and there was not much that this man would 
 not have done to save her from the shadow that was about 
 lo fall on her young life. 
 
YOLANDE, 241 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 "dabb all." 
 
 Uk could not rest, somehow. He went into the labora- 
 tory and looked vacantly around ; the objects there seemed 
 to have no interest for him. Then he went back to the 
 house — into the room where he had found her standing ; 
 and that had more of a charm for him ; the atmosphere 
 still seemed to bear the perfume of her presence, the music 
 of her voice still seemed to hang in the air. She had left 
 on the table — she had forgotten, indeed — a couple of boards 
 enclosing two specimens of the Alchemilla. These he 
 turned over, regarding with some attention the pretty, 
 quaint French handwriting at the foot of the page: 
 *' Alchemilla alpina. Alpine Lady^s-mantle, Allt-^tam-JBa, 
 September^ 188-." But still his mind was absent ; he was 
 following in imagination the girl herself, going awa}^ along 
 the road there, alone, to meet the revelation that was to 
 alter her life. 
 
 And was he to stand by idle ? Was he going to limit 
 himself to the part he had been asked to play — that of 
 mere message-bearer ? Could he not do something ? Was 
 he to be dominated by the coward fear of being called an 
 intermeddler? He had not pondered over all this matter 
 (with a far deeper interest than he himself imagined) with- 
 out result. He had his own views, his own remedy; he 
 knew what counsel he would give, if he dared intervene. 
 And why should he not dare ? He thought of the expres- 
 sion of her face as she had said, with averted eyes, " Good- 
 by ! " and then, why, then, a sudden impulse seized him 
 that somehow and at once he must get to AUt-nam-Ba, and 
 that before she should meet her father. 
 
 He snatched up his hat and went quickly out and 
 through the little front garden into the road ; tliere he 
 paused. Of course he could not follow her ; she must needs 
 see him coming up the wide strath ; and in that case what 
 excuse could he give ? But what if the shooting party 
 had not yet come down from tlie hill ? Might ho not in- 
 tercej^t them somewhere ? Sometimes, when they had b'^'O 
 
242 YOLANDE. 
 
 taking the far tops in search of a ptarmigan or two, they 
 came home late — to be scolded by the young hou8e-mistre88 
 for keeping dinner back. Well, the result of these rapid 
 calculations was tliat the next minute he had set out to 
 climb, with a swiftness that was yet far too slow for the 
 eagerness of his wishes, the steep and rough and rugged 
 hills that stretch away up to the neighborhood of Lynn 
 forest. 
 
 First it was over peat bog and rock, then through a 
 tangled undergrowth of young birches, then up through 
 some precipitous gullies, until at last he had gained the 
 top, and looked abroad over the forest — that wide,desolate, 
 silent wilderness. Not a creature stirred, not even the 
 chirp of a chaffinch broke the oppressive stillness ; it 
 seemed a world of death. But he had no time to take 
 note of such matters ; besides, the solitude of a deer forest 
 was familiar to him. He held along by the hilltop, some- 
 times having to descend into sharp little gullies and clamber 
 up again, until, far below him, he came in sight of Lynn 
 Towers and the bridge, and the stream, and the loch ; and 
 onward still he kept his way, until the strath came in view, 
 with Allt-nam-Ba, and a pale blue smoke rising from the 
 chimneys into the still evening air. Probably Yolande had 
 got home by that time ; perhaps she might be out and walk- 
 ing round the place, talking to the dogs in the kennel, and so 
 forth. So he kept rather back from the edge of the hill- 
 top, so that he should not be descried, and in due time ar- 
 rived at a point overlooking the junction of three glens, 
 down one of which the shooting people, if they had not 
 already reached the lodge, were almost certain to come. 
 
 He looked and waited however, in vain, and he was com- 
 ing to the conclusion that they must have already passed 
 and gone on to the lodge, when he fancied he saw some- 
 thing move behind some birch bushes on the hillside 
 beyond the glen. Presently he made out what it was — a 
 pony grazing, and gradually coming more and more into 
 view. Then he reflected that the pony could only be there 
 for one purpose ; that probably the attendant gillie and the 
 panniers were hidden from sight behind those birches ; 
 and that, if it were so, the shooting party had not returned, 
 and were bound to come back that way. A very few 
 minutes of furtlier waiting proved his conjecture to be 
 right, a scattered group of people, with dogs in to heel, ap- 
 pearing on the crest of the hill opposite. Then he had no 
 
YOLANDE. 248 
 
 further doubt. Down this slope he went at headlong speed, 
 crossed the rushing burn by sprniging from boulder to 
 boulder, scrambled up through the thick brushwood and 
 heather of the opposite banks, and very soon encountered 
 the returning party, who were now watching the panniers 
 being put on the pony's back. 
 
 Now that he had intercepted Mr Winterbourne, there 
 was no need for hurry. He could take time to recover his 
 breath, and also to bethink himself as to how he should 
 approach this difficult matter ; and then, again, he did not 
 wish those people to imagine that he had come on any 
 important errand. And so the conversation, as the pony 
 w^as being loaded, was all about the day's sport. They 
 had done very well, it appeared ; the birds had not yet got 
 wild, and there was no sign of packing ; they had got a 
 couple of teal and a golden plover, which was something of 
 a variety ; also they had had the satisfaction of seeing a 
 large eagle — which Duncan declared to be a Golden Eagle — 
 at unusually close quarters. 
 
 Then they set out for home ; Duncan and the gillies 
 making away for a sort of ford by which they could get 
 the pony across the Dun Water, while the three others 
 took a nearer way to the lodge by getting down through a 
 gully to the Corrie-an-eich, where there was a swing-bridge 
 across the burn. When they had got to the bridge, Mel- 
 ville stopped him. 
 
 " I am not going on with you to the lodge," said he. 
 " Mr Wintebourne, I have seen your daughter this after- 
 noon. She is troubled and anxious ; and I thought I'd 
 come along and have a word with you. I hope you will 
 forgive me for thrusting myself in where I may not be wanted 
 but — but it is not always the right thing to " pass by on 
 the other side." I couldn't in this case." 
 
 " I am sure we are most thankful to you for what you 
 have done already," Yolande's father said, promptly ; and 
 then he added, with a weary look in his face, "and what is 
 to be done now I don't know. I cannot bring myself to do 
 this that Leslie demands. It is too terrible. I look at the 
 girl — well, it does not bear speaking of." 
 
 *' Look here,Winterbourne," John Shortlands said, " I 
 am going to leave you two together. I will wait for you 
 on the other side. But I would advise you to listen w^ell 
 to anything that Mr Melville has to say ; I have my own 
 
244 YOLANDE. 
 
 "What I want to know, first of all," Mr Winterbourne 
 fiaid, with a kind of despair in his voice, " is whether you 
 are certain that the Master will insist ? Why should he ? 
 How could it matter to him ? I thought we had done every- 
 thing when we let him know. Why should Yolande know? 
 Why make her miserable to no end ? Look what has been 
 done to keep this knowledge from her all through these 
 years ; and you can see the result in the gayety of her 
 heart. Would she have been like that if she had known — 
 if she had always been thinking of one who ought to be near 
 her, and perhaps blaming herself for holding aloof from 
 her ? She would have been quite different ; she would have 
 been old in sadness by this time ; whereas she has never; 
 known what a care was. Mr. Melville, you are his friend 
 you know him better than any of us. Don't you think there 
 is some chance of reasoning with him, and inducing him to 
 forego this demand ? It seems so hard." 
 
 The suffering that this man was undergoing was terrible. 
 His question formed almost a cry of entreaty, and Jack 
 Melville could scarcely bring himself to answer in what he 
 well knew to be the truth. 
 
 " I cannot deceive you," he said, after a second. 
 " There is no doubt that Leslie's mind is made up on the 
 point. When I undertook to carry his message, he more 
 than once repeated his clear decision — " 
 
 " But why ? What end will it serve ? How could it 
 matter to them — living away from London? How could 
 they be harmed ? " 
 
 " Mr. Winterbourne," said the other, with something of a 
 clear emphasis, "when I reported Leslie's decision to Mr. 
 Shoj-tlands, as I was asked to do, I refused to defend it — or to 
 attack it, for that matter — and J would rather not do so now. 
 What I might think right in the same case, what you 
 might think right, does not much matter. I told Mr. Short- 
 lands that perhaps we did not kuow everything that might 
 lead to such a decision ; Leslie has not been on good terms 
 with his father and aunt, and lie thinks he is being badly 
 used. There may be other things ; I do not know." 
 
 *' And how do we know that it will suffice ? " the other 
 Baid. " How do we know that it will satisfy him and his 
 people ? Are we to inflict all this pain and sorrow on the 
 girl, and then wait to see whether that is enough? " 
 
 " It is not what I would do," said Jack Melville, who 
 had not come here for nothing. 
 
 4 
 
YOLANDE. 246 
 
 " "What would you do, then ? Can you suggest any. 
 thing ?" her father said, eagerly. '* Ah, you little know- 
 how we should value any one who could remove this thing 
 from us !" 
 
 '' What I would do ? Well, I will tell you. I would go 
 to that girl, and I would see how much of the woman is in 
 lier ; I think you will find enough ; I would say to her, 
 " There is your mother ; that is the condition she has sunk 
 into through those accursed drugs. Every means has 
 been tried to save her without avail — every means save 
 one. It is for you to go to her — you yourself — alone. Who 
 knows what resurrection of will and purpose may not arise 
 within her when it is her own daughter who stands before 
 her and appeals to her — when it is her own daughter who 
 will be by her side during the long struggle ? That is 
 your duty as a daughter : will you do it?" If I know the 
 girl, you will not have to say more." 
 
 The wretched man opposite seemed almost to recoil 
 from him in his dismay. " Good God !" he muttered, and 
 there was a sort of blank, vague terror in his face, Melville 
 stood silent and calm, awaiting an answer. 
 
 " It is the suggestion of a devil," said this man, who 
 was quite aghast, and seemed scarcely to comprehend the 
 whole thing just yet, " or else of an angel ; why — " 
 
 " It is the suggestion neither of a devil nor an angel," 
 said Melville, calmly, " but of a man who has read a few 
 medical books." 
 
 The other, with the half horror-stricken look in his. eyes, 
 seemed to be thinking hard of all that might happen ; and 
 his two hands clasped together over the muzzle of his gun, 
 which was resting on the ground, were trembling. ^ 
 
 " Oh, it is impossible — impossible !" he cried at length 
 "It is inhuman. You have not thought of it sufficiently. 
 My girl to go through that I — have you considered wliat 
 you are proposing to subject her to ?" 
 
 " I have considered," Jack Melville said (perhaps with a 
 passing qualm ; for there w^as a pathetic cry in this man's 
 voice). " And I have thought of it sufiiciently, I hope. I 
 would not have dared to make the suggestion without the 
 most anxious consideration." 
 
 " And you would subject Yolande to that f " 
 
 " No," said the other, "I would not. I would not sub- 
 
 i'ect her to anything ; I would put the case before her, and I 
 :now what her own answer would be. I don't think anj 
 
246 YOLANDE. 
 
 one would have to use prayers and entreaties. I don*t 
 think it would be necessary to try much persuasion. I say 
 this — put the case before her, and I will stake my head I 
 can tell what her answer will be — what her decision will 
 be — yes, and before you have finished your story !" 
 
 ** And to go alone — " 
 
 " She will not be afraid." 
 
 He seemed to have a very prof'^nnd conviction of his 
 knowledge of this girl's nature ; and there was a kind of 
 pride in the way he spoke. 
 
 " But why alone ? " pleaded the father — he seemed to 
 be imagining all kinds of things with those haggard eyes. 
 
 " I would not have the mental shock lessened by the 
 presence of any one. I would have no possible suspicion 
 of a trap, a bait, a temptation. I would have it between 
 these two : the daughter's appeal to her mother. I am not 
 afraid of the result." 
 
 " She could not. My girl to go away by herself ! — she 
 could not ; it is too terrible." 
 
 " Try her." 
 
 " She has never travelled alone. Why, even to go to 
 London by herself — " 
 
 *' Oh, but that has nothing to do with it. That is not 
 what I mean at all. As for that, her maid would go with 
 her as a matter of course ; and Mr. Shorthands might see her 
 as far as London if he is going south shortly, as I hear. 
 She could put up at one or other of the hotels that she has 
 already stayed at with you. Then you would give her the 
 address and leave the rest to her.^^ 
 
 " You have been thinking over this, Mr. Winterbourne 
 said. " I have not. I am rather bewildered about it." 
 Shall we ask Shortlands ? " 
 
 " If you wish. But first let me explain, Mr. Winter- 
 bourne. As 1 understand, several arrangements have been 
 made with this poor woman — only, unhappily, to be broken 
 by her. Well, now, why I want Yolande to go alone — if 
 you think the experiment should be tried at all — is to 
 prevent suspicion in the poor woman's mind. I would have 
 no third person. It should be a matter between the two 
 i»romen themselves : and Yolande must insist on seeing her 
 mother alone." 
 
 " Insist ! Yes, and insist with two such wretches as 
 those Romfords ! Why, the man might insult her ; h« 
 might lay hands on her, and force her out of the house." 
 
YOLANDE. 247 
 
 Melville's pale, dark face grew dark at this, and his eyes 
 had a sudden, sharp fire in them. 
 
 " She must have a policeman waiting outside," he said, 
 curtly. " And her maid must go inside with her, but not 
 necessarily into the room." 
 
 " And then, " said Mr. Winterbourne, who was appar- 
 ently picturing all this before his mind ; " supposing she 
 were to get her mother away with her, what then ? " 
 
 " She would take her back to the hotel. Siie must have 
 a private sitting-room, of course. Then, in two or three 
 days' time, when she had got the necessary travelling things 
 for her mother, she would take her down to some quiet sea- 
 side place — Eastbourne, or Bournemouth, or some such 
 place — and get rooms there. The two women would get to 
 know each other that way ; Yolande would aways be with 
 her ; her constant society would be her mother's safeguard." 
 
 " You have thought of everything — you have thought of 
 everything," the father murmured. " Well, let us see what 
 Shortlands says. It is a terrible risk. I am not hopeful 
 myself. The thing is, is it fair to bring all this distress and 
 suffering on the girl on such a remote chance ? " 
 
 '* You must judge of tliat," said Melville. " You asked 
 me what I would do. I have told you." 
 
 Mr. Winterbourne was about to step on to the bridge, 
 across which only one could go at a time ; but he suddenly 
 turned back, and said, with some earnest- emphasis, to the 
 younger man : 
 
 *' Do not imagine that because I hesitate I think any the 
 less of your thoughtf ulness. Not many would have done as 
 much. Whatever happens, I know what your intentions 
 were towards us." He took Melville's hand for a moment, 
 and pressed it. " And I thank you for her sake and for my 
 own. May God bless you ! " 
 
 When they got to the otlier side they found John Short- 
 lands seated on a boulder of granite, smoking a cigar. He 
 was not much startled by this proposal, for Melville had 
 mentioned something of the kind to him, in an interjectional 
 gort of fashion, some time before, and he had given it a brief 
 but rather unfavorable consideration. Now, as they talked 
 the matter over, it appeared that he stood about midway be- 
 tween these two, having neither the eager enthusiasm of Jack 
 Melville nor yet the utter hopelessness of his friend Winter- 
 bourne. 
 
 " If you think It is worth trying, try it," said he, coolly. 
 
248 YOLANDE. 
 
 ** It can't do much harm. If Yolande is to know, she may 
 as well know to some end. Other things have been tried, 
 and failed ; this might not. The shock might bring her to 
 her senses. Anyhow, don't you see, if you once tell Yo- 
 lande all about it, I rather fancy she will be dissatisiSed 
 until she has made a trial.'' 
 
 " That is what I am certain of, " Melville said, quickly^ 
 " I would contentedly leave it to herself. Only the girl must 
 have some guidance. " 
 
 " Surely, surely," said John Shortlands. " I consider 
 your plan very carefully laid out — if Winterbourne will risk 
 it. The only other way is to leave Yolande in her present 
 happy ignorance, and tell the Master of Lynn, and his 
 father, and his aunt, and whatever other relations he has, 
 to go to the devil." 
 
 " Shortlands," said Mr. Winterbourne, angrily, " this is 
 a- serious thing; it is not to be settled in your free and easy 
 way. I suppose you wouldn't mind bringing on Yolande 
 the mortification of being jilted ? How could you explain 
 to her ? She would be left — without a word. And I fear 
 she is beginning to be anxious already. Poor child, which- 
 ever way it goes, she will have enough to suffer.'* 
 
 " I should not mind so much which way it goes, " said 
 John Shortlands, bluntly, " if only somebody would take 
 the Master of Lynn by the scruff of the neck, and oblige 
 me by kicking him from AUt-nam-Ba bridge to Foyers pier." 
 
 ** Come, come," said Melville (though he was by much 
 the youngest of these three)," the less said in that way 
 the better. What you want is to make the best of things, 
 not to stir up ill-will. For my part I regard Miss Winter- 
 bourne's engagement to Mr. Leslie as a secondary matter 
 — at this present moment I consider her first duty is to 
 her mother ; and I am pretty sure you will find that will be 
 her opinion when you put the facts of the case before her. 
 Yes ; I am pretty certain of that." 
 
 " And who would undertake to tell her?" her father 
 said, " who could face the suffering, the shame, you would 
 see in her eyes ? Who would dare to suggest to her that she, 
 so tenderly cared for all her life, should go away and en- 
 counter these horrors ? " 
 
 There was silence. 
 
 " If it comes to that, " said Melville, slowly, « I will do 
 it. If you think it right — if it will give you pain to speak to 
 her — let me speak to her." 
 
YOLANDE, . 249 
 
 "You ? " said her father. " Why should you undertake 
 what cannot but be a dreadful task? Why should you have 
 lo bear that? " 
 
 " Oh," said he, " my share in the common trouble 
 would be slight. Besides, I have not many friends; and 
 when one has the chance of lending a hand, don't you un- 
 derstand, it is a kind of gratification. I know it will not 
 be pleasant, except for one thing-I am looking forward to 
 her answer ; and I know what it will be. " 
 
 " But, really," her father said, with some hesitation, " is 
 it fair we should put this on you ? It is a great sacrifice to 
 ask from one who has been so recently our friend. You 
 have seen her-you have seen how light-hearted she is ; and 
 to ask any one to go and take away the happy carelessness 
 of her life from her — " 
 
 " Yes, it will make a change, " said Melville, thought- 
 fully. " I know that. She will be no longer a girl. She 
 will be a woman. " 
 
 " At all events, Winterbourne, " John Shortland^ 
 broke in, " what I said before, I say now — you are the last 
 man to undertake such a job. You'd frighten the girl out 
 of her senses. It's bad enough as it is; and it'll have to be 
 told her by degrees. I would have a try myself, but I might 
 say something about the cause of her having to be told, 
 and thai would only make mischief. If I said anything 
 about your friend Leslie, Mr. Melville, I ask you to forget 
 it. No use making rows.* And I say, if Winterbourne de- 
 cides on taking your way out of this troublous business, 
 and if you don't mind doing what you offered to do, you 
 could not find a better time than next Tuesday, if that will 
 be convenient for you, for we shall be all away at the far 
 tops that day, and I daresay, it will take you sometime to 
 break the news gently." 
 
 " I am quite at your service, either on Tuesday or any 
 other day, whenever you let me know what you have de- 
 cided." 
 
 He would not go on to the house with them, despite all 
 their solicitations ; on the other hand, he begged them not 
 to say to Yolande that they had seen him. So they went 
 on their way down to the little lodge and its dependencies, 
 while he went back and over the hills. 
 
 *' He's a fine fellow that, and no mistake, " said the 
 
 plain spoken John Shortlands. " There is a sort of broad 
 
250 YOLANDE. 
 
 human nature about him. And I should think, Winter- 
 bourne, you were very much obliged to him." 
 
 " Obliged ? " said Yolande's father. '' It is scarcely the 
 word. " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 CONTRITION. 
 
 Mrs. Graham, attended by her maid, and dressed in one 
 of the most striking of her costumes, was slowly pacing up 
 and down the loud-echoing railway station at Inverness. 
 This was what her brother used spitefully to call her plat- 
 form parade ; but on this occasion, at all events, she had no 
 concern about what effect, if any, her undoubtedly distin- 
 guished appearance might produce. She was obviously 
 deeply preoccupied. Several times she stopped at the book- 
 stall, and absently glanced at the titles of the various jour- 
 nals ; and, indeed, when at length she purchased one or two 
 papers, she forgot to take up the change, and had to be 
 called back by the pretty young lady behind the counter. 
 Then she glanced at the clock, handed the newspapers to 
 her maid and bade her wait there for a few minutes, and 
 forwith entered the Station Hotel. 
 
 She passed along the corridor, and went into the draw- 
 ing-room. From that room slie had a full view of the 
 general reading-room, whicli forms the centre of the build- 
 ing, and is lit from the roof; and the first glance showed 
 lier the person of whom she was in search. The Master of 
 Lynn, tlie sole occupant of the place, was lying back in a 
 cane-bottbmed rocking-chair, turning over the pages of 
 Punch. 
 
 " So I have found you at last. What are you doing 
 here?'* she said, rather sharply. 
 
 He looked up. " I might ask the same question of 
 you," he answered, with much coolness. 
 
 " You know well enough. It is not for nothing I have 
 come all the way from Investroy." 
 
 " You must have got up early," he remarked. 
 
 •* I want to kr ow "what you are doing here," 
 
YOLANDE, 2ol 
 
 ** I am reading Punch."" 
 
 ** Yes," said she, with some bitterness, " and I suppose 
 yo»r chief occupation is playing billiards all day long with 
 commerical travellers." 
 
 " One might be worse employed." 
 
 ** Archie, let us have none of this nonsense. What do 
 you mean to do ? Why don't you answer my letters ? " 
 
 ** Because you make too much of a fuss. Because you 
 are too portentous. Now I like a quiet life. That is why 
 I am here ; I came here to have a little peace." 
 
 " Well, I don't understand you at all," his sister said, in 
 a hopeless kind of way. " I could understand it better if 
 you were one of those young men who are attracted by 
 every pretty face they see, and are always in a simmering 
 condition of love-making. But you are not like that. 
 And I thought you were proud to think of Yolande as your 
 future wife. I can remember one day on board the daha- 
 beeyah. You were anxious enough then. What has 
 changed you ?" 
 
 " I do not know that I am changed," said he, either with 
 indifference or an affectation of indifference. 
 
 " Is Shena Van in Inverness ? " said Mrs. Graham, 
 sharply. 
 
 " I suppose Miss Stewart has as good a right to be in 
 Inverness as anybody else," he said, formally. 
 
 ** Do you mean to say you don't know whether she is in 
 Inverness or not ? " 
 
 ** I did not say nothing of the kind." 
 
 " Have you spoken to her ? " 
 
 ** Don't keep on bothering," he said, impatiently. 
 " Miss Stewart is in Inverness ; and if you want to know, 
 I have not spoken a single word to her. Is that enough ? " 
 
 *' Why are you here, then ? What are you going to 
 
 ** Nothing." 
 
 " Really this is too bad, Archie," his sister said, in deep 
 vexation. ** You are throwing away the best prospects a 
 young man ever had, and all for what ? For temper ! " 
 
 "I don't call it temper at all," said he; "I call it self- 
 respect. I have told you already that I would not degrade 
 Yolande Winterbourne so far as to plead for her being re- 
 ceived by my family. A pretty idea ! " 
 
 *' There would have been no necessity to plead if only 
 you had exercised a little patience and tact and judgment. 
 
*)52 YOLANDE. 
 
 And surely it is not too late jet. Just think how much 
 pleasanter it would be for you nnd for all of us in tlie future 
 if you were rather more on an equal footing with Jim — I 
 mean as regards money. I don't see why you shouldn't 
 have your clothes made at Poole's, as Jim has. Why 
 shouldn't you have chamois-leather pockets in your over- 
 coat as well as he ? '* 
 
 ** I can do without chamois-leather pockets," he ans- 
 wered. 
 
 "Very well," said she, suddenly changing the mo^e of 
 her attack; "but what you cannot do without is the repu- 
 tation of having acted as a gentleman. You are bound in 
 honor to keep faith with Yolande Winterbourne." 
 
 *' I am bound in honor not to allow her to subject her- 
 self to insult," he retorted. 
 
 " Oh, there will be nothing of the kind ! " his sister ex- 
 claimed. "'How can you be so unreasonable?" 
 
 " You don't know the worst of it," said he, gloomily. 
 "I only got to know the other day. Yolande's mother is 
 alive — an opium drinker. Off her head at times ; kicks up 
 rows in the streets; and they are helpless, because they 
 have all been in this conspiracy to keep it back from Yo- 
 lande—" 
 
 " You don't mean that, Archie ! " his sister exclaimed, 
 looking very grave. 
 
 *'I do, though. And, you know, his lordship might in 
 -time be got 'to overlook the Radical papa, but a mamma 
 who might at any moment figure in a police court — I think 
 not even you could get him to stand that." 
 
 " But, Archie, this is dreadful ! " Mrs. Graham exclaimed 
 again. 
 
 *' 1 daresay it is. It is the fact, however." 
 
 " And that is why he was so anxious to get Yolande away 
 from London," she said, thoughtfully. " Poor man, what a 
 terrible life to lead ! " 
 
 She was silent for some time; she was reading the story 
 more clearly now — his continual travelling with Yolande, 
 his liking for long voyages, his wish that the girl should live 
 in the Highlands after her marriage. And perhaps, also, 
 his warm and obvious opproval of that marriage — she knew 
 that fathers with only daughters were not always so com- 
 plaisant. 
 
 Two or three strangers came into the reading-room. 
 
YOLANDE. 258 
 
 " Archie," said she, waking up from a reverie, " let ua 
 go out for a stroll. I must think over this." 
 
 He went and fetched his hat and stick ; and the maid 
 having been directed to go into the hotel and wait her mis- 
 tress's return, the brother and sister went outside and pro- 
 ceeded to walk leisurely through the bright ^and cheerful 
 little town in the direction of the harbor. 
 
 " What is your own view of the matter? " she said at 
 length, and somewhat cautiously. 
 
 *' Oh, my position is perfectly clear. I can have noth- 
 ing to do with any such system of secrecy and terrorism. 
 I told Jack Melville that when he came as a sort of ambas- 
 sador. I said I would on no account whatever subject my- 
 self to such unnecessary risks and anxieties. My conten- 
 tion was that, first of all, the whole truth should be told to 
 Yoland ; then if that woman keeps quiet, good and well ; if 
 not, we can appeal to the law and have her forcibly con- 
 fined. There is nothing more simple ; and I daresay it 
 could be kept out of the papers. But then, you see, my 
 dear Mrs. Polly, there is also the possibility that it might 
 get into the papers ; and if you add on this little possibility 
 to what his lordship already thinks about the whole affair, 
 you may guess what use all your beautiful persuasion and 
 tact aud conciliation would be." 
 
 '' I don't see," said Mrs. Graham, slowly, " why papa 
 should know anything about it. It does not concern him. 
 Many families have ne'er-do-well or disreputable members, 
 and simply nothing is said about them, and they are sup- 
 posed not to exist. Friends of the family ignore chem ; 
 they are simply not mentioned, until in time they are for- 
 gotten altogether ; it is as if they did not exist. I don't 
 see why papa should be told anything about it." 
 
 " Oh, I am for having everything straightforward," said 
 he. *' I don't wish to have anything thrown in my teeth 
 afterward. But the point isn't worth discussing in the 
 present state of his lordship's temper, and it isn't likely to 
 be so long as that old cat is at his elbow. Well, now, that 
 is what Mr. Winterbourne might fairly say. He might say 
 we had no right to object to his having a half-maniac wife 
 in his family so long as we had an entirely maniac aunt — 
 who is also a cantankerous old beast — in ours." 
 
 '* Archie, 1 must ask you to be more decent in your lan- 
 uage ! " his sister said, angrily. " Is that the way th« 
 5'oung men talk at Balliol now ? 
 
254 YOLANDE. 
 
 " I gaess it's the way thay talk everywhere when they 
 happen to have the luxury of having an Aunt Colquhoun 
 as a relative." 
 
 " My dear Master, you won't go very far to put matters 
 straight if you continue in that mood." 
 
 " Am I anxious to go far to put matters straight ? " 
 
 " You ought to be — for the sake of Miss Winterbouire," 
 said his sister, stiffly. 
 
 " No," lie answered ; " it is they who ought to be — for 
 the sake of Lynn." 
 
 Well, she saw there was not much to be done with him 
 just then ; and, indeed, there was something in what he 
 had told her that wanted thinking over. But in the mean 
 time she was greatly relieved to find that he had not ( as 
 she had suspected) resumed any kind of relations with Shena 
 Van, and she was anxious above all things to get him away 
 from Inverness. 
 
 " When are you going back to Lynn ? " she asked. 
 
 "I don't know," he answered, carelessly. 
 
 '* Now do be sensible, Archie, and go down with me in 
 this afternoon's steamer. All this trouble will be removed 
 in good time, and you need not make the operation unneces- 
 sarily difficult. I am going down to Fort Augustus by the 
 three-o'clock boat ; you can come with me as far as Foyers." 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind," he said. " 1 have had a little peace 
 and quiet ; I can afford to go back to the menagerie. Only 
 there won't be anybody to meet me at Foyers." 
 
 " You can get a dog-cart from Mrs. Elder," his sister 
 said. " And if you were very nice you would take me back 
 to your hotel now and give me some lunch, for I am fright- 
 fully hungry. Do you know at what hour I had to get up 
 in order to catch the boat at Fort Augustus?" 
 
 *'I don't see why you did it." 
 
 " No, perhaps not. But Avhen you are as old as I am 
 you will see with different eyes. You will see what chances 
 you had at this moment, that you seem willing to let slip 
 through your fingers. And why ? — Because you have not 
 enough patience to withstand a little opposition. But you 
 knew perfectly well when you asked Yoland Winterbourae 
 to marry you, on board the dahabeeynh, that papa might 
 very probably have objections, and you took the risk ; aP'^ 
 now when you find there are objections and oppositioK i 
 don't think it is quite fair for you to throw the whole thing 
 up, and leave the girl deserted and every one disappointed. 
 
YOLANDE. 255 
 
 And it all depends on yourself. You have only to be 
 patient and conciliatory ; when they see that you are not 
 to be affected by their opposition they will give in, in time. 
 And as soon as the people go away from Inverstroy I will 
 come over and help yo u." 
 
 He said nothing. So they went back and had lunch at 
 the hotel; and in due time, Mrs. Graham's maid acompany- 
 ing, they drove along to the canal, and got on board the 
 little steamer. They had a beautiful sail down Loch Ness 
 on this still, golden afternoon. But perhaps the pictu- 
 resqueness of the scenery was a trifle familiar to them ; in 
 fact, they regarded the noble loch mostly as an excellent high- 
 way for the easy transference of casks and hampers from 
 Inverness, and their chief impression of the famous falls of 
 Foyers was as to the height of the hill*that their horses had 
 to climb in going and coming between Foyers and Lynn. 
 
 As they were slowly steaming in to Foyer's pier pretty 
 Mrs. Graham said, 
 
 ** I wonder if that can be Yolande herself in that dog- 
 cart? Yes, it is; that is her white Rubens hat. Lucky 
 for you, Master ; if she gives you a lift, it will save you 
 hiring." 
 
 "I don't think," said he, with a faint touch of scorn, 
 "that the mutual excess of courtesy which has been inter- 
 changed between Lynn Towers and Allt-nam-Ba would 
 warrant me in accepting such a favor. But the cat bows 
 when she and Yolande pass. Oh yes, she does as much as 
 that." 
 
 "And she will do a little more in time, if only you are 
 reasonable," said his sister, who still hoped that all would 
 be well. 
 
 Young Leslie had merely a hand-bag with him. When he 
 left the steamer he walked along the pier by himself until 
 he reached the road, and there he found Yolande seated in 
 the dog-cart. He went up and shook hands with her and 
 she seemed very pleased to see him. 
 
 "You are going to Lynn ? Shall I drive you out?" 
 
 " No, thank you," said he, somewhat stiffly. " I will 
 not trouble you. I can get a trap at the hotel." 
 
 She looked surprised, and then, perhaps, a trifle reserved. 
 
 " Oh, very well," said she, with calm politeness. " The 
 hotel carriages have more room than this little one. Good- 
 by." 
 
 Then it suddenly occurred to him that he had no quarrel 
 
256 YOLANDE. 
 
 with her. She might be the indirect cause of all this trouble 
 Jind confusion that had befallen him, but she was certainly 
 not the direct cause. She was iji absolute ignorance of it, 
 in fact. And so he lingered for a second, and then he said, 
 looking up, 
 
 " You have no one coming by the steamer? " 
 
 " Oh no," she said ; but she did not renew the invitation ; 
 indeed, there was just a touch of coldness in her manner. 
 
 " If I thought 1 should not overload tbe dog-cart," said 
 lie, rather shamefacedly, " I would beg of you' to give me a 
 seat. I understand the stag's head has come down by this 
 stenmer. I saw it at Macleay's this morning." 
 
 " It is that I have come in for — that only," she said. 
 " There is plenty of room, if you wish." 
 
 So without more ado he put his hand-bag into the dog- 
 cart, behind, and there also was desposited the stag's head 
 that Sandy was now bringing along from the steamer. 
 Then, when the lad had gone to the horse's head, Yolande 
 got down, for she always walked tliis steep hill, whether 
 going or coming, and of course no men-folk could remain 
 in the vehicle when she was on foot. So she and the 
 Master now set out together. 
 
 " I hope they have been having good sport at AUt-nara- 
 Ba," he said. 
 
 " Oh yes." 
 
 It was clear that his unaccountable refusal of her invita- 
 tion had surprised her, and her manner was distinctly 
 reserved. Seeing that, he took the more pains to please 
 her. 
 
 " Macleay has done the stag's head- very well," said he 
 " and I have no doubt Mr. Shortlands will be proud of it 
 Pity it isn't a royal ; but still it is a good head. It is 
 curious how people's ideas change as they goon preserving 
 stag's heads. At first it is everything they shoot, no matter 
 what, and every head must be stuffed. Then they begin to 
 find that expensive, and they take to boiling the heads, 
 keeping only the skull and the horns. Then they begin to 
 improve their collection by weeding out the second and 
 third rate heads, which they give to their friends. And 
 then, in the end, they are quite disappointed with anything 
 ehort of a royal. I went in to JNIacieay's a day or two ago 
 and asked him to push on with that head. I thought Mr. 
 Shortlands would like to see how it looked, hung up in the 
 lodge, and I thought you might like to see it too." 
 
YOLANDE. 257 
 
 "It was very kind of you," she said. 
 
 ** Has the great hare drive come off?" he asked — and 
 surely he was trying to be as pleasant as he could be. " Oh, 
 I think you said it was to be to-morrow. I should like to 
 have gone with them; but, to tell you the truth, Yolande, 
 I am a little bit ashamed. Your father has been too kind 
 to me ; that is the fact. Of course if we had the forest in oar 
 own hands it would not matter so much, for your father 
 then might have a return invitation to go for a day or two's 
 deer-stalking. But with everything let, you see, I am 
 helpless ; and your father's kindness to me has been almost 
 enbarrassing. Then there is another thing. My father 
 and aunt are odd people. They live too much in seclusion ; 
 they have got out of the way of entertaining friends, be- 
 cause, with the forest and the shooting always let, they 
 could scarcely ask any one to come and live in such a remote 
 ])lace. It is a pity. Look at the other families in Inverness- 
 shire ; look at Lord Lovat, look at Lord Seafield, look at 
 the Mackintosh, and these ; they go out into the world ; 
 they don't box themselves up in one place. But then we are 
 })oor folk ; that is one reason, perhaps ; and my father 
 has just one mania in his life — to improve the condition of 
 Lynn ; and so he has not gone about, perhaps, as others 
 might have done." 
 
 Now it sounded well in her ears that this young man 
 should be inclined to make excuses for his father, even 
 when, as she suspected, the domestic relations at the Tow- 
 ers were somewhat strained, and she instantly adopted a 
 more friendly tone toward him. 
 
 "Ah," said she, "what a misfortune yesterday! The 
 red shepherd came running in to say that there were some 
 deer up the glen of the Allt Crom ; and of course everyone 
 hurried away — my papa and Mr. Shortlands to two of the 
 passes. What a misfortune ! there being no one with the 
 beaters. They came upon them — yes, a stag and four liinds 
 ■ — quite calmly standing and nibbling, and n\\\'iy— away 
 they went up the hill, not going near either of the guns. 
 Was it not sad ? " 
 
 " Not for the deer." 
 
 " And my j)a])a not to have a stag's head to take back 
 as well as Mr. Shortlands ! " she said, in great disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 "Oil, but if you like he shall have a finer head to take 
 oack than any he would be likely to gel in a half a dozen 
 
258 YOLANDE. 
 
 years of those odd chances. I will give him one I shot — - 
 with tliree horns. I have always had a clear understanding 
 about tliat : anything I shoot is mine — it doesn't belong to 
 the furniture of Lynn Towers. And I will give that head 
 to your father, if you like ; it is a very remarkable one, I 
 can assure you." 
 
 " That is kind of you," she said. They were on more 
 friendly terms now; she had forgiven him. 
 
 When they got to the summit of the hill they got into 
 th.e dog-cart, and descended the other side, and drove away 
 through the wooded and rocky country. She seemed 
 pleased to be on better terms with him, and he, on his part, 
 was particularly good-natured and friendly. But when 
 they drew near to Gress she grew a little more thoughtful. 
 She could not quite discard those hints she had received. 
 Then her father's anxious trouble — was that merely caused 
 by the disagreement that had broken out between the Mas- 
 ter and his relatives? If that were all, matters would 
 mend, surely. She, at all events, was willing to let time 
 work his healing wonders ; she was in no hurry, and cer- 
 tainly her pride was not deeply wounded. She rather 
 liked the Master's excuses for those old people who lived so 
 much out of the w^orld. And she was distinctly glad that 
 now there was no suspicion of coldness between herself and 
 him. 
 
 There was no one visible at Gress, and they drove on 
 without stopping. When they arrived at the bridge the 
 Master got down to open the swinging iron-gate, telling 
 Sandy to keep his seat, and it was not worth his while to 
 get \\\) again. 
 
 " Now," said Yolande, brightly, " I hope you will 
 change your mind and come along to-morrow niorning to 
 Allt-nam-Ba, and go with the gentlemen, after all. It is to 
 be a great affair." 
 
 " I will see if I can manage it," said he, evasively ; and 
 then they bade each other good-by, and she drove on. 
 
 But although they had seen no one at Gress, Jack Mel- 
 ville had seen them. He was far up the hillside, seated on 
 eome bracken among the rocks, and his elbows were on his 
 knees, and his head resting on his hands. He had gone 
 away up there to be perfectly alone — to think over all that 
 he was to say to Yolande on the next day. It was a terri- 
 ble task, and he knew it. 
 
YOLANDE. 259 
 
 He saw them drive by, and his heart had a great pity 
 for this girl. 
 
 " The evening is coming over the sky novr," he was 
 thinking, as he looked around, " and she lias left behind her 
 the last of the light-hearted days of her life." 
 
 CHAPER XXXII. 
 
 FABULA NAKRATUK. 
 
 Early next morning (for he was anxious to get this 
 painful thing over) he walked slowly and thoughtfully up 
 to Allt-nam-Ba. He knew slie was at home, for the dog- 
 cart had gone by with only Sandy in it. Perhaps she might 
 be indoors, working at the microscope he had lent her, or 
 arranging her plants. 
 
 She had seen him come ujiithe strath ; she was at the 
 door awaiting him, her face radiant. 
 
 "Ah! but why are you so late?" she cried. "They 
 are all away, shepherds and gillies and all, two hours ago." 
 
 " I did not mean to go with them. I have come to have 
 a chat with you, Yolande, if you will let me." 
 
 He spoke carelessly, but there w\aa something in his 
 look that she noticed ; and when she had preceded him into 
 the little drawing-room, she turned and regarded him. 
 
 "What is it? Is it serious ?" she said, scanning his 
 face. 
 
 Well, he had carefully planned how he would approach 
 the subject, but at this moment all his elaborate designs 
 went clean away from his brain. A far more happy expe- 
 dient than any he had thought of had that instant occurred 
 to him. He would tell her this story as of some one else. 
 
 " It is serious in a way," said he, " for I am troubled 
 about an unfortunate plight that a friend of mine is in. 
 Why should I bother you about it ? But still you might 
 give me your advice." 
 
 " My advice ? " she said. " If it would be of any service 
 to you, yes, yes. But how could it be ? What experience 
 of the world have I had ? " 
 
 " It isn't a question of experience of the world ; it is a 
 question of human nature mostly," said he. "And thi^ 
 
260 YOLANDE. 
 
 friend of mine is a girJ just about your o\^n age. Yon 
 might tell me what you would do in the same circum* 
 stances." 
 
 *' But I might do something very foolish." 
 
 "I only want to know what you would naturally feel 
 inclined to do. That is the question. You could easily 
 tell me that ; ai.d I could not find it out for myself — no, 
 not if I were to set all my electric machines going." 
 
 *' Ah ! well, I will listen very patiently, if I am to be 
 the judge," said she. " And I am glad it is not anything 
 worse. I thought, when you came in, it was something 
 very serious." 
 
 . He did not wish to be too serious ; and indeed he man- 
 aged to tell her the whole story in a fashion so plain, mat- 
 ter-of-fact, and unconcerned that she never for an instant 
 dreamed of its referring to herself. Of course he left out 
 all details and circumstances that might positively have 
 given her a clue, and only described the central situation 
 as between mother and daughter. And Yolande had a 
 great compassion for that poor debased woman, and some 
 pity, too, for the girl who was kept in ignorance of her 
 mother being alive ; and she sat, with her hands clasped 
 on her knees, regarding these two imaginary figures, as it 
 were, and too much interested in them to remember that 
 her counsel was being asked concerning them. 
 
 " Now, you see, Yolande," he continued, " it appears 
 that one of the results of using those damnable — I beg your 
 pardon — I really beg your pardon — I mean those — those 
 poisonous drugs is that the will entirely goes. The poor 
 wretches have no command over themselves ; they live in 
 a dream ; they will promise anything — they will make the 
 most solemn vows of abstinence — and be quite unable to 
 resist the temptation. And the law practically puts no 
 check on the use of these fiendish things ; even when the 
 public-houses are closed, the chemist's shop is open. Now, 
 Yolande, I have a kind of theory or project with regard to 
 that poor woman. I don't know whether the doctors 
 would approve of it, but it is a fancy I have : let us sup- 
 pose that that poor wretch of a mother does not quite un- 
 derstand that her daughter has grown up to be a woman — 
 most likely she still regards her as a child ; that is a very 
 common thing — at all events, she is not likely to know 
 anything ns to what her daughter is like. And suppose 
 thai this dauubter were to ii-o to her mother and declare 
 
YOLANDE. 261 
 
 herself: do you not thii.k tlint tliat would be enongb to 
 startle her out of her dream ? and do you not think that in 
 the bewilderment of finding tlieir relations reversed — the 
 child, grown to be a woman, assuming a kind of protection 
 and authority and command over the broken-down creature 
 — she might be got to rely on that help, and encouraged 
 and strengthened by constant care and affection to retrieve 
 herself? Don't you think it is possible? To be startled 
 out of that dream by shame and horror ; then the wonder 
 of having that beautiful daugliter for lier champion and pro- 
 tectress ; then the continual reward of her companionship : 
 don't you think it is possible ? " 
 
 "Oh yes — oh yes, surely ! " said the girl. " Surely you 
 are right ! " 
 
 " But then, Yolande, I am afraid you don't understand 
 what a terrible business it wdllbe. It will demand the most 
 constant watchfulness, for these drugs are easy to get, and 
 people that use them are very cunning. And it will require 
 a long time — perhaps years — before one could be certain 
 that the woman was saved. Now look at it from the other 
 side. Might not one say, ' That poor woman's life is gone, 
 is done for : why should you destroy this other young life 
 in trying to save a wreck ? Why should you destroy one 
 happy human existence in trying to rescue the mere rem- 
 nant of another human existence, that would be worthless 
 and useless even if you succeed ? Why should not the girl 
 live her own life in peace and iiappiness?' " 
 
 " But that is not what you would say ; that is not what 
 you think," she said, confidently. "And do you ask what 
 the girl would think? — for I can tell you that. Oh yes, I 
 can tell you — she would despise any one who offered her 
 such a choice ? '"' 
 
 " But she would be in ignorance, Yolande ; she would 
 know nothing about it." 
 
 " She ought not to be in ignorance, then ! Why do they 
 not tell her? Why not ask herself what she will do? Ah, 
 and all this time the poor woman left to herself — it was not 
 right — it was not just." 
 
 " But she has not been left to herself, Yolande. Every- 
 thing has been tried — everything but this. And that is why 
 I have come to ask you what you think a girl in that posi- 
 tion would naturally do. What would she do if she were 
 told?" 
 
 " There cannot be a doubt," she exclaimed. " Oh, ther« 
 
262 YOLANDR. 
 
 cannot be a doubt ! You — I know what your feeling is, 
 what your opinion is. And yet you hesitate? Wliy? Go, 
 and you will see what her answer will be." 
 
 " Do you moan to say, Yolande," he said, deliberately, 
 and regarding her at the same time, " that you have no 
 doubt whatever? You say I am to go and ask this young 
 girl to sacrifice her life — or it may be only a part, but that 
 the best part, of her life — on this chance of rescuing a poor 
 broken-down creature — " 
 
 " Her mother^'' said Yolande. 
 
 *' What will she think of me, I wonder ? " he said, ab- 
 sently. 
 
 The answer was decisive : — 
 
 " If she is the girl that you say, oh, I know how she will 
 be grateful to you. She will bless you. She will look on 
 you as the best and dearest of her friends, who had 
 courage when the others were afraid, who had faith in her.'* 
 
 " Yolande," said he, almost solemnly, " you have de- 
 cided for yourself." 
 
 " I ? " she said, in amazement. 
 
 " Your mother is alive." 
 
 She uttered a sharp cry — of pain, it seemed. 
 
 " My mother — my mother — like that ! " 
 
 For a time this agony of shame and horror deprived her 
 of all power of utterance ; the blow had fallen heavily. 
 Her most cherished and beautiful ideals lay broken at her 
 feet ; in their place was this stern and ghastly picture that 
 he hnd placed before her mental eyes. He had not softened 
 down any of the details ; it was necessary tjfetat she should 
 know the truth. And she had been so much interested in 
 the story, as he patiently put it before her, that now she 
 had but little difficulty — alas ! she had no difficulty at all — 
 in placing herself in the position of that imaginary daugh- 
 ter, and realizing what she had to face. 
 
 He waited. He had faith in her courage ; but he would 
 give her time. This was a sudden thing to happen to a girl 
 of nineteen. 
 
 " Well," she said at length, in a low voice, " I will go." 
 
 Her hands were tightly clinched together, but she 
 showed no symptom of faltering. Presently she said, in the 
 same steady, constrained way, — 
 
 " I will go at once. Does papa know you were coming 
 bere to-day to tell me ? " 
 
 *'Yes. He could not do it himself, Yolande. He has 
 
YOLANDE. 263 
 
 suffered fearfully during these long years in order to hide 
 this from you ; he thought it would only pain you to know 
 — that you could do no good." 
 
 " What induced him to change his mind ? " 
 
 He was embarrassed ; he had not expected the '^[uestion. 
 She glanced at his face. 
 
 " Was that the objection at Lynn Towers?" she said, 
 calmly. 
 
 " No, Yolande, no ; it was not. I daresay Lord Lynn 
 does not quite approve of your father's politics ; but that 
 has nothing to do with you." 
 
 " Then it was your idea that I shouhl be told ? " 
 
 " Well," said he, uneasily, "possibly your father im- 
 agined that Archie Leslie might not like — might think lie 
 had been unfairly treated if he were not told — and then 1 
 was his friend, don't you see, and they mentioned the mat- 
 ter to me — and — and being an outsider, I was reluctant to 
 interfere at first — but then, when they spoke of telling you, 
 I said to myself that I knew, or I fancied I knew what a 
 girl like Yolande Winterbourne would be sure to do in such 
 circumstances — and so I thought I would v-^enture the sug- 
 gestion to them, and — and if it turned out to be so, then I 
 might be of some little help to you." 
 
 That was cleverly done ; he had not told her it was 
 the Master of Lynn who had insisted on that disclosure. 
 
 And now slie was gathering her courage to her, though 
 still she maintained a curious sort x constrained reserve as 
 though she were keeping a tigh* xiold over her feelings. 
 
 " I suppose," she said slo -,iy, " it is your idea I should 
 go there — alone ? " 
 
 " If you are not afraid, Yolande — if you are not afraid," 
 he said, anxiously. 
 
 " I am not afraid." 
 
 " Don't you see, Yolande," he said, eagerly, " if you go 
 accompanied by a stranger, she may think it is a solicitor — 
 people in that weak mental state are usually suspicious— 
 and if you go with your father «he would probabl}' only 
 consider it a repetition of former interviews that came to 
 nothing. No ; it is the appearance of her daughter that will 
 startle her into sudden consciousness of what she is. Then 
 don't mind those people she is with. Don't be afraid of them. 
 They dare not detain her. You will have a policeman wait- 
 ing outside ; and your maid will go into the house with you 
 and wait in the passage. You will have to assume authority. 
 
264 YOLANDE. 
 
 Four mother may be a bit dazed, poor woman; you must take 
 her with you ; let no one interfere. Now do you think you 
 have nerve for that — all by yourself?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I think so, " she said calmly. " But I must 
 begin at the beginning. I cannot leave the lodge without 
 putting some one in charge." 
 
 " I will send up Mrs. Bell, she will be delighted." 
 
 " Ah, will you ? " she said, with a quick glance of grati- 
 tude breaking through hei- forced composure " If only she 
 would be so kind as to do that ! She knows everything 
 that is wanted." 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself about that for a moment," he 
 said. " Mrs. Bell will be delighted; there is nothing she 
 would not do for you." 
 
 " Then 1 must take away ray things with me. Perhaps 
 I shall not see Ailt-nam-Ba again. My life will be altered 
 now. Where do I go when I reach London ? " 
 
 '' I should say the hotel your father and you were at 
 once or twice, in Albemarle Street. But are you sure, Yo- 
 lande, you would rather not have some one go with you 
 to London and see you to your quarters in the hotel ? 
 why, I would myself — with pleasure, for my assistant 
 Dalrymple gets on very well in the school now. Or Mr. 
 Shorthands. — he is going south soon, is he not ? I would not 
 ask your father; it would be too painful for him." 
 
 "No," she said, "I do not want anyone. Jane and 
 I will do very well. Besides, I could not wait for Mr. Short- 
 lands. I am going at once. 
 
 *' At once ! Surely you will take time to consider — " 
 
 " I am going to-morrow." she said, "if Mrs. Bell will 
 be so kind as to come and take my place." 
 
 " Don't be so precipitate, Yolande," he said, with some 
 anxiety. " I have put all this before you for your considera- 
 tion, and I should feel I was burdened with a terrible respon- 
 sibility if you were to do anything you might afterward 
 regret. Will you consult Mr. Shorthands ? " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Will you take a week to think over it ? " 
 
 "No; why?" she said, simply. " Did I not consider 
 when you were telling me the story of this imaginary girl? 
 Had I any doubt ? No. I knew what she wo aid decide. I 
 know what I have decided. What use is there in delay? 
 Ah, if there is to be the good come out of it that you have 
 imagined for me, should I not haste ? When one is perish- 
 
YOLANDE, i>65 
 
 ing you do not think twice if you can hold out your hand. 
 Do you think that I regret — that I am sorry to leave a 
 little comfort behind — that I am afraid to take a little 
 trouble? Surely you do not think that of me ? Why I am 
 anxious to go now is to see at once what can be done; to 
 know the worst or the best ; to try. And now — I shall not 
 be speaking to my papa about it ; that would only give pain 
 — will you tell me what I should do in all the small particu- 
 hxrs ? I am not likely to forget." 
 
 That he could do easily, for he had thought enough 
 over the matter. He gave her the most minute instructions, 
 guarding against this or that possibility, and she listened 
 mutely and attentively, with scarcely the interruption of a 
 question. Then, at length, he rose to say good-by, and she 
 rose too. He did not notice that, as she did so, her lips 
 quivered for the briefest second. 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 " If you are going to-morrow, Yolande," said he, "I will 
 see you as you pass. I will look out for you. I should like 
 to say good-by to you ; it may be for a long time." 
 
 " It may be for always," she said, with her eyes cast 
 down ; " perhaps I shall never be back here again." 
 
 " And I am sending you away into all this trouble and 
 grief. How can I help knowing that it is I who am doing 
 it? And perhaps, day after day and night after night, I 
 shall be trying to justify myself, when I am thinking over 
 it, and wondering where you are ; and perhaps 1 shall not 
 succeed very well." 
 
 " But it is I who justify you — that is enough," she said, 
 in a low voice. '* Did I not decide for myself? And I 
 know that in your heart you think I am doing right ; and 
 if you are afraid for me — well, that is only kindness — such 
 as that you have always shown to me." 
 
 Here she stopped ; and he did not see that her hands 
 were clinched firm, as she stood there opposite him, with 
 her eyes cast down. 
 
 " And whatever happens, Yolande — you may be in pain 
 and grief, and perhaps all you may endure may only end 
 in bitter disappointment — well, I hope you will not imagine 
 that I came to you with my proposal unthinkingly. I have 
 thought over it night and day. I did not come to you 
 offhand." 
 
 " Ah, then," said she, quickly, " and you think it is 
 neccessary to justify yourself — you, to me, as if I did not 
 
266 YOLANDE, 
 
 know you as well as I know myself! Do you think I do not 
 know you and understand you — because I am only a girl?" 
 Her forced composure was breaking down altogether; she 
 was trembling somewhat ; aud now there were tears running 
 down her cheeks, despite herself, though she regarded him 
 bravely, as if she would not acknowledge that. " And you 
 asked me what the girl you spoke of would think of the man 
 who came to her and showed her what she should do. Did 
 I not answer ? I said she would know^ then that he was the 
 one who had faith in her; that she would give him her 
 gratitude; that she would know who was her best and 
 truest friend. And now, just as you and I are about to say 
 good-by, perhaps forever, you think it is necessary for you 
 to justify yourself to me — you, my best friend — my more 
 than friend — " 
 
 And then — ah, who can tell how such things happen,or 
 which is to bear the blame ? — his arms were round her trem- 
 bling figure, and she was sobbing violently on his breast. 
 And what was this wild thing she said, in the bewilderment 
 of her grief : '' Oh, why, w^hy was my life given away before 
 I ever saw you ? " 
 
 " Yolande," said he, with his face very pale, "I am go- 
 ing to say something ; for this is our last meeting. What 
 can a few words matter — my darling! — if we are never to 
 see each other again ? I love you. I shall love you while 
 I liave life. Why should I not say it for this once ? ^ I 
 blinded myself ; I tried to think it friendship — friendship, 
 and the world was just filled with light whenever I saw 
 you ! It is our last meeting ; you will let me say this for 
 once — how can it harm you ? " 
 
 She shrank out of his embrace ; she sank down on the 
 couch there, and turned away her head and hid her face in 
 her hand. 
 
 " G?b ! go ! " she murmured. " What have I done ? 
 For pity's sake go — and forget ? Forget ! " 
 
 He knelt down by the side of the couch ; and he was 
 paler than ever now, 
 
 '* Yolande, it is for you to forget and forgive. I have 
 been a traitor to my friend ; I have been a traitor to you. 
 You shall never see me again. God bless you ! — and 
 good-by ! " 
 
 He kissed her hair, and rose, and got himself out of the 
 Vouse. As he went down that wide strath — his eyes fixed 
 on nothing, like one demented, and his mind whirling this 
 
 I 
 
YOLANDE, 267 
 
 way and that amid clouds of remorse and reproach and 
 immeasurable pity — it seemed to him that he felt on his 
 bro\^ the weight of the brand of Cain. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 PREPARATIONS. 
 
 AiST) as for her : she was stunned almost into uncon- 
 ciousness by this shock of self-abasement and distress. She 
 lay on the sofa, her face covered with her hands ; she could 
 not face the light. What was she then ? — she who hitherto 
 had been so fearless and so proud. A flirt, a jilt, a light o' 
 .love — that was bow she saw herself; and then there was 
 herself; and then there was a kind of despair over the 
 misery she had wrought, and a yearning to have him back 
 to implore his pity and his forgiveness ; and then sudden 
 resolves to free herself in another direction, at any cost of 
 penitence and humiliation. She began to compose hurried, 
 brief messages, though the throbbing brain and the shame- 
 stricken soul could scarce decide between the fitness of 
 them. These were some of them, — 
 
 "Dear Papa, — I have gone away. Tell Archie not to 
 think any more about me. Yolande." 
 
 And then again, — 
 
 " Dear Archie — I send you back the engagement ring: 
 I am not worthy to be your wife. I am sorry if I have 
 caused you any disappointment, but you have less to regret 
 than I have." 
 
 And then again — to one not named at all,— 
 
 "To-day I go away. Never think of me again, or of 
 \N hat has happened. Forgive me ; that is all." 
 
 And then she began to think — if this wild torture of sug- 
 gestions could be called thinking — of the undertaking that 
 lay before her, and the thought of it was something of a re- 
 lief. There would be an occupation, urgent, continuous, de- 
 manding all her attention ; in time, and in a measure, she 
 might school herself to forget. Perhaps, if this duty turned 
 out to be a very sad and painful one, it might be taken bj 
 
268 YOLANDE. 
 
 those whom she had wronged as a sort of penance? She 
 was prepared to suffer. She thought she deserved to suf- 
 fer. Had she not proved a traitor to the man whom she had 
 promised to marry? Had she not brougjit misery to this 
 best and dearest of all her friends, to this fine and noble 
 nature that she had learned to know, and that by her idle- 
 ness and carelessness — the carelessness of a vain coquette 
 and light-o'-love, heedless of consequences? What would 
 ho think of her ? She could only vaguely recall the re- 
 proaches he had heaped upon himself ; but she knew that 
 he was in distress, and that she was the cause of it. And 
 perhaps if there were trials in store for her, if there was suf- 
 fering in store for her, perhaps he would never know that 
 she rather welcomed that, and was content to receive her pun- 
 ishment? Perhaps he would never know how grieved she 
 was ? It was over and done, not past recalL And she 
 knew that lienceforth her life would be quite different to 
 her. 
 
 How long slie lay there in that misery of her remorse 
 and despair she probably never knew, but at last she forced 
 herself to rise. She was not thinking of her appearance ; 
 she did not know that her face was haggard and pale ; that 
 an 'expression never before there was there now ; that her 
 eyes were no longer the eyes of a child. She was going 
 away — this was all she was compelling herself to think about 
 — and there were preparations to be made. And so in a 
 slow and mechanical fashion she began to put a few things 
 together, even in this drawing-room, although every other 
 minute her heart seemed to stand still as she came upon 
 some little trifle that was associated with him — something 
 he had done for her, something that he had brought her, 
 showing his continued solicitude and thoughtfulness and af- 
 fection. Why had she not seen? Why did she not under- 
 stand ? And then she began to think of the evenings he 
 had spent at the house, and of the walks they had had to- 
 gether down the wide valley ; and she began to know why 
 it was that these evenings had seemed so rich in happy 
 human sympathies, and why the valley had appeared so won- 
 drous and beautiful, and why her life at Allt-nam-Ba had so 
 strange and unnamable a charm thrown over it. And he — 
 he had been blind too. She knew that he could not have 
 imagined it jjossible that he was betraying his friend ; other- 
 wise he would have fled from the place. She was standing 
 quite still now, her eyes distraught, and she was trying 
 
YOLANDE. 269 
 
 recall the very tones in which he had said, " I love you." 
 That was the misery of it, and the cause of lier shame, and 
 the just reason for her remorse and self-abasement; and 
 yet — and yet somewhere or other deep down in her heart 
 there was a curious touch of pride that she heard those 
 words. If circumstances had been different — to be a])- 
 proved, to have won the affection, to be loved by one like 
 that! And then a passion of selfcontempt seized her, and 
 she said to herself: '*You to tliink yourself worthy of such 
 a love ! You, who can allow yourielf to think of such a 
 thinic;-^ with that ring on your finger ! " 
 
 Tliis also was strange, that, amid all the preparations 
 for de])arture that she was now mechanically makinir, she 
 should be possessed by a singular anxiety that Mrs. Bell, 
 when slie came to Allt-nam-Ba, should find the household 
 arrangements in the most perfect order. Had she some 
 vague hope or fancy, then, that some day or other, when 
 she should be far enough away from Allt-nam-Ba andGress 
 and Lynn, and not likely to see any of them again, her 
 name migiit be mentioned casually l)y this good woman, 
 and mentioned perhaps with some slight word of approval? 
 When she drew out for Mrs. Bell's guidance a list of her 
 arrangements with the Inverness tradesmen, she was dis- 
 satisfied with the mere handwriting of it (for indeed her 
 fingers trembled somewhat), and she destroyed it and wrote 
 out another, and that she destroyed, and wrote out another 
 — until the handwriting was fairly clear and correct. 
 
 Her maid Jane was a fool of a woman, but even she 
 could see that her young mistress was faint-looking, and 
 even ill-looking, and again and again she besought her to 
 desist from these prei)arations, and to go and have some 
 lunch, which awaited her in the dining-room. 
 
 " You know, miss," said she, " You can't go before 
 your papa comes home, and then it would be far too late 
 to catch the steamer. You can't go before the morning ; 
 and 1 am sure, miss, you will be quite ill and unable to 
 travel if you don't eat something." 
 
 Well, Yolande went into the dining.roora, and sat down 
 at the table ; but she could not eat or drink anything ; and 
 in a minute or two she was back again in her bedroom su- 
 perintending the packing of her trunks. However she was 
 in time compelled to desist. The mental agitation of the 
 morning, combined with this want of food, produced the 
 natural result ; she f/radually acquired a violent headache 
 
270 YOLANDE. 
 
 — a headache so violent that further superintendance of 
 packing or anything else was entirely out of the question. 
 Now it was the literal fact that she had never had a head- 
 ache in her life — except once, at the chateau, when a large 
 volume she was reaching for in the librai-y foil and struck 
 her — and she did not know what to do ; but she fancied 
 that by tying a wet towel round her head she might lessen 
 the throbbing of the temples; and this she did, lying down 
 tlie while. Jane stole out of the room, fancying her young 
 inisti ess might now get some sleep. The girl was not 
 thinking of sleep. 
 
 Mr. Winterbourne and John Shortlands w^ere on their 
 way back from the hill. 
 
 " I scarcely know what has happened to-day," Mr. Win- 
 terbourne was saying. "All the time I have been thinking 
 of our going back. And I know what I shall find when I 
 go back — the wreck of the happiness that I have so care- 
 fully nursed all through tliese years. It is like hedging 
 round a garden, and growing flowers there, and all at once, 
 some morning, you find the place trampled down and a 
 wilderness. I hope I am not unjust, Shortlands, but I 
 think he might have spared her." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Young Leslie. I think he might have spared her. It 
 was not much. Don't you think — out of consideration — " 
 
 "Nonsense, man. What young Leslie has done seems 
 to me, on reflection, perfectly, just, and right, and reason- 
 able," said John Shortlands, telling a lie in the calmest man- 
 ner possible. " The young people ought not to be ham- 
 pered in starting life. A little trouble now^ — what is that? 
 And it will be better for you too, Winterbourne. You 
 would have kept on worrying yourself. You would have 
 been always apprehensive about something. You would 
 liave reproached yourself for not telling him." 
 , " I am not thinking of myself," Yolande's father said, 
 rather wistfully. " I could have borne all that ; I am used 
 to it. It is about her I am thinking. I remember in Egypt 
 away up at that still place, wondering whether all her life 
 might not be just as quiet and uneventful and happy as it 
 was there," 
 
 "The fact is, Winterbourne," said John Shortlands, 
 bluntly, "you are just mad about that child of yours, and 
 you expect the world to be changed all on her account; 
 whereas every reasonable being knows that she must take 
 
YOLANDE. 271 
 
 her chance of trouble as well as others. And this — what 
 is this ? Is it so great an affair ? You don't know yet 
 whether she will follow out that suggestion of Melville's. 
 Perhaps she won't. If you would rather she should not, 
 no doubt she will abide by your wishes. By this time she 
 has been told. The secret is at an end. Leslie has had 
 what he wanted : what the devil more can he ask for?" 
 
 But the asperity of this last phrase rather betrayed his 
 private opinion ; and so he added quickly : — 
 
 " However, as you say, she is more likely to go. Well, 
 why not look at the brighter side of things ? There is a 
 possibility. Oh, you needn't shake your head ; when I look 
 at the whole thing from Melville's point of view I can see 
 the possibility. He's a devilish long-headed fellow that, 
 and a devilish fine fellow too ; not many men would have 
 bothered their heads as he has done. I wouldn't. If you 
 and I weren't old friends, do you think I would have inter- 
 fered ? I'd have let you go on your OAvn way. But now, 
 old chap, I think you'll find Yolande ready to go ; and 
 you'd better not make too much fuss about it, and frighten 
 the girl. I shall be in London ; I shall see she has plenty 
 of money." 
 
 " It seems so inhuman," her father said, absentlv. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " That I should remain here shooting, and she be al- 
 lowed to go away there alone." 
 
 " My dear fellow she'll get on twenty times better with- 
 out you," said Shortlands, plainly. "It seems to me that 
 what you say Melville pointed out to you, was just the per- 
 fection of good advice. You'll do well to abide by it." 
 
 " But he does not know Yolande as I do," her father 
 said. 
 
 " He seems to have made a thundering good guess, any- 
 way." 
 
 " I don't mean that. He does not know how she has 
 been brought up — always looked after and cared for. She 
 has never been allowed to shift about for herself. Oh^ as 
 regards herself I can see well enough that he imagines she 
 has certain qualities, and perhaps he thinks it rather fine to 
 make experiments. Well, I don't. I don't see why Yolande 
 should be made the victim of any experiment ; I am con- 
 tent with her as she is." 
 
 " You'd better see what she says about it herself." 
 
 When they reached the lodge Yolande was not, as 
 
272 YOLANDE. 
 
 usual, standing in the porch to welcome them home from 
 
 the liill. 
 
 " Please, sir," said the maid, " Miss Winterbourne has a 
 headache, and says would you excuse her coming down to 
 dinner." 
 
 lie stood irresolute for a second or two, obviously 
 greatly disturbed ; then he slowly and thoughtfully went up 
 the stairs, and gently knocked at the door of her room. 
 
 "May I come in, Yolande? " 
 
 She had just time to untie the wet towel from her head, 
 to smooth her hair, and sit up in bed. 
 
 "Yes, papa." 
 
 He entered, went over and drew a chair near to her, 
 and sat down. 
 
 "I am sorry for you Yolande," he said in a low voice, 
 and his eyes were nervously bent on the ground. 
 
 "Why, ])apa?" 
 
 She spoke in quite a cheerful way ; and as he had not 
 suffered his eyes to meet hers, he was unaware how that 
 cheerfulness was belied by the strange expression in them. 
 She was forcing herself to make liglit of this matter; she 
 would not liave liim troubled. And perliaps, indeed, lo her 
 this was in truth a light matter, as compaied with that 
 tragic disclosure and its consequences wliicli seemed to 
 have cut away from her at once, and forever, tlie shining and 
 rose-colored years of her youth. 
 
 " If I erred, Yolande," said he, " in kee])ing all this back 
 from you, I did it for the best." 
 
 " Do you need to say that to me, papa ? " she answered, 
 wdth some touch of reproach. 
 
 " I thought it would save you needless pain," said he ; 
 and then, as he ventured to lift his eyes, he caught siglit of 
 the pale, anguish-stricken face, and he nearly cried aloud in 
 his sudden alarm, " Yolande, are you ill?" 
 
 *' Oh no, papa; " and she did try her best to look very 
 oheerful. " I have a headache — that is all ; and it is not so 
 Itad.as it was. I — I have been seeing things packed, and 
 making arrangements." 
 
 "You are going, Yolande?" he said, with a sinking of 
 the heart. 
 
 "Tlmt, again, it is unnecessary for you to ask me," the 
 girl snid, siinj)ly. 
 
 " But not at once, Yolande?" said he, glancing at an 
 open truF'.k. " Not at unce ? " 
 
YOLANDE 273 
 
 «« To-moiTow morning, papa," she answered. " Oh, but I 
 assure you, you will be put to no trouble, no trouble at all. 
 Mrs. Bell is coming from Gress to see everything right. And 
 I have made out lists for her; it is all arianged; you 
 will not know any difference — " 
 
 " Yolande, you wall make me angry if you talk like that. 
 What signifies our comfort ? It is the notion of your going 
 away by yourself — " 
 
 *' Jane goes with me. That is all arranged also," she 
 said. " I have no fear." 
 
 *' Listen, now, Yolande. I don't disapprove of your go- 
 ing. We have tried everything, and failed ; if there is a 
 chance of your succeeding — ^vell, perhaps one might say it 
 is your duty to go. Poor child, I would rather have had 
 you know nothing about it; but that is all over now. Well, 
 you see, Yolande, if you go, there must be no unnecessary 
 risk or trouble about your going. I have been thinking 
 that perhaps Mr. Melville may be a little too imaginative. 
 He sees things strongly. And in insisting that you should 
 go alone, why, there may be a danger that he kas been 
 carried away by a — by a — well, I don't know how to put 
 it, except that he may be so anxious to have this striking 
 appeal made to your poor mother as to be indifferent to 
 ordinary precautions. Why should you go friendless and 
 alone ? Why should I remain amusing myself here? " 
 
 "Because you would be of no use to me, papa," said 
 she, calmly. " I know what I have to do." 
 
 " Why, then, should you not wait for a few days, and 
 travel south with Mr. Shortlands ? " 
 
 " Oh, I must go at once, papa — at once ! " she exclaimed. 
 " I must go to-morrow. And Jane goes with me. Is it not 
 simple enough ? " 
 
 " Yolande, you can not be left in London with absolute- 
 Iv no one to whom you can appeal. The least you must 
 cio is to take a letter to Lawrence <% Lang. They will do 
 anything you want ; they will let you have what you want ; 
 if there is any hiring of lodgings or anything of that kind, 
 they will send one of their clerks. You cannot be stranded 
 in London without the chance of assistance, you must go 
 to Lawrence & Lang." 
 
 " I may have to go to them — that also is arranged. But 
 they must not interfere, they must not come with me ; that 
 was not Mr. Melville's idea," slie said ; though the pale face 
 turned still paler as she forced herself to utter the name. 
 
274 YOLANDE. 
 
 " Mr. Melville ! " he said, angrily. " Yon seem to think 
 the whole wisdom of the world is centred in Mr. Melville ! 
 I don't at all know that he was right iu coming to put ail 
 this trouble on you. Perhaps he would not have been so 
 quick if it had been his own sister or his own daugliter — " 
 
 Then a strange thing occurred. She had fiurtg herself 
 down on the pillow again, her face buried, her whole frame 
 shaken by the sudden violence of her crying. 
 
 " Don't — don't — don't ! " she sobbed, piteously. " Don't 
 speak like that, papa ! There is enough trouble — there is 
 enough." 
 
 " What is it, Yolande?" said he. " Well, no wonder 
 your nerves have been upset. I wonder you have taken it 
 so bravely. I will leave you now, Yolande ; but you must 
 try and come down to dinner." 
 
 Dinner was put on the table ; but she did not make her 
 appearance. A message was sent up to her; the answer 
 was that she merely wished to have a cup of tea by and by. 
 Jane, on being questioned, said that everything had been 
 got ready for their departure the following morning, even 
 to the ordering of the dog-cart for a particular hour. 
 
 " Yes," her father said to John Shortlands, as they sat 
 rather silently at the dinner table, " she seems bent on go- 
 ing at once. Perhaps it is because she is nervous and anx- 
 ious, and wants to know the worst. She won't have any 
 one with her ; she is determined to keep to Melville's plan, 
 though I wanted her to wait and go south with you. What 
 a dreadful thing it would be if any harm were to befal 
 her--" 
 
 "Why, what harm can befal her?" his friend said. 
 " What is a journey to London ? — nothing ! She gets into 
 the train at Inverness to-morrow at mid-day ; the next 
 morning she is in London. Then a cab takes her to the 
 hotel : what more simple ? The real risk begins after that ; 
 and it is then that your friend Melville insists that she 
 should take the thing into her own hands. Well, dang me 
 if I'm afraid of the consequences ! There's good grit in 
 her. She hasn't had her nerves destroyed, as you have. 
 When the cob was scampering all over the place yesterday, 
 and the groom couldn't get hold of him, did she run into 
 the house ? Not much. She waylaid him at the end of 
 the bothy, and got hold of him herself, and led him to the 
 stable door. I don't think the lass has a bad temper, but I 
 shouldn't like to be the one to put a finger on her against 
 
YOLANDE, 27^ 
 
 her will. Don't you fear. I can see where the bit of 
 trouble, if there is to be any at all, will most likely come in ; 
 and I am not afraid. It's wonderful what women will do 
 ■ — ay, and weak women too — in defense of those who have 
 a claim on their affection. Talk about the tigress and her 
 young: a woman's twice as bad, or twice as good, if you 
 take it that way. I fancy some o' those poor devils of 
 School Board inspectors must have a baddish time of it 
 occasionally — I don't envy them. I tell you you needn't 
 be afraid, my good fellow. Yolande will be able to take 
 care of herself. And I think Jack Melville has put her on 
 to doing the right thing, whatever conies of it." 
 
 Yolande did not appear that night ; she was too much 
 distracted by her own tlioughts ; she did not wish to be 
 confronted with questioning eyes. But she found time to 
 write this brief note : 
 
 " Tuesday night. 
 
 *' Deae Mr. Shortlands, — As it is not likely I shall 
 see you in the morning, for I am going away at a very 
 early hour, 1 leave you this word of good-by. And please 
 — please stay with papa as long as ever you conveniently 
 can. Duncan assures me that it is now you will be begin- 
 ning to have chances with the red deer. 
 *• Yours affectionately, 
 
 " Yolande Winterbourne." 
 
 And as to tliat other — the friend who was sending her 
 forth on this mission — was she going away without one 
 word of good-by for him ? She considered that ; and did 
 not sleep much that night. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 " IHR MATTEN, LEBT WOHL ! " 
 
 The pale clear glow of the dawn was telling on the 
 higher slopes of the hills when she arose, and all the house 
 was asleep. The heart searching of that long night had 
 calmed her somewhat. Now she was chiefly anxious to 
 get away; to seek forgetfulness of this sad discovery in 
 
276 YOLANDE. 
 
 the immediate duty that lay before her. And if sometiraefS 
 the fear was forced upon her that neither for him nor for 
 her was forgetfuhiess possible, well, it was not her own 
 share of that suffering that she regarded with dismay. 
 Nay, did she not rather welcome that as a punishment 
 which she deserved, as a penance which might be counted 
 to her in the due course of years ? If this passage in her 
 life was not to be obliterated, at least, and in the meantime 
 she would endeavor to close the chapter. She was going 
 away from AUt-nam-Ba, and from the mistakes and mis- 
 eries that had happened there. A new era in her life was 
 opening before her ; perhaps she would have less to re- 
 l^roach herself with in that. 
 
 In the silence of this pale clear morning she sat down 
 and wrote still another message of farewell, the terms of 
 which she had carefully (and not without some smitings of 
 conscience) studied during the long wakeful hours : 
 
 " Allt-nam-Ba, Wednesday morning. 
 " Dear Archie, — a grave duty calls me suddenly away 
 to the south. No doubt you can guess Avhat it is ; and 
 you will understand how, in the meantime at least, all our 
 other plans and arrangements must yield to it. Probably, 
 as I am anxious to catch the early boat at Foyers, I may 
 not see you to say good-by; and so I send you this message 
 
 " From your affectionate 
 
 *'Y0LANDE." 
 
 She regarded this letter with much self-humiliation. It 
 was not frank. Perhaps she had no right to write to him 
 so, without telling him of wh.at had happened the day be- 
 fore. And yet, again, what time was there now for ex- 
 ])l:ination ? and perhaps, as the days and the months and 
 the years went by, there might never be need of any ex- 
 l^bmation. Her life was to be all different now. 
 
 The household began to stir. There was a crackling of 
 wood in the kitchen ; outside, Sandy could be heard open- 
 ing the doors of the coachouse. Then Jane put in anappear- 
 ance, to finally close her young mistress's portmanteaux. 
 And then, everything having been got ready, when she went 
 downstairs to the dining-room, she was surprised to find 
 hei- father there. 
 
 "Why did you get up so early?" said she, in pro- 
 test. 
 
YOLANDE. 277 
 
 " Do you think I was going to let you leav^ without say- 
 ing good-by ? " he answered. ''You are looking a little bet- 
 ter this morning, Yolande — but not well, not well. Are 
 you sure you won't reconsider ? Will you not wait a few 
 days, accustom yourself to think of it, and then go, if you 
 will go, with Mr. Shortlands?" 
 
 " Oh no, that is all over, papa," said she. " That is all 
 settled. I am going this morning — now." 
 
 " Now ? Why now ? It is only half past six ! " he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " 1 wish to have enough time at Gress," she answered, 
 calmly, "to explain all the arrangements to Mrs. Bell." 
 
 But he compelled her to sit down and have some break- 
 fast, while he remained at the window, anxious, disturbed, 
 and yet for the most part silent. There was no doubt he 
 regarded her going with an undefined dread ; but he saw 
 that it was no use to try to dissuade her, her purpose being 
 80 obviously settled and clear. There was another thing : 
 he showed the greatest embarrassment in talking in any 
 way whatever about the subject. He could not bring him- 
 self to mention his wife's name. To Yolande he had said 
 "your poor mother" — but only once. He seemed unable 
 to make this thing that he had hidden from her for so many 
 years a topic of conversation. 
 
 And it was almost in silence, and with a face overshad- 
 owed with gloom, that he saw the last preparations made. 
 He followed her out to the dog-cart. He himself would 
 fasten the rugs round her knees, the morning being some- 
 what chilly. And when they drove away he stood there 
 for a long time regarding them, until the dog-cart disap- 
 peared at the turning of the road, and Yolande was gone. 
 This, then, was the end of that peaceful security that he had 
 hoped to find at Allt-nam-Ba ! 
 
 Yolande was not driving this morning ; she had too 
 many things to think of. But when they reached the bridge- 
 at the lower end of the loch, she told Sandy to stop, and 
 took the reins. 
 
 " Here is a letter for Mr. Leslie." she said. "You need 
 not take it up to the house ; put it in the letter-box at the 
 gate." 
 
 Then they drove on again. When they had climbed the 
 hill she looked over to Lynn Towers, but she could not 
 make out any one at any of the windows. There were one 
 or two stable lads about the outhouses, but otherwise no 
 
278 YOLANDE. 
 
 sign of life. She was rather glad of that. If he had waved 
 his handkerchief to her, could she have answered that sig. 
 nal without further hypocrisy and shame ? Little did he 
 know what traitress was passing by. But indeed she ^\ as 
 gradually ceasing to reproach herself in this way, for the 
 reason that she was ceasing to think about herself at all. It 
 was of another that she was thinking. It was his future 
 that concerned her. tWhat would nil his after-life be like? 
 Would there be some reparation ? Would time heal that as 
 it healed all things ? 
 
 When she got to Gress she saw that Mrs. Bell was in 
 the garden behind the house, and thither she made her way. 
 Yolande's face was pale, but her manner was quite calm 
 and firm. 
 
 " Well, here are doings ! " said the cheerful old lady. 
 " And I was just hurrying on to get a few bit flowers for ye. 
 'Deed, ye're early this morning." 
 
 " It is very kind of you, Mrs. Bell ; but please do not 
 trouble. You expected me, then ? Mr. — Mr. Melville told 
 you?" 
 
 " That he did. And I'll just be delighted to be of any 
 kind of service to ye that is possible. I'll be ready to go 
 up to Allt-nam-Ba by mid-day; and I'm thinking I'll take 
 one o' the young lassies wi' me, in case there's any need- 
 cessity for a helping band. The other one will do very well 
 to look after this place when both Mr. Melville and me are 
 away." 
 
 " But is he going — is he going away ? " said Yolande, 
 with a sudden alarm. 
 
 "I think he is; though it's no my place to ask," said 
 Mrs. Bell, placidly. "Last night I saw he was putting 
 some things in order in the house. And I jalouse he 
 stopped in the laboratory the whole night through for he 
 never was in his bed ; and this morning I caught a glint o' 
 him going out before any o' us was up. I dare say he was 
 off to one o' the moorland lochs to have a last day at the 
 trout belike." 
 
 " He is not here, then ? " the girl exclaimed, with dis- 
 may in her eyes. " Mrs. Bell, I must see him ! Indeed, I 
 cannot go until I have seen him." 
 
 *' Wha kens where he may be now ?" said the old lady, 
 good-humoredly (for she clearly had no idea that there was 
 anything tragic occurring around her). " There never was 
 Buch a man for wandering about the country like a warlock. 
 
YOLANDE 279 
 
 Many a fright has he gi'en the shepherds, when they came 
 upon him in the corries that no ordinary Christian ever 
 goes near." 
 
 " But you must send for him, Mrs. Bell," gaid Yolande, 
 with that forced calmness of demeanor almost bi-eaking 
 down. " I can not go away without bidding him good- 
 by." 
 
 The old woman stopped arranging the flowers she had 
 gathered. 
 
 " I canna send to search the whole country o' Inverness," 
 she said, reflectively, "and wha kens where he may be? If 
 he's no back by schooltime he's off for the day — ay, and 
 without a biscuit in his pocket, I'll be warrant. But it's 
 just possible he has only gaen doon to the burn to get a 
 trout or two ; I can send one o' the lassies to see. And 
 though I've never kenned him to go up to the water- 
 wheel at this time o' the morning, I canna gang wrang in 
 making the bell ring. If you'll just hold the flowers for a 
 minute, my dear young leddy, I'll go into the house and 
 see what can be done." 
 
 She held the flowers mechanically ; she did not look at 
 them ; her eyes were " otherwhere." But when Mrs. Bell 
 came back she recalled herself ; and with such calmness as 
 she could command she showed the old lady all the arrange- 
 ments she had made with regard to the household of Allt- 
 nam-Ba, and gave her the lists that she had carefully drawn 
 out. And Mrs. Bell would hear of no such thing as thanks 
 or gratitude ; she said people were well off who could be of 
 any little service to them they liked, and intimated that she 
 was proud to do this for the sake of the young lady who 
 had been kind enough to take notice of her. 
 
 " And so you are going away for awhile," said the old 
 Scotchwoman, cheerfully. "Ay, ay. But coming back 
 soon again, I hope. Indeed, my dear young leddy, if it 
 wasua a kind o' presumption on my part, I would say to ye, 
 as they say in the old ballad, ' O when will ye be back again, 
 my hinnie and my dear?' For indeed, since ye came to 
 Allt-nam-Ba, it has just been something to gladden an 
 auld woman's een." 
 
 " What is the ballad, Mrs. Bell ? " Yolande said, quickly 
 She wished to evade these friendly inquiries. And already 
 she was beginning to wopder whether she had enough 
 strength and courage to force herself to go without seeing 
 liim artd saying this last vord to him. 
 
280 YOLANDE. 
 
 « The ballad ? Oh, that was the ballad o' young Randal," 
 said Mrs. Bell, in her good-natured, garrulous way. " May- 
 be ye never heard that one ? — 
 
 * Young Randal was abonnie lad when he gaod awa', 
 A braw, braw lad was he when he gaed awa'.* 
 
 That is how it begins ; and then they a' come doon to see 
 him ride off— his father, and his mother, and his two sisters ; 
 but, as ye may imagine, — 
 
 * His bonnie cousin Jeau lookit o'er the castle wa,' 
 And far aboon the lave let the tears doon fa'.' 
 
 Then it goes on : — 
 
 * " O when will ye be back again ? " sae kindly did sVw spier ; 
 " O when will ye be back again, my hiiinie and my dear ? " 
 " As soon as I have won enough o' Spanish gear 
 To dress ye a' in silks and lace, my dear." 
 
 That was the way o' those times, and mony a sair heart was 
 the consequence. Will I tell ye the rest o' the story?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, Mrs. Bell, if you please," said Yolande though 
 now she was scanning the vacant hillsides with a wistful 
 and troubled eye. Was he not coming, then ? Must she 
 go away without that last word ? 
 
 " Ye see, ray young leddy, the story jumps over a good 
 many years now, and he comes back to seek out his true- 
 love Jean." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Yolande, with more of interest, "to see 
 whether she has been faithf nl to him, is it not ? And of 
 course she is. It is so easy for one to remain faithful — in a 
 ballad, where nothing happens but the f.ancy of the poet. 
 And then, if she Avas not faithful, who would write about 
 her ? She would be contemptible — that is all." 
 
 " No so fast, my dear young leddy — no so fast. Just 
 listen to the story, — 
 
 ' Young Randal was an altered man when he came hame ; 
 A sair altered man was he when he came hame, 
 Wi' a star on liis bi-east and a Sir to his name, 
 And wi' gray, gray locks Sir Randal came hame. 
 
 * He rode to the castle and he rispit at the ring, 
 And down came our lady to iTid him ride in ; 
 
 And round her bonnie bairnies were playin' on the grjen : 
 
 * Can this auld wife be my true-love Jean ? " 
 
YOLANDE. 281 
 
 ■ " And whatna dour au 1 carle is this ?|' |lLQtli tlie dame. 
 " Sae griff and sae stilf, sae feckless anu^sae^ame ?" 
 
 Quoth he : " My bojuiie leddy, were ye^w^Jeanie Graham '? " 
 "Indeed, good sir, ye have guessed my v^!y:rai:^e:" . -t ?t sa ^ \ 
 
 * Oh, dool on the wars in the High Germanie ! 
 And dool on the poortith o' our ain countrie ! 
 And dool on the heart that unfaithful can be ! — 
 For they've wrecked the bravest man in the whole countrie ! " * 
 
 Ye see, it's a sad story enough ; but I'm no sure whether to 
 blame the wars in the High Germanie, or the poverty o' the 
 old Scotch families, or the young lass changing her mind. 
 Maybe if she had been less anxious for silks and lace, and 
 maybe if he had been less anxious to hae a Sir to his name, 
 he might hae bided at home, and married her, and lived 
 happily enough. It's .the way o' young people never to bo 
 satisfied. And here is Mr. Melville going away just when 
 everything was ready for his taking back the land that be- 
 longed to his own people, and settling down on it as he 
 ought." 
 
 " Perhaps he will not go — perhaps he is not going, Mrs. 
 Bell," she said, in a despairing kind of way ; for well she 
 knew, if he were indeed going what was the cause. 
 
 Then she looked at her watch. Well, she had still 
 nearly half an hour to spare, and she was determined to 
 stay till the last minute if it were needful. But there was 
 no fifyure comincc alonsf the road, no livinsj thino' visible on 
 these vacant hillsides, nor a sign of life along the wide 
 moorland of the valley. She was grateful for Mrs. Bell's 
 talking ; it lessened the overstrain of the suspense somehow 
 she had to force herself to listen in a measure. And again 
 and again she expressed the hope that there must be a 
 mistake, that Mr. Melville was not really going away. 
 
 " It's not my place to ask," the old lady said, doubtfully ; 
 " but he had a long talk when he came home yesterday wi' 
 the lad'Dalrymple, and I jalouse it was about his being 
 able to carry on the school by himseP. It's just that vexa- 
 tious, ray dear young leddy ! — and yet it canna be helped. 
 I darena say a word. lie's a headstrong man, and he's to 
 be managed only wi' a good deal o' skill ; and if he thought 
 I was any kind o' encumbrance, or expected him to do this, 
 that, or the other, he would be off in a gliff. But tlie vexa- 
 
 * Probably this version of the ballad is veiT" imperfect, as it is put 
 down here from meinory. 
 
282 YOLANDE 
 
 tiousness o't, to be sure ! It was only the day before 
 yesterday that I wrote to they lawyers again. I'm no gaun 
 to tell ye, my young leddy, what they said about the price 
 o' Monaglen, for it might get about, and I'm no wanting 
 him to ken what I paid for it, if I get it. But I found 1 
 could easy buy it, and have a good nest-egg for him besides ; 
 besides my own £220 a year or thereabouts ; and sae I 
 wrote to they lawyers just asking them in a kind o' way to 
 get me the refusal of the place for a freend o' mine. And 
 then yesterday morning I began and argued wi' mysel'. I 
 coveted the place, that's the truth. And says I, ' Kirsty, 
 what's the use o' being ower-cunning? If ye want to buy 
 Monaglen, tell them. A braw thing now, if it were to slip 
 through your fingers, and be snappit up by somebody else : 
 wudna ye be a disappointed woman a' the days o' your 
 life ?' And so, as second thochts are best, I just sat down 
 and told them plump and plain that if Monaglen was to be 
 got for that, here was a woman that would take it for that, 
 and telled them to make the bargain, and drive a nail into it, 
 there and then ; and that a' the other things — a' the 
 whigmaleeries they invent just to make poor folk pay 
 money — could be settled after. And to think o' him going 
 away the now, just when the night's post, or may be the 
 morn's night post, is almost sure to bring me a telegram — I 
 declare it's too provokin' ! " 
 
 " But perhaps he is not going away," said Yolande, 
 gently. And then she added, suddenly, and with her face 
 grown a deadly white : " Mrs. Bell, that is Mr. Melville 
 coming down the hill. I wish to speak a word or two to 
 him by himself." 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes; why not?" said Mrs. Bell, cheerfully. 
 " I'm just going indoors to put a bit string round the 
 flowers for ye. And there's a wee bit basket too, ye maun 
 take ; I made few a sweets, and comfits, and such things for 
 ye last night, that'll help to amuse ye oa the journey." 
 
 She did not hear; she was regarding him as he ap- 
 proached. His features were as pale as her own ; his lips 
 were thin and white. When he came to her he stood before 
 her with his eyes cast down like one guilty. The pallor of 
 his face was frightful. 
 
 " I have come because you sent for me," he said. " But 
 there is nothing you can say to me that I have not said to 
 myself." 
 
 " Do you think I have come to reproach you ? No. It 
 
YOLANDE. 288 
 
 18 I who have to bear the blame," she answered, with 
 apparent calmness. Then she added : '-'• 1 — I sent for you 
 because I could not go away without a word of good-by." 
 
 Here she stopped, fearful that her self-possession would 
 desert her. Her hands were tightly clinched, and uncon- 
 sciously she was nervously fingering lier engagement ring. 
 
 " I do not see," she said, speaking in a measured way, 
 as if to make sure she should not break down, "why the 
 truth should not be said between us — it is the last time. 
 I did not know ; you did not know ; it was all a misfortune ; 
 but 1 ought to have known — I ought to have guarded my- 
 self : it is I who am to blame. Well, if I have to suffer, it 
 is no matter ; it is you that I am sorry for — " 
 
 " Yolande, I cannot have you talk like that ! " he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " One moment," she said — and strangely enough her 
 French accent seemed more marked in her speech, perhaps 
 because she was not thinking of any accent. "One 
 moment. When I am gone away, do not think that I 
 regret having met you and known you. It has been a 
 misfortune for you ; for me, no. It has been an honor to 
 me that you were my friend, and an education also ; you 
 have shown me what this one or that one may be in the 
 world ; I had not known it before ; you made me expect 
 better things. It was you who showed me what I siiould 
 do. Do not think that I shall forget what I owe you : 
 wliatever happens, I will try to think of what you would 
 expect from me, and that will be my ambition. I wished to 
 say this to you before I went away," said she, and now 
 her lingers were trembling somewhat, despite her enforced 
 calmness. " And also that — that, if one can not retrieve 
 the past, if one has the misfortune to bring suffering on — " 
 " Yolande, Yolande," said he, earnestly, and he looked 
 up and looked into her eyes, "do not speak of it — do not 
 think of it any more ? Put it behind you. You are no longer 
 a girl ; you are a woman ; you have a woman's duties before 
 you. Whatever is past, let that be over and gone. If any 
 one is to blame, it has not been you. Look before you ; forget 
 what is behind. Do you know that it is not a light matter 
 you have undertaken ? " 
 
 He was firmer than she was ; he regarded her calmly, 
 though still his face was of a ghastly paleness. 
 
 She hesitated for a moment or two ; then she glanced 
 around. 
 
284 YOLANDE. 
 
 " I wish you to — to give me a flower," she said, " that 
 I may take It with rae.'' 
 
 " No," he said at once. " No. Forget everything that 
 has happened here, except the duty you owe to others." 
 
 " That I have deserved," she said, in a low voice. 
 « Good-by." 
 
 She held out her hand. He took it and held it ; and 
 there was a great compassion in his eyes. To her they 
 seemed glorified eyes, the eyes of a saint, full of a sad and 
 yearning pity. 
 
 *' Yolande," said he — and the tones of his voice seemed 
 to reach her very heart — " I have faith in you. I shall hear 
 of you. Be worthy of yourself. Now, God bless you, and 
 good-by ! " 
 
 ^^ Adieu I adieu I''"' she murmured; and then, white- 
 faced and all trembling, but still dry-eyed and erect, she 
 got through the house somehow, and out to the front, 
 where Mrs. Bell was awaiting her by the side of the dog- 
 cart. 
 
 When she had driven away, Mrs. Bell remained for a 
 minute or two looking after the departing vehicle — and 
 perhaps rather regretfully, too, for she had taken a great 
 liking to this bright young English lady who had come into 
 these wilds ; but presently she was recalled from her 
 reveries or regrets by the calling of Mr. Melville. She 
 went into the house at once. 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Bell," said he ( and he seemed in an un- 
 usual hurry), " do you think one of the girls could hunt 
 out for me the waterproof coat that has the strap attached to 
 it for slinging over the shoulders? And I suppose she 
 could pack me some bit of cold meat, or something of the 
 kind, and half a loaf, in a little parcel? " 
 
 "Dear me, sir, I will do that myseP ; but where are ye 
 going, sir, if I may ask?" 
 
 The fact was that it was so unusual for Jack Melville 
 to take any precautions of this kind — even when he was 
 starting for a long day's fishing on some distant moorlaiul 
 loch — that Mrs. Bell instanty jumped to the conclusion that 
 he was bent on some very desperate excursion. 
 
 " Where am I going ? " he said. " Why, across the 
 hills to Kingussie, to catch the night train to London." 
 
yOLANDE. 2ftf) 
 
 CHAPTER XXXy. 
 
 *'DrR, O STILLES THAL, GRUSS ZUM LETZTENMAL ! " 
 
 The train roared and jingled through the long black 
 night ; and always before her shut but sleepless eyes rose 
 vision after vision of that which she was leaving forever be- 
 hind — her girlhood. So quiet and beautiful, so ricli in af- 
 fection and kindness, that appeared to her now ; slie could 
 Scarce believe tliat it was herself she saw, in those recurrent 
 scenes, so glad and joyous and light-hearted. That was all 
 over. Already it seemed far away. She beheld herself 
 walking witii her father along the still valley, in the nioou-- 
 light ; or out on the blue waters of the loch, with the suu 
 hot on the gunwale of the boat; or away up on the lonely 
 hillsides, where the neighborhood of the watercourse« was 
 marked by a wandering blaze of gold — widespread masses 
 of the yellow saxifrage; or seated at the head of the dinner 
 table, with her friends laughing and talking ; and all that 
 life was grown distant now. She was as one expelled from 
 paradise. And sometimes, in spite of herself, in spite of 
 all her wise and firm resolves, her heart would utter to itself 
 a sort of cry of despair. Why did he refuse her that bit of 
 a flower to take away with her? It was so small a thing. 
 And then she thought of the look in his eyes as he regarded 
 her ; of the great pity and tenderness shining there ; and 
 of the words of courage and hope that he had spoken to her 
 as she left. Well she would show herself worthy of his faith in 
 her. She would force away from her'those idle regrets over a 
 too-beautiful past. A new life was opening before her ; she 
 was content to accept whatever it might bring. Who 
 could grudge to her this long, last review of the life she 
 w IS leaving forever ? Farewell — farewell! She was not 
 even carrying away with her a bit of a leaf or a blossom, to 
 j^waken memories, in the after-time, of the garden in which 
 she had so often stood in the white clear air, with the sun- 
 light all around her. Well, it was better so. And perhaps 
 m the new life that she was entering she would find such 
 duties and occupations as would effectually prevent the re- 
 currcjuce of this long night's torture — this vii' on-building 
 
286 YOLANDE. 
 
 out of the past, this inexplicable yearning, this vain stretch- 
 ing out of the hands to that she was leaving forever. 
 
 Toward morning she slept a little, but not much ; how- 
 ever, on the first occasion of her opening her eyes, she found 
 that the gray light of the new day was around her. For 
 an instant a shock of fear overcame her — a sudden sense of 
 helplessness and affnght. She was so strangely situated • 
 she was drawing near the great, dread city; she knew not 
 what lay before her; and she felt so much alone. Despite 
 herself, tears began to trickle down her face, and lier lip& 
 were tremulous. This new day seemed terrible, and sho 
 was helpless — and alone. 
 
 " Dear me, Miss," said Jane, happening to wake up at 
 this moment, " what is the matter?" * 
 
 "It is nothing," her young mistress said. " I — I liave 
 scarcely slept at all these two nights, and I feel rather weak, 
 and — and — not very w^ell. It is no matter." 
 
 But the tears fell faster now, and this sense of weakness 
 and helplessness completely overpowered her. She fairly 
 broke down. 
 
 " I will tell you what it is, " she sobbed, in a kind of 
 recklessness of despair. " It is that I have undertaken to 
 do what is beyond me. I am not fit for it. They have 
 asked . too much of me. It is beyond what I can do. 
 What can I do ? — when I feel that I should be happy if 1 
 could only lie down and die, and be the cause of no more 
 trouble to any one !" 
 
 The maid was very much startled by these words, though 
 she little guessed the cause of them. And indeed her young 
 mistress very speedily — and by a force of will that she did 
 not suspect herself of possessing — put an end to this half- 
 hysterical fit. She drew herself uj) erect, she dried her 
 eyes' and she told Jane that as soon as they got to the hotel 
 she would go to bed for an hour or two and try to get some 
 sleep ; for that really this long fit of wakefulness had filled 
 her head with all sorts of ridiculous fancies. 
 
 And that was the last sign of weakness. Pale h*r face 
 might be, as she set about the undertaking of this duty ; 
 but she had steeled her heart. Fortunately, when they got 
 to the hotel, and when she had had some breakfast, she was 
 able to snatch an hour or two's sound and refreshing sleep 
 in the silence of her own room ; and when she re-appeared 
 even the dull-witted Jane noticed how much better and 
 brisker she looked. Nay, there was even a kind of hope* 
 
YOLANDE, 287 
 
 fulness and clieerfiiliiess in the way she set about making 
 her preparations. And first of all she told Jane fully and 
 frankly of the errand on which she had come to London ; 
 and this, as it turned out, was a wise thing to do ; for the 
 good Jane regarded the whole situation, and her probable 
 share in the adventure, with a stolid self-sufficiency which 
 was as good as any courage. Oh, she said, she was not afiaid 
 of such people ! Probably she knew better how to manage 
 them than a young lady would. They wouldn't frighten 
 her! And slie not obscurely hinted that, if there was any 
 kind of incivility going on she was quite capable of giving 
 as good as she got. 
 
 Yolande had resolved, among other things, that, while 
 she would implicitly obey Mr. Melville's instructions about 
 making that appeal to her mother entirely unaided and un- 
 accompanied, she might also prudently follow her father's 
 advice and get such help as was necessary, with regard to 
 preliminary arrangements, from his solicitors, more espe- 
 cially as she had met one of those gentlemen two or three 
 times, and so far was on friendly terms with him. Accord- 
 ingly, one of the first things she did was to get into a cab, 
 accompanied by her maid, and drive to the offices of Law- 
 rence & Lang, in Lincoln's Inn Fields. She asked for Mr. 
 Lang, and by and by was shown into that gentleman's room. 
 He was a tall, elderly person, with white hair, a shre\Vd, 
 thin face, and humorous, good-natured snile. 
 
 "Take a seat. Miss Winterbourne," said he. "Very 
 lucky you came now. In another ten minutes I should 
 
 have been off to seek you at the Hotel, and we 
 
 should have crossed each other." 
 
 "But how did you know I was at the Hotel! " she 
 
 said, with a stare of astonishment. 
 
 "Oh, we lawyers are supposed to know everytliing," he 
 answered, good-naturedly. " And I may tell you that I 
 know of the business that has brought you to London, and 
 that we shall be most happy to give you all the assistance 
 in our power." 
 
 " But how can you knowM " the girl said, bewildered. 
 " It was only the day before yesterday 1 decided to go, and 
 it w^as only this morning I reached London. Did my papa 
 write to you, then, witho it telling me !" 
 
 " My dear young lady, if I were to answer your questions 
 vou would no longer believe in the omniscience of lawyers," 
 he said, with his grave smile. " No, no ; you must assume 
 
288 YOLAXDE. 
 
 tliat Ave kno\r everything. And let nio tell you that the 
 step you are taking, though it is a bold one, deserves to be» 
 successful ; perhaps it will be successful because it is a bold 
 one. I hope so. But you must be prepared for a shock. 
 Your mother has been ill." 
 
 •' Ah? " said Yolaude, but no more. She held her hands 
 olasped. 
 
 " I say she has been ill," said this elderly suave person, 
 ■who seemed to regard the girl with a very kindly intei-est. 
 " Now she is better. Three weeks ago my clerk found her 
 unable to sign the receipt that he usually brings away 
 witli liim ; and I was about to write to your father, when 
 I thought I would wait a day or two and see ; and fortu- 
 nately she got a little better. However, you must be pre- 
 })ared to find her looking ill ; and — and — well, I was going 
 to say she might be incapable of recognizing you ; but I 
 forgot. Ixi the meantime we shall be pleased to be of every 
 assistance to you in our power; in fact, we have been in- 
 structed to consider you as under our protection. I hope you 
 find the — —Hotel comfortable ! " 
 
 " Oh yes — oh yes," Yolande said, absently ; she Avas not 
 thinking of any hotel ; she was thinldng in what way these 
 people could be of help to her. 
 
 " Of course," said he, " when you go to see your mother, 
 I could send some one with you if you wished it ; or I would 
 go with you myself, for that matte)* ; but I understand that 
 is not considered desirable." 
 
 " Oh no, " said she ; *' I must go alone. I wish to see 
 her alone." 
 
 " As for your personal safety," said he, " that need not 
 alarm you. Your friends may be anxious about you, no 
 doubt ; but the very worst that can happen will be a little 
 impertinence. You won't mind thati shall have a policeman 
 in plain clothes standing by ; if your maid should consider 
 it necessary, she can easily summon him to you. She will be 
 inside ; he outside; so you have nothing to fear." 
 
 " Then you know all how it has been arranged ! " she ex 
 claimed. 
 
 " Why, yes ; it is our business here to know every- 
 thing," said he, laughing, " though we are not allowed 
 sometimes to say how we came by the information. Now 
 what else can we do for you ? Let me see. If your poor 
 mother will go with you, you migiit wish to take her to 
 some quiet seaside place, perhaps, for her health? " 
 
YOLANDE. 289 
 
 " Oh yes ; I wish to take her away from Loudon at once," 
 Yoland* said, eagerly. 
 
 " Well, a client of ours has just left some lodgings at 
 Worthing — in fact, we have recommended them on one or 
 two occasions, and we have been told that they gave sat- 
 isfaction. The rooms are clean and nicely furnished, and 
 the landlady is civil and obliging. She is a gentle- 
 woman, in short, in reduced circumstances but not over- 
 reaching. I think you might safely take the rooms." 
 " Will you give me the address, if you please ? " 
 He wrote the address on a card and gave it to her. 
 " But dr^ not trouble to write," said he ; " we will do 
 that for you, and arrange terms." 
 
 "But 1 must go down to see the place first," said she. 
 ** I can go there and get back in one day — to-morrow — 
 can I not ? " 
 
 " J^ut why should you give yourself so much trouble ? " he 
 Sdid. 
 
 " What a daughter can do for her own mother, that is 
 not called trouble," she answered, simply. "Is Worthing 
 a large town ? " 
 
 "No ; not a large town. It is one of the smaller water- 
 hig-places." 
 
 " But one could hire there a pony and a pony-chaise ?" 
 •" Undoubtedly." 
 " And could one take the rooms and hire the pony and 
 pony-chaise conditionally ?" 
 
 " I don't quite understand you." 
 
 " Could one say, * Yes, 1 shall want these most likely ; 
 but if I telegraph to you to-morrow or next day that I do 
 not want them, then there is no bargain, and there is nothing 
 to pay?" 
 
 " I have no doubt they would make that arrangement 
 with you. That would be merely reserving the refusal for 
 you for a certain number of days." 
 
 ** Tw^o days at the most," said Yolande, who seemed to 
 have studied this matter — even as she used to study the dfv 
 tails of her future housekeeping at Allt-nam-Ba wlien she 
 was sitting on the deck of the great steamer with the Med 
 iterranean Sea around her. 
 
 " May I presume to ask," said he, " whether you are suffi- 
 ciently supplied with money ? We have no instructions 
 from your f.-itl»er ; but we shall be pleased if you consider 
 us yonr bankers." 
 
290 YOLANDE. 
 
 " I have only eight or nine pounds," said she, " in 
 money ; but also I have three blank checks which my papa 
 signed : that is enough, is it not ? " 
 
 " Well, yes, 1 should say that was enough," he ri> 
 marked, with a perfectly subdued irony. " But those blank 
 checks are dangerous things, if you will permit me to say 
 so. I would strongly advise you, my dear Miss Winter- 
 bourne, to destroy them, and to send to us for such sums 
 ns you may want from time to time. That would be much 
 tlie safer plan. And if there is any other particular in 
 Avhich we can be of the least assistance to you, you will 
 please let us fcaow. We can always send some one to you, 
 and a telegram from Worthing only costs a shilling! As we 
 have received such strict • injunctions about looking after 
 you, we must keep up our character as your guardian." 
 
 " I thought you said my papa had not sent you any 
 instructions," Yoland exclaimed again. 
 
 " About the check, my dear young lady," said he 
 promptly. 
 
 " Then I wish you to tell me something of those people 
 — I wish to know who and what they are." 
 
 " I think Miss Winterbourne,"said he, gravely, "that the 
 information would not edify you much.'* 
 
 " But I wish to know," said she ; " I wish to know the 
 sort of people one must expect to find there." 
 
 " The facts are simple, then. He is a drunken scoundrel, 
 to put the matter shortly. I believe he once in a fairly 
 good position — I rather think he was called to the Bar ; but 
 he never practised. Betting on races, and drink, finished 
 him between them. Then he tried to float a bit by marrying 
 the proprietress of a public-house — an illiterate woman : but 
 he drank through her money, and the public-house, and 
 everything. Now they are supposed to let out this house 
 ill rooms ; but as that would involve trouble, my own im- 
 ])ression is they have no lodgers but your mother, and are 
 content to live on the very ample allowance that we are 
 instructed to pay her monthly. Well, no doubt they will 
 bo very angry if you succeed in taking away from them 
 tlieir source of 'ncome ; and the man, if he is drunk, may 
 be impertinent , but that is all you have to fear. I would 
 strongly advise you to go in the evening. Then the 
 ])resence of the policeman in the street will not arouse sus- 
 |!ii(;iou ; and if there should be any trifling disturbance, it 
 will be less likely to attract the notice of bystanders. 
 
YOLANDE. 291 
 
 Might I ask — please forgive me if I am impertinent" — lie 
 Bnid, " b«t I have known all about this Bad story from the 
 beginning, and I am naturally curious — may I ask whelhei 
 the idea of your going to your mother, alone, and taking 
 her awav with you, alone, was a suggestion of your 
 father's ?*" 
 
 '-' It was not, " said she, with downcast eyes. " It was the 
 suggestion of a friend whose acquaintanceship — whose 
 friendship — we made in the Highlands — a Mr. Melville." 
 
 " All," said he, and he glanced at a card that was lying 
 before him on the table. " It is bold — bold," he added, 
 musitigly. " One thing is certain, everything else has failed. 
 My dear young lady, I am afraid, however successful you 
 may be,your life for some time to come will not be as happy 
 and cheerful as one could wish for one of your age." 
 
 '* That 1 am not particular about, " said Yolande ab- 
 sently. 
 
 " However, in a matter of this kind, it is not ray place 
 to advise: I am a servant only. You are going down to 
 Worthing to-morrow. I will give you a list of trains there 
 and back, to save you the trouble of hunting through a time- 
 table. You will be l>ack in the evening. Now do you 
 think it desirable that I should get this man whom I mean 
 to employ in your service to hang about the neighborhood 
 of the house to-morrow, just to get some notion of the 
 comings and goings of the people " 
 
 " I think it would be most desirable," Yolande said. 
 
 " Very well ; it shall be done. Let rae see : this is 
 Thursday; to-morrow you go to Worthing. Could you 
 call here on Saturday to hear what the man has to say, or 
 shall he wait on you at the Hotel ? " 
 
 " I would rather call here," she said. 
 
 " Very well ; and what hour would be most conve- 
 nient?" 
 
 " Ten— is it too soon ? " 
 
 " Not at all," said he, jotting down a memorandum on 
 a diary before him. "Now one thing more. Will you 
 oblige me by burning those checks? I will write to your 
 father, and take the responsibility." 
 
 " If you think it right I will," she said, " as soon as I go 
 back to *t he hotel." 
 
 "And here" he continued going to a safe and fetching 
 out some Bank of England notes, " is £25 in £5 notes ; it is 
 not so serious a matter if one of these should go astray. 
 
292 YOLANDE. 
 
 Please i)ut these in your purse, Miss Winterbourne ; and 
 when you want any further sums you have only to write 
 to us." 
 
 She thanked him, and rose, and bade him good-by. 
 " Good-by JMiss Winterbourne," said he, in a very 
 friendly way ; " and please to remember that although, of 
 course, all the resources of our firm are at your disposal as 
 a matter of business, still I hope you may count on us for 
 Bomething more than that, if there is any way we can help 
 you — I mean in a private and personal way. If any such oc- 
 casion should arise, please remember that your father and I 
 were friends together in Slagpool five and thirty years ago, 
 and anything that I can do for his daughter will be a great 
 pleasure to me." 
 
 As she left she thought that London did not seem to be, 
 after all, such a terrible place to be alone in. Here was 
 protection, guardianship, friendsliip, and assistance put all 
 around her at the very outset. There were no more qualms 
 or sinkings of the heart now. When she got outside it 
 suddenly occurred to her that she. would like to go away in 
 search of the street in which her mother lived, and rec- 
 onnoitre the house. Might there, not be some chance of her 
 coming out ? — the day was fairly fine for London. And 
 how strange to see her mother walking before her. She 
 felt sure she should recognize her. And then — perhaps — 
 what if one were suddenly to discard all preparations ? what 
 if she were to be quickly caught, and carried off, aud trans- 
 ferred to the safety of the Hotel, before any one could 
 
 interfere ? 
 
 But when she had ordered the cabman to drive to Ox- 
 ford Circus, and got into tlie cab, along with Jane, she 
 firmly put away from her all these wild possibilities. Tliis 
 undertaking was too serious a matter to be imperiled by 
 any rashness. She might look at the street, at the house at 
 the windows ; but not if her mother were to come out and 
 pass her by touching her skirt even, would she declare lier- 
 self. She was determined to be worthy of the trust that 
 had been placed in her. 
 
 At Oxford Circus they dismissed the cab, and walked 
 some short distance until they found the place they were in 
 search of — a dull, respectable-looking, quiet, misty little 
 thoroughfare, 1} ing just back from the continuous roar of 
 Oxford Street. She passed the house once "»r twice, too, 
 kuowinc: it bv its number, but tliere was no ^ of life in 
 
YOLANDE, 293 
 
 it. The small, curtained windows showed no one sitting 
 there or looking out. She waited ; went to distant points, 
 and watched ; but save for an occasional butcher's boy or 
 postman the street remained uniformly empty. Then slie 
 remembered that it was drawing towards the afternoon, and 
 that poor Jane was probably starving ; so she called anotlier 
 cab, and drove to the hotel. 
 
 Next day was a busy day — after that life of quietude far 
 away among the hills. She got to Worthing about twelve, 
 and went straight to the lodgings that had been recom- 
 mended by Mr. Lang, which she found in one of tiie bright 
 and cheerful-looking terraces fronting the sea. She was 
 much pleased with the rooms, which were on the first floor, 
 the sitting-room opening on to a balcony prettily decorated 
 with flowers ; and she also took rather a fancy to the little 
 old lady herself, who was at first rather anxious and nerv- 
 ous, but who grew more friendly under the influence of Yo- 
 lande's calm and patronizing gentleness. Under the con- 
 ditions mentioned to Mr. Lang she took the rooms, and 
 gave her name and address and her father's name and ad- 
 dress, adding, with the smallest touch of pride. 
 
 " Of course you know him by reputation." 
 
 *' Oh yes, indeed," somewhat vaguely said this timid, 
 pretty little old lady, who was the widow of a clergyman, 
 and whose sole and whole notion of politics was that the 
 Radicals and other evil-disposed persons of that kind were 
 plotting the destruction of the Church of England, which 
 to her meant nothing more nor less than the swallowing 
 up ef the visible universe. " He is in Parliament, is lie 
 not?" 
 
 " Yes," said Yolande ; " and some peo]>le wish he were 
 not there. He is a little too honest and outspoken for 
 them." 
 
 Next she went to a livery-stable keei)er, and asked 
 about his terms for the hire of a pony and pony-can-iage. 
 These terms seemed to her reasonable but they were not; 
 for she was judging them by the Inverness standard, where- 
 as that standard is abnormally high, for the reason that the 
 Inverness livery-stable keepers have demands made on 
 them for only two or, at most, three months in the year, 
 and are quite content, for the other nine months, to lend 
 out their large stock of horses for nothing to any of the 
 neighboring lairds or farmers who will take them and feed 
 them. However, the matter was not a serious one. 
 
294 YOLANDE. 
 
 The next morning slie called at the office of Messrs. 
 Lawrence <fc Lang, heard what tlie man who had been 
 posted in that little thoroughfare had to say, and arranged 
 that she should go alone to the house that evening at eight 
 o'clock. She had no longer in her eyes the pretty timidity 
 and bashfulness of a child ; she bore herself with the <ie- 
 meanor of a woman. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVL 
 
 AN ABDUCTION. 
 
 A FEW minutes before eight on that evening, in the 
 thoroughfare just mentioned, a short, thickset man was 
 standing by a lam}>post, either trying to read, or pretending 
 to read, an evening newspaper by the dull, yellow light. 
 Presently a hansom cab drove up to the corner of the 
 street and stopped there, and a taller and younger man got 
 out and came along to the lamp-post. 
 
 ** I would go a dozen yards nearer," said the new- 
 comer. 
 
 " Very well, sir," said the other. And then he added, 
 " The master of the house has just gone out sir." 
 
 " So much the better," said the younger man, carelessly. 
 " There will be the less bother — probably none at all. But 
 you keep a little bit nearer after the young lady has gone in- 
 to the house." 
 
 " Very well, sir." 
 
 The new-comer apparently did not consider that any 
 gi-eat vigilance or surveillance would be necessary, but all 
 the same, while he still left the hansom at the corner of the 
 street, he walked along a few yards further (glancing iu 
 passing at the windows of one of the houses), until he came 
 to a narrow entry leading down into a courtyard, and there 
 a step or two into the gloom of the little passage effectually 
 hid him from sight. 
 
 Punctually at eight o'clock a four-wheeled cab appeared 
 and drew up, and Yolande got out, followed by her maid. 
 Without delay or hesitation she crossed the pavement and 
 knocked at the door. A girl of about fifteen opened it. 
 
YOLANDE. 295 
 
 •* Is Mrs. Wintcrbourne within ?" said Yolande, calmly. 
 
 The girl eyed her doubtfully. " Y — yes, miss." 
 
 " I wish to see her, if you please." 
 
 " Y — yes, miss; if you wait for a moment I'll go and 
 tell missis." 
 
 ** No," said Yolande, promptly and she passed into the 
 lobby without further ado — " no, I will not trouble your 
 mistress. Please show me where I shall nnd Mrs. Winter- 
 bourne; that is enough." 
 
 Now the girl looked frightened, for the two strangers 
 were inside, and she glanced behind her to see whether her 
 mistress were not coming to her relief. Moreover, this tall 
 young lady had an imperious way with her ? 
 
 " Which is her room ? " 
 
 " T — that is her sitting-room," stammered the girl. In- 
 deed, they were all standing just outside the door of it. 
 
 " Thank you," she said, and she put her hand on the 
 handle of the door. " Jane, wait for me." The next moment 
 she was inside the room, and the door shut behind her. 
 
 A spasm of fear caught her and struck her motionless. 
 Someone sat there-^some one in a chair — idly looking into 
 the fire, a newspaper flung aside. And what horror might 
 not have to be encountered now! She had been warned; 
 she had prepared herself ; but still — 
 
 Then the next moment a great flood of pity and joy and 
 gratitude filled her heart ; for the face that was turned to 
 her — that regarded her with a mild surprise — though it was 
 emaciated and pallid, was not unlovable ; and the eyes 
 were large and strange and melancholy. This poor lady 
 rose, and with a gentle courtesy regarded her visitor, and 
 said, 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; I did not hear you come into the 
 room." 
 
 What a strange voice — hollow and distant ; and it was 
 chmr that she was looking at this new-comer only with a 
 vague, Ii;ilf-])leased curiosity, not with any natural wonder 
 at such an intrusion. Yolande could not speak. She for- 
 got all that she had meant to say. Her heart seemed to be 
 choking her. 
 
 " Mother," she managed to say at length, " you do not 
 know, then, that I am your daughter." 
 
 " My Yolande I " she said — and she retreated a step, as 
 if in fear. " You are not my Yolande — you ! " 
 
 She regarded her apparently with some strange kind of 
 
YOLANDE. 
 
 dread — as if she were an apparition. There was no wonder, 
 or joy, or sudden impulse of affection. 
 
 "You — you cannot be my Yolande — my daughter !" 
 
 " But indeed I am, mother," said the girl, with the tears 
 running down her face in spite of herself. " Ah ! it is cruel 
 that I should come to you as a stranger — that you should 
 have no word of kindness for me. But no matter. We 
 shall soon make up for all these years. Mother, I have come 
 to take you away. You must no longer be here alone. You 
 will come with me, will you not ! " 
 
 The pale, emaciated, hollow-voiced woman came nearer 
 now, and took Yolande's hand and, regarded her with a 
 kind of vague, pleased curiosity and kindness. 
 
 " And you are really my Yolande, then ? How tall you 
 are ! and beautiful too — like an angel. When I have thought 
 of you It was not like this. What beautiful beautiful hair ! 
 and so straight you have grown, and tall ! So they have 
 sent you to me at last. But it is too late now — too late.'* 
 
 " No, no, mother it is not too kite. You will come 
 away with me, will you not — now — at once? " 
 
 The other shook her head sadly ; and yet it was ob- 
 vious that she was taking more and more interest in her 
 daughter — regarding her from top to toe, admiring her 
 dress even, and all the time holding her hand. 
 
 " Oh no, I cannot go away with you," she said. " It is 
 not for you to be hampered with one like me. I am con- 
 tent. I am at peace here. I am quite happy here. You 
 are young, rich, beautiful ; you will have a beautiful life ; 
 everything beautiful round you. It is so strange to look at 
 you ! And who sent you ? The lawyers, I suppose. 
 What do thev want now? Why do they not let me 
 alone?" 
 
 She let the girl's hand fall, and turned away dejectedly, 
 and sank down into the easy-chair again with a sigh. But 
 Yolande was mistress of herself now. She went forward, 
 put her hand upon her mother's shoulder, and said, firmly : 
 
 " Mother, I will not allow you to remain here. It is not 
 a fit place for you. I have come to take you away myself ; 
 the lawyers have not sent me ; they want nothing. Dear 
 mother, do make up your mind to come away with me — 
 now ! " 
 
 Her entreaty was urgent, for she could hear distinctly 
 that there were some " high words " being bandied in the 
 
YOLAA'DE. 297 
 
 lobby, and she wished to get her mother away without any 
 unseemly squabble. 
 
 " Do, mother ! Everytliing is ready. You and I will go 
 away together to Worthing, and the sea air and the country 
 drives will soon make you well again. I have got everything 
 prepared for you — pretty rooms fronting the sea; and a 
 balcony where you can sit and read ; and I have a pony- 
 
 carriage to take you for drives through the lanes. A\ 
 now, to think it is your own daughter who is asking you ! 
 You cannot refuse! You cannot refuse !" 
 
 She had risen again and taken Yolande's hand, but her 
 look was hesitating, and bewildered. 
 
 " Tiiey will be angry," said she, timidly ; for now tiie 
 dissension without was clearly audible. 
 
 " Who, then ? " said Tolande, proudly. " You will leave 
 them to me, mother; I am not afraid. Ah if you saw h<nv 
 much prettier the rooms are at Worthing ! — yes ; and no 
 longer you will have to sit alone by yourself in the evening. 
 Come, mother ! " 
 
 At this moment the door opened, aud a short, stout, red- 
 faced black-haired woman made her appearance. It was 
 clear that the altercation with Jane had not improved her 
 temper. 
 
 " I beg your pardon young lady," said she, with studied 
 deference, " but I want to know what this means." 
 
 Yolande turned with flashing eyes. 
 
 " Leave the room ! " 
 
 For a second the woman was cowed by her manner ; but 
 the next moment she had bridled up again. 
 
 ** Leave the room, indeed ! Leave the room — in my own 
 house ! Not until I'm paid. And what's more, the poor 
 dear lady isn't going to be taken away against her will. 
 She knows who her friends are. She knows whoh ivo 
 looked after her and nursed lier. She sha'n't be forced 
 away from the house against her will, I warrant you." 
 
 " Leave the room this instant, or I will send for a police- 
 man ! " Yolande said ; and she had drawn herself u ■ to 
 her full height, for her mother, poor creature, was timidly 
 shrinking behind her. 
 
 "A policeman ! Hoity-toity ! " said the other, with her 
 little black eyes sparkling. "You'd better have no police- 
 man in here. It's not them that are robbing a poor woman 
 that should call for a policeman. But you haven't taken 
 her with you yet, and what's more, she sha'n't move an inch 
 out of this house until every farthing that's owin^ to us is 
 
298 YOLANDE. 
 
 f)aid — that she sha'ii't. We're not going to be robbed so 
 ong as there's the law. Not till every farthing is paid, 1 
 warrant you ! — so perhaps you'll let the poor dear lady 
 alone, and leave her in the care of them that she knows to 
 be her friends. A policeman, indeed ! Not one step shall 
 she budge until every farthing of her debt is paid." 
 
 Now for the moment Yolande was completely discon 
 certed. It was a point she had not foreseen ; it was a point, 
 therefore, on which she had asked no counsel. She had 
 been assured by Mr. Lang that she had nothing to fear hi 
 talking away her mother from this house — that she was act- 
 ing strictly witliin her legal rights. But how about this 
 question of debt ? Could they really detain her ? Out- 
 wardly, however, she showed no symptom of this sudden 
 doubt. She said to the woman, with perfect calmness, — 
 
 " Your impertinence will be of little use to you. My 
 mother is going with me ; I am her guardian. If you in- 
 terfere with me, it will be at your own peril. If my mother 
 owes you anything, it will be paid." 
 
 " How am I to know that? Here she is, and here she 
 shall remain until every farthing is paid. We are not go- 
 ing to be robbed in that way." 
 
 "I tell you that whatever is owing to you will be paid," 
 said Yolande. " You need not pretend that you have any 
 fear of being robbed ; you know you will be paid. And 
 now I wish you to tell me where my mother's things are. 
 Which is her bedroom ? " 
 
 " I'll show you whether you can ride the high horse over 
 me ! " said the woman, with her eyes glittering with anger. 
 *' I'll go and fetch my husband, that I will." And the next 
 second she had left the room and the house too, running 
 out into the night bareheaded. 
 
 " Now, mother," said Yolande, quickly, " now is our 
 chance ! Where are your things ? Oh, you must not 
 think of packing anything; we will send for what you 
 want to-morrow. But do you really owe these people anv- 
 thing?" 
 
 "I don't know," said her mother, who seemed to have 
 been terrified by this threat on the part of the woman. 
 
 " Well, then, where is your hat ? — where is your shaw ; 
 Where is your room ? " 
 
 Almost mechanically she opened the folding-doors that 
 formed one side of the apartment, disclosing beyond a 
 bedroom. Yoland preceded her, picking up the things she 
 wanted and helped her to put them on. 
 
YOLANDE. 299 
 
 " Come, now, mother ; we will get fvway before they 
 come back. Oh you need not be afraid. Everything is ar- 
 ranged for you. Tliere is a cab waiting for us outside." 
 
 " Who is in it ? " said the mother, drawing back with a 
 gesture of fear. 
 
 " Why, no one at all," said Yolande, cheerfully. " But 
 Diy maid is just outside, in the passage. Come along, 
 mother." 
 
 '' Where are we going ? " 
 
 " To the hotel where I am staying, to be sure. Every- 
 thing is arranged for you ; we are to have supper together 
 — you and I — all by ourselv^es. Will that please you, 
 mother ? " 
 
 " Wait for a moment, then." 
 
 She went back into the bedroom, and almost instantly 
 re-appeared, glancing at Yolande with a quick, furtive look 
 that the girl did not understand. She understood after. 
 
 " Come then." 
 
 She took her mother by the hand and led her as if she 
 was a child. In the lobby they encountered Jane, and 
 Jane was angry. 
 
 " Another minute, miss, and I would have turned her 
 out by the shoulders," she said, savagely. 
 
 " Oh, it is all right," said Yolande, briskly. " Every- 
 thing is quite right. Open the door Jane there's a good 
 girl> 
 
 They had got out from the house, and were indeed 
 crossing the pavement, when the landlady again made her 
 appearance, coming hurriedly up in the company of a man 
 who looked like (what he was) a butler out of employment, 
 and who was obviously drunk. He began to hector and 
 bully. He interposed himself between them and the cab. 
 
 " You ain't going away like this. You ain't going to 
 rob poor people like this ! You come back into the house 
 until we settle this affair." 
 
 Kow Yolande's only aim was to get clear of the man 
 and to get her mother put into the cab ; but he stood in front 
 of her, whichever way she made the attempt ; and at last* 
 he put his hands on her arm to force her back to the 
 house. It was an unfortunate thing for him that he did so. 
 There was a sudden crash ; the man reeled back, staggered, 
 and then fell like a log on the pavement ; and Yolande, 
 bewildered by the instantaneous nature of the whole occur- 
 ence, only knew that something like a black shadow had 
 
800 YOLANDE. 
 
 gone swiftly by. All this appeared to have happened in a 
 moment, and in that same moment liere was the policemsAn 
 in plain clothes, whom she knew by sight. 
 
 '* What a shame to strike the poor man ! " said he to 
 the landlady, who was on her knees shrieking by the side 
 of her husband. " But he ain't much hurt, mum. I'll help 
 him indoors, mum. I'm a constable, I am. I wish I knew 
 who done that ; I'd have the law again him." 
 
 As he uttered these words of consolation he regarded 
 tlie prostrate man with perfect equanimity, and a glance 
 over his shoulder informed him that in the confusion Yo- 
 lande, and her mother, and the maid, had got into the cab 
 and driven off. Then he proceeded to raise the stupefied 
 ex-builer, wiio certainly had received a "facer," but who 
 presently came to himself as near as' the fumes of rum 
 would allow. Nay, he helped, or rather steadied, the man 
 into the house, and assured the excited landlady that the 
 law would find out who had committed this outrage ; but 
 he refused the offer of a glass of something on the plea that 
 he was on duty. Then he took down the number of the 
 house in his note-book, and left. 
 
 As he walked along the street he was suddenly accosted 
 by the tall, bi-oad- shouldered young man who had disap- 
 peared into the narrow entry. 
 
 " Why weren't you up in time ! " said the latter, angrily. 
 
 " Lor, sir, you was so quick ! " 
 
 " Is that drunken idiot hurt ?" 
 
 " Well, sir, he may 'ave a black eye in the morning — 
 maybe a pair on 'em. But 'tain't no matter. He'll think he 
 run agin a lamp-post. He's as drunk as drunk." 
 
 " What was the row about ? I couldn't hear a word." 
 
 " Why, sir, they said as the lady owed them something." 
 
 " Oh, that was the dodge. However, it's all settled now 
 — very well settled. Let me see, I suppose Lawrence & Lang 
 pay you ? " 
 
 « Yes, sir." 
 
 " Well, you know, I don't think you did your best. 
 You weren't sharp enough. When you saw that drunken 
 brute seize hold of the young lady's arm you should have 
 been there — on the spot — on the instant — •" 
 
 " Lor, sir, you was so quick ! And the man went over 
 like a ninepin." 
 
 " Well, the affair is satisfactory as it stands," said the 
 vounfifer and taller m.in, " and I am well satisfied, and so I 
 
YOLANDE 301 
 
 suppose you don't mind my adding a sovereign to what 
 Lawrence & Lang will give you." 
 
 " Thank ye, sir," said the man, touching his cap. 
 
 *' Here you are then. Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night, sir." 
 
 Then the younger man walked on to the corner of the 
 street, jumped into the hansom that was still awaiting him 
 there, called through the trap-door to the driver. '* United 
 Universities, corner of Suffolk Street, Pall Mall," and so 
 was driven off. 
 
 That same night Yolande wrote the following letter to 
 her father : — 
 
 " My dear Papa, — I wish that I might write this letter 
 in French, for my heart is so full ; but I know you would not 
 like it, so I will do my best in English. It is all over and 
 settled ; m}- mother is with me — in this room where I am 
 writing — reading a little, but not so agitated by the events 
 of the day, or rather this evening, that one might expect. 
 It is I who am agitated: please forgive ray errors. But, oh, 
 it was the saddest thing ever seen in the world, for a 
 mother to be standing opposite her own daughter, and not 
 caring for her — not knowing her. We were two strangers. 
 But my heart was glad. I had had the apprehension that 
 I should have to overcome emotions : that it might be only 
 duty that would keep me by her side ; but no, no. When I 
 saw her face, and her gentle eyes, I said to myself how easy 
 would be the task of loving her as a daughter should. 
 Dear Papa, she is so ill ; and also she seems so far away 
 and absorbed and sad. She is only a little interested in 
 me — only a little. But yet I think she is pleased. I have 
 shown her what wardrobe I have with me, and that pleased 
 her a little ; but it is I who will have to be the guardian, and 
 buy things for her. She was pleased with my dressing-bag, 
 and to-morrow I am going to buy her the most beautiful one 
 I can get in London. Mr. Lang asked me to burn the three 
 blank checks you gave me, and I did that, and I am to have 
 money from him ; but after the dressing-bag I hope there 
 will not be much expense ; for we shall be living quietly at 
 Worthing; and T know that when you gave Mrs. Graham 
 the expensive piece of broderie at Cairo you will not grudge 
 me that I give my mother a beautiful dressing-bag 
 
 *■ It has all happened just as Mr. Melville planned. How 
 he could have foreseen 6o much I cannot tell \ perhaps it is 
 
302 YOLANDE. 
 
 » 
 
 that I followed to his instructions as nearly as I could 
 The people were insolent somewhat ; but to me, not to m^ 
 mother ; so that is right. But at the end, when we were 
 coming away, the man seized rae, and then I was frightened 
 — he wished me to go back into the house — and then, I know 
 not how, he was struck and fell ; perhaps by the policeman 
 it was, but I did not stay to look. I hurried my mother 
 into the cab, and we are here safe and sound. Poor Jane 
 is so angry. She demands to go back to-morrow to recover 
 some things of my mother's and also that she wants to " have 
 it out " with the woman because of the way she spoke to me ; 
 but this I will not allow. I shall write to Messrs. Law- 
 rence & Lang to-night to send some one ; also to pay what 
 ever is owing. 
 
 " She has just come over and stroked my hair, and gone 
 back to her chair again ; I think she is a little more affec- 
 tionate to me now ; and oh ! I am so anxious to get away 
 to the sea-air, that it may wake her out of this lethargy. 
 I know it will, I am sure of it. We have got such cheer- 
 ful rooms ! The address, dear papa, is Arbutus Villa, 
 
 Terrace, Worthing ; please give it to Duncan, and tell 
 
 him to send me each week a brace of grouse, a brace of 
 black game, one or two hares, and any odd ptarmigan or 
 snipe you may get ; then I will know that they are good. 
 To-night we had supper together ; alas ! she ate scarcely 
 anything. I asked if she would have a little wine — no ; she 
 seemed to have a horror of it ; even to be frightened. She 
 came round the table and took rae by the hand, and begged 
 of me to be always with her. I said, was not that what 
 I had come for? She said, with such a strange voice, " I 
 need help — I need help" ; and I answered that now every- 
 tliing was to be reversed, and that I was to be the mother to 
 her, and to take charge of her. Then she cried a little ; but 
 1 think she was pleased with me ; and when I said that I 
 wanted to write a letter, after we had finished, she said she 
 would read until I had written the letter, and then she 
 wished to hear where I had been, and how I had lived in 
 the Highlands. Perhaps in time I will persuade her to be 
 affectionate to me ; on my part it will not be difficult that I 
 should soon love her, for she is gentle, and to regard her 
 fills one's heart with pity. I had great terror that it might 
 not be so. 
 
 ** To-morrow, if \% is possible, I think we will get away 
 to Worthing. I am anxious to begin my guardianship. 
 
YOLANDE. 308 
 
 Perhaps by a middle day train, if I have to buy some things 
 for my mother. Or why not there, we shall have plenty of 
 time ? I wish to see her away from the town — in clear, 
 brisk air ; then we shall have the long, quiet, beautiful days 
 to become acquainted with each other. It is so strange, is 
 it not, a mother and daughter becoming acquainted with 
 each other ? But, since I am her guardian, I must not let 
 her sit up too late ; and so good-night, dear, dear papa, from 
 your affectionate daughter, *' Yolaxde." 
 
 That was naturally the end of the letter, and yet she held 
 It open before her for some time in hesitation. And then 
 she took her pen and added : "I cannot tell you how glad 
 it would make me if you had time to write a long letter to 
 me about Allt-nam-Ba, and all the people there ; for one 
 cannot help looking back to the place where one has been 
 happy." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXYIL 
 
 A BEGINNING. 
 
 Despite all her hurrying, however, Yolande did not 
 manage to get away from London on the day following; it 
 was not until early the next morning that she and her mother 
 and the maid found themselves finally in the train, and the 
 great city left behind for good. The weather was brilliant 
 and shining around them ; and the autumn-tinted woods 
 were glorious in color. To these, or any other passing ob- 
 ject, Yolande, in her capacity of guardian, drew cheerful at- 
 tention, treating the journey, indeed, as a very ordinary 
 e very-day affair ; but the sad-eyed mother seemed hardly 
 capable of regarding anything but her daughter, and that 
 sometimes with a little bit of stealthy crying. 
 
 " Ah," she said, in those strangely hollow tones, ** it is 
 kind of you to come and let me see you for a little while." 
 
 "A little while? What little while, then ? " said Yo- 
 lande, with a stare." 
 
 " Until I go back." 
 
 " Until you go back whei-e, mother ? " 
 
804 YOLANDE, 
 
 " Anywhere — away from you," said the mother, regard- 
 ing the girl with an affectionate and yet wistful look. " It 
 was in a dream that I came away from the house with you. 
 You seemed calling me in a dream. But now I am begin- 
 ning to wake. At the station there were two ladies ; I saw 
 them looking at us ; and I knew what they were thinking. 
 They were wondering to see a beautiful young life like yours 
 linked to a life like mine ; and they were right. I could see 
 it in their eyes." 
 
 " They would have been better employed in minding 
 their own business," said Yolande, angrily. 
 
 " No ; they were right," said her mother, calmly ; and 
 then she added, with a curious sort of smile : " But I am 
 going to be with you for a little while. I am not going 
 away yet. I want to learn all about you, and understand 
 you ; then I shall know what to think when I hear of ) ou 
 afterward. You will have a happy life ; I shall hear of you 
 perhaps, and be proud and glad ; I shall think of you always 
 as young and happy and beautiful ; and when you go back 
 to your friends — " 
 
 *' Dear mother, " said Yolande ,*' I wish you would not 
 talk nonsense. When I go back to my friends ! I am not 
 going back to any friends until you go back with me : do 
 you understand that ? " 
 
 '* I ?" said she ; and for a second there was a look of 
 fright on her face. Then she shook her head sadly. ** No, 
 no. My life is wrecked and done for ; yours is all before you 
 — without a cloud, without a shadow. As for me, I am con- 
 tent. I will stay with you a little while, and get to know 
 you ; then I will go away. How could I live if I knew that 
 I was the shadow on your life ? " 
 
 " Well, yes, mother, you have got a good deal to learn 
 about me," said Yolande, serenely. " It is very clear that 
 you don't know what a temper I have, or you would not be 
 so anxious to provoke me to anger. But please remem- 
 ber that it isn't what you want, or what you intend to do 
 — it is what I may be disposed to allow you to do. I have 
 been spoiled all my life ; that is one thing you will have to 
 learn about me. I always have my own way. You will 
 find that out very soon ; and then you will give over mak- 
 ing foolish plans ; or thinking that it is for you to decide. 
 Do you think I have stolen you away, and carried you into 
 slavery, to let you do as you please ? Not at all ; it is far 
 from that. As soo" as we get to Worthinor I am going to 
 
YOLANDE. 306 
 
 get a prettier bonnet than that — I know the shop perfectly ; 
 I saw it the otlier day. But do you think I will permit you 
 to clioose the color? No, not at all — not at all. And aa 
 for your going away, or going back, or going anywhere — oh 
 we will see about that, I assure you." 
 
 For the time being, at all events, the mother did not 
 protest. She seemed more and more fascinated by the so- 
 ciety of her daughter ; and appeared quite absorbed in re- 
 garding the bright young fresh face, and in listening witli a 
 strange curiosity for the slight traces of a foreign accent 
 tiiat reinained in Yolande's talking. As for the girl herself 
 she bore herself in the most matter of fact way. She would 
 liave no sentiment interfere. And always it was assumed 
 that her mother was merely an invalid whom the sea air 
 would restore to health ; not a word was said as to the cause 
 of her present condition. 
 
 Worthing looked bright and cheerful on this breezy fore- 
 noon. The wind-swept yellow-gray sea was struck a gleam- 
 ing silver here or there with floods of sunlight ; the morning 
 promenaders had not yet gone in to lunch ; a band was play- 
 ing at the end of the pier. When they got to the rooms, 
 they found that every preparation had been made to receive 
 them ; and in the bay-window they discovered a large teles- 
 cope which the little old lady said she had borrowed from a 
 neighbor whose rooms were unlet. Yolande managed ever- 
 thing — Jane being a helpless kind of creature — and the 
 mother submitted occasionally with a touch of amusement 
 appearing in her manner. But usually she was rather sad, 
 and her eyes had an absent look in them. 
 
 " Now let me see," said Yolande, briskly, as they sat at 
 lunch (Jane waiting on them). " There is really so much to 
 be done that I don't known where we should begin. Oh yes, 
 I do. First we will walk along to the shops and buy your 
 bonnet. Then to a chemist's for some scent for your dress- 
 ing-bags. Then we must get glass dishes for flowers for the 
 table — one round one for the middle, and two semicircles. 
 Tiien when we come back the pony-carriftge must be wait- 
 ing for us ; and we we will give you a few minutes to put 
 on the bonnet, dear mother ; and then we will go away for 
 a drive into the country. Perhaps we shall get some wild 
 flowers ; if not then we will buy some when we comeback — " 
 
 "Why should you give yourself so much trouble, Yo- 
 lande ? " her mother said. 
 
806 YOLANDE. 
 
 ** TronMe ? It is no trouble. It is an amusement — an 
 occupation. Without an occupation how can one live ? ** 
 
 " Ah, you are so full of life — so full of life," the mother 
 said, regarding her wistfully. 
 
 **0h, I assure you," said Yolande, blithely *' that not 
 many know what can be made of wild flowers in a room — if 
 you have plenty of them. Not all mixed ; but here one 
 mass of color; and there another. Imagine, now that we 
 were thirty-three miles from Inverness ; how could one get 
 flowers except by going up the hill-side and collecting them ? 
 That was an occupation that had a little trouble, to be sure ! 
 — it was harder work than going to buy a bonnet ! Biit 
 sometimes we were not quite dependent on the wild flowers; 
 there was a dear good woman living a few miles away — ah, 
 she was a good friend to me ! — who used to send me from her 
 garden far more than was right. And every time that I 
 passed, another handful of flowers ; niore than that, perhaps 
 some fresh vegetables all nicely packed up; perhaps a little 
 basket of new-laid eggs ; perhaps a pair of ducklings — oh, 
 such kindness as was quite ridiculous from a stranger. And 
 then wlien I come away, she goes to the lodge, and takes 
 one of the girls with her, to see that all is right^; and no 
 question of trouble or inconvenience ; you would think it 
 was you who were making the obligation and giving kind- 
 ness, not taking it. I must write to her when I have time. 
 But I hope soon to hear how they are all going on up there 
 in the Highlands." 
 
 " Dear Yolande," said the mother. '* why should you 
 occupy yourself about me ? Do your writing ; I am content 
 to sit in the same room. Indeed, I would rather listen to 
 you talking about the Highlands than go out to get the bon- 
 net, or anything else." 
 
 "Why do I occupy myself about you?" said Yolande. 
 " Because I have brought you here to make you well ; that 
 is why. And you must be as much as possible out-of-doors, 
 especially on such a day as this, when the air is from the 
 sea. Ah, we shaH soon make you forget the London din- 
 giness and the smoke. And you would rather not go for a 
 drive, perhaps, when it is I who am going to drive you ? " 
 
 Indeed, she took the mastership into her own hand ; and 
 perhaps that was a fortunate necessity ; for it prevented 
 her thinking over certain things that had happened to her- 
 self. Wise, grave-eyed, thoughtful, and prudent, there waa 
 now little left m her manner or speech of the petulant and 
 
YOLANDE. 807 
 
 light-hearted Yolande of other days ; and yes she was pleased 
 to see that her mother was taking more and more interest 
 in her ; and perhaps sometimes — though she strove to for- 
 get the past altogether and only to keep herself busily oc- 
 cupied with the present — there was some vague and subtle 
 sense of self-approval. Or was it self-approval? Was it 
 not rather some dim kind of belief that if he who had ap- 
 pealed to her, if he who had said that he had faith in her, 
 could now see her, he would say that she was doing well ? 
 But she tried to put these remembrances away. 
 
 An odd thing happened when they were out. They had 
 gone to the shop were Yolande had seen the bonnets ; and 
 she was so satisfied with the one that she chose that she 
 made her mother ])ut it on then and there, and asked the 
 milliner to send the other home. Then they went outside 
 again ; and not far ofP was a chemist's shop. 
 
 " Now," said Yolande, " we will go and choose two 
 scents for the bottles in the dressing-bags. One shall be 
 white rose ; and the other ? What other ? " 
 
 " Whichever you like best, Yolande," said her mother, 
 submissively, her daughter had become so completely her 
 guide and guardian. 
 
 *' But it is for your dressing-bag mother, not mine," said 
 Yolande. " You must choose. You must come into the 
 shop and choose.'* 
 
 " Very well, then." 
 
 They walked to the shop ; and Yolande glanced for a 
 minute at the window, and then went inside. But the 
 moment they had got within the door — parhaps it was the 
 odor of the place that had recalled her to herself — the 
 mother shrank back with a strange look of fear on her face. 
 
 " Yolande," she said, in a low, hurried voice, " I will 
 wait for } ou outside," 
 
 " But which is to be the other scent mother ? " 
 
 " I will wait for you outside," said she with her hand 
 touching her daughter's arm. " I will wait for you out- 
 side." 
 
 Then Yolande seemed to comprehend what that dazed 
 look of fear meant ; and she was so startled that, even after 
 her mother had left, she could scarce summon back enough 
 self-posession to tell the shopman what she wanted. There- 
 after she never asked her mother to go near a chemist's 
 •hop. 
 
 That same afternoon they went for a drive along some 
 
808 YOLANDE. 
 
 of the inland country lanes ; and as they soon fonnd that 
 the stolid, fat, and placid pony could safely be left under 
 the charge of Jane, they got out whenever they had a mind, 
 to look at an old church, or to explore banks and hedgerows 
 in search of wild flowers. Now this idle strolling, with 
 occasional scrambling across ditches, was light enough work 
 for one who was accustomed to climb the hills of AUt-nam-i^a; 
 but no doubt it was fatiguing enough to this poor woman, 
 who, nevertheless, did her best to prove herself a cheerful 
 companion. But it was on this fatigue that Yolande reck- 
 oned. That was why she wanted her mother to be out all 
 day in the sea air and the country air. What she was aim- 
 ing at was a certainty of sleep for this invalid of whom she 
 was in charge. And so she cheered her on to furtlier 
 exertion ; and pretended an eagerness in this search for 
 wild flowers which was not very real (for ever, in the midst 
 of it, some stray plants here or there would remind her 
 of a herbarium far away, and of other days and other 
 scenes), until at last she thought they had both done their 
 duty, and so they got into the little carriage again and drove 
 back to Worthing. 
 
 That evening at dinner she amused her mother with a 
 long and minute account of the voyage to Egypt, and of 
 the friends who had gone with them, and of the life on 
 board the dahabeeyah. The mother seemed peculiarly in- 
 terested about Mr. Leslie, and asked many questions about 
 him ; and Yolande told her frankly how pleasant and 
 agreeable a young fellow he was, and how well he and hirf 
 sister seemed to understand each other, and so forth. She 
 betrayed no embarrassment in expressing her liking for 
 him ; although, in truth, she spoke in pretty much the same 
 terms of Colonel Graham," 
 
 ** Mr. Leslie was not married, then?" 
 
 " Oh, no." 
 
 '* It was rather a dangerous position for two young peo- 
 ple," the mother said, with a gentle smile. " It is a won- 
 der you are not wearing a ring now." 
 
 *' What ring ?" Yolande said, with a quick flush of 
 color. 
 
 " An engagement ring." 
 
 In fact, the girl was not wearing her engagement ring. 
 On coming to London she had taken it off and put it away ; 
 other duties claimed her now — that was what "She said to 
 
 4 
 
YOLANDE. 80d 
 
 herself. An^ now she was content that her mother should 
 remain in ignorance of that portion of her past story. 
 
 *' I have other things to attend to," she said, briefly; 
 and the subject was not continued. 
 
 That day passed very successfully. The mother had 
 ehown not the slightest symptom of any craving for either 
 stimulant or narcotic ; nor any growing depression in con- 
 sequence of being deprived of these — though Jack Mel- 
 ville had warned Yolande that both were probable. No ; 
 the languor from which she suffered appeared to be merely 
 the languor of ill health ; and, so far from becoming more 
 depressed, she had become rather more cheerful, especially 
 when they were wandering along the lanes in search of 
 wild idowers. Moreover, when she went to bed (she and 
 Yolande occupied a large double-bedded room) she very 
 speedily fell into a sound, quiet sleep. Yolande lay awake 
 watching her, but everything seemed right ; and so by-and- 
 by the girl's mind began to wander away to distant scenes 
 and to pictures that she had been trying to banish from 
 her eyes. 
 
 And if sometimes hi this hushed room she cried silently 
 to herself, and hid her face in the pillow so that no sob 
 should awaken the sleeping mother, well, perhaps that was 
 only a natural reaction. The strain of all that forced 
 cheerfulness had been terrible. Once or twice during the 
 evening she had had to speak of the Highlands ; and the 
 effort on such occasions to shut out certain recollections 
 and vain regrets and self-abasements was of itself a hard 
 thing. And now that the strain was over, her imagination 
 ran riot ; all the old life up there, with its wonder and de- 
 light and its unknown pitfalls, came back to her; and all 
 through it she seemed to hear a sad refrain — a couple of 
 lines from on 3 of Mrs. Bell's ballads — that she could not 
 get out of her head. 
 
 ** Quoth he, ' My bonnie leddy, were ye sweet Jeanle Graham ?* 
 * Indeed, guid sir, but ye've guessed my very name.' " 
 
 They could not apply to her ; but somehow there was sor- 
 row in them ; and a meeting after many years ; and the 
 tragedy of two changed lives. How could they apply to 
 her? If there was any one of whom she was thinking it 
 ought to have been he to whom she had plighted her troth. 
 She had put aside her engagement ring for a season ; but 
 
310 YOLANDE. 
 
 she was not thereby absolved from her promise. And yet 
 it was not tfhim she was thinking; it was of someone 
 she saw only vaguely, but gray-haired and aftwr many 
 years, coming back to a wrecked existence ; and her heart, 
 that had a great yearning and pity and love in it, knew 
 that it could not help, and what was there but woman's 
 tears and a life-long regret? That was a sad night. It 
 was not the mother, it was the daughter, who passed the 
 long sleepless hours in suffering. But with the morning 
 Yolande had pulled herself together again. She was only 
 a little pale — that was all. She was as cheerful, as brave, 
 as high-spirited as ever. When did the band play ? — ^they 
 would walk out on the pier. But even Jane could see that 
 this was not the Yolande who had lived at Allt-nam-Ba 
 with a kind of sunlight always on her face ; and she 
 wondered. 
 
 Not that day but the next came the anxiously expected 
 news from the Highlands. 
 
 ** My Darling Yolande, — Your letter has given me 
 inexpressible relief. I was so loath to see you go. Above 
 all, it seemed so cruel that you should go alone, and I re- 
 main here. But probably Mr. Melville was right; perhaps 
 it may all turn out for the best ; but it will be a long time 
 before any one can say so ; and as I think of you in the mean- 
 time, it is with no great sense of satisfaction that I am con- 
 scious that I can do nothing to help you. But I rejoice 
 that so far you have had no serious trouble ; perhaps the 
 worst is over; if that were so, then there might be a recom- 
 pense to you for what you must be undergoing. It would 
 be strange indeed if this should succeed after so many fail- 
 ures. It would make a great difference to all our lives ; 
 sometimes I begin to think it possible, and then recollec- 
 tions of the past prove too strong. Let me know your 
 opinion. Tell me everything. Even after all these years, 
 sometimes I begin to hope and to think of our having a 
 home and a household after all. 
 
 " There is but little news to send you. At the moment 
 I am quite alone. Mr. Shortlands has changed all his 
 plans, and has gone south for a few days, finding that he 
 can come back and remain with me until the 15th of Octo- 
 ber, Then you must tell me what you would have me do. 
 Perhaps you will know better by that time. If you think 
 the experiment hopeleiis, I trust you will have the honesty 
 
 
VOLANDE. 311 
 
 to say so ; then I will take you for a run abroad somewhere; 
 af .er your long waiting and nursing. 
 
 ** The Master is in Inverness, 1 hear ; probably it is busi- 
 ness that detains him : otherwise I should have been glad of 
 nis company on the hill, now that Shortlands is away. But 
 the shooting has lost all interest for me. When [ come back 
 in the evening there is no one standing at the door, and no 
 one to sit at the head of the dinner table. I shall be glad 
 when the 15th of October comes; and then, if there is no 
 prospect of your present undertaking proving successful, you 
 and I will preen our feathers for the South. If they are go- 
 ing to bury you alive in these wilds subsequently, you and I 
 must have at least one last swallow flight. Kot the Riviera 
 this time ; the Riviera is getting to be a combination of 
 Bond Street and Piccadilly. Athens — what do you say? I 
 remember the Grahams talking vaguely about their perhaps 
 trying to spend a winter in Algiers, and pleasanter travelling 
 companions you could not find anywhere ; but even if we 
 have to go alone we shall not grumble much ? 
 
 " This reminds me that one part of your letter made me 
 very angry — I mean about the expense of the dressing-bag, 
 and your proposed economy at Worthing. I suppose it was 
 those people at the Chateau that put those ideas into your 
 head; but I wish you to understand that there is nothing so 
 stupid as unnecessary economy for economy's sake, and that 
 when I wish you to begin cheese-paring I will tell you so. 
 Extravagance is silly — and ill-bred too; but there is some 
 such thing as knowing what one can fairly spend in propor- 
 tion to one's income; and when I wish you to be more 
 moderate in your expenditure I will tell you. And, indeed, 
 it is not at such a time that you should think of expense at 
 all. If this experiment is likely to end as we wish, then we 
 shall not be considering a few pounds or so. 
 
 " I think you will be pleased to hear that Mrs. Bell does 
 not manage one whit better than you — how could she, when 
 everything was perfect? But the situation is awkward. I 
 imagined siie was only coming here for a day or two — to set 
 things going, as it were, under a new regiine ; but the good 
 woman shows no signs of departure ; and indeed she man- 
 ages everything with such tact and good sense, and with 
 such an honest, frank recognition of the facts of the case, 
 that I am really afraid to hurt her and offend her by suggest- 
 ing that she should not waste so much of her time up here. 
 It was all very well with Mr. Melville — he was her hero, the 
 
812 YOLANDE. 
 
 master of the house, the representative of the family that 
 she looked \ip to ; but it is different with me ; and yet there 
 is a kind of self-respect in the way in which she strictty 
 keeps to iier * station,' that one does not like to interfere. 
 I have thought of pointing out to her that my last house- 
 keeper was a person called Yolande Winterbourne, and that 
 she was in no wise so respectful in her manner : but then I 
 thought it better to let the good woman have her own way ; 
 and with all her respectfulness there is, as you know, a frank 
 and honest friendliness which tells you that she quite under- 
 stands her own value in the world. She has, however, been 
 so communicative as to unfold to me her great project of the 
 buying back of Monaglen ; and I must say it seems very ill- 
 advised of Mr. Melville, just when this project is about to be 
 accomplished, to disappear and leave not even his address be- 
 hind. All that Mrs. Bell knows is that, on the morning you 
 left, he announced his intention of crossing over the hills to 
 Kingussie to catch the night train going south ; and Duncan 
 says he saw him going up by the Corrie-an-eich. You know 
 what an undertaking tliat is, and the stories they tell about 
 people having been lost in these solitudes; but, as Duncan 
 says, there was not any one in the country who could cross 
 the hills with less chance of coming to harm than Mr. Mel- 
 ville. Still, he miglit have left the good woman his address; 
 and she, it seems, did not consider it her 'place' to ask." 
 
 At this point Yolande stopped — her brain bewildered, 
 her heart beating wildly. If he had crossed over the hills 
 to catcli the night train to the south, why, that was the train 
 in which she also was travelling from Inverness to London ! 
 Had he been in that satne train, then — separated from lier 
 by a few carriages only — during the long darkness in which 
 she seemed to be leaving behind her youth and hope and 
 almost the common desire of life ? And why ? He had 
 spoken to no one of his going away. Mrs. Bell had guessed 
 that he might be going, from his preparations of the prev- 
 ious evening : but to leave on that very morning — to catch 
 the very train in which she was seated — perhaps to come all 
 the way to London with her: here was food for speculation and 
 wonder. Of course it never occurred to her that he might 
 have come to any harm in crossing the hills ; she did not 
 even think of that. He was as familiar with these corries 
 and slopes and streams as with the door-step of the house at 
 Gress. No ; he had waited for the train to come along ; per- 
 haps fhedid not even look out from the window when they 
 
YO LANDS. 318 
 
 reached the station ; he would get into one of the car- 
 riages ; and all through the long afternoon and evening, 
 and on and through the blackness of the night, and in the 
 gray of the morning, he was there. And perhaps at Eus- 
 ton Square too ? He might easily escape her notice in the 
 crowd if he wished to do so. Would he disappear into 
 the wilderness of London ? But he knew the name of 
 the hotel she was going to — that had all been arranged 
 between them ; might lie not by accident have passed along 
 Albemarle Street on one or other of those days ? Ah, if slie 
 had chanced to see him ! — would not London have seemed 
 less lonely ? would she not have consoled herself with tlie 
 fancy that somewhere or other there was one watching over 
 her and guarding her ? A dream — a dream. If he were 
 indeed there, he had avoided meeting her. He had gone 
 away. He had disappeared — into the unknown ; and per- 
 haps the next she should hear of him might be after many 
 years, as of a gray-haired man going back to the place tliat 
 once know him, with perhaps some vague question on his 
 lips — 
 
 '* My bomiie laddy, were ye sweet Jeanie Graham ? " 
 
 though to whom he might address that question she scarcely 
 dared to ask or think. 
 
 She only looked over the remainder of the letter; her 
 hurried fancies were wandering far away. 
 
 *' So you see I have no news ; although in ray solitude 
 this gossip seems to unite you with me for a time. The 
 only extraordinary thing that I have seen or met with since 
 you left, we ran across the other night on coming home from 
 the shooting. We had been to the far tops after ptarmigan 
 and white hares, and got belated. Long before we reached 
 liome complete darkness overtook us ; a darkness so com- 
 
 i>lete that, although we walked Indian tile, Duncan leading, 
 . could not see Shortlands, who was just in front of me ; I 
 had to follow him by sound, sliding down among loose 
 stones or jumping into peat-hags in a very happy-go-lucky 
 fashion. Crossing the AUt-crom by the little swinging 
 bridge you know of, was also a pleasant performance, for 
 there had been rain, and the waters were much swollen, 
 and made a terrible noise in the dark. However, it was 
 when we were over the bridge and making for the lodge 
 that I noticed the phenomenon I am going to tell you about 
 
314 YOLANDE. 
 
 I was trying to make out John Sbortland's legs in front of 
 me when I saw on the ground two or three small points of 
 white fire. I thought it strange for glow-worms to be so 
 high above the level of the sea, and I called the others back 
 to examine these things. But now I found, as they were 
 all standing in the dark, talking, that wherever you lifted 
 your foot from the wet black peat, immediately afterward a 
 large number of these pale points of clear fire appeared, 
 burning for about a minute, and then gradually disappear- 
 ing. Some were larger and clearer than others — just as you 
 remember, on a phosphorescent night at sea, there are in- 
 dividual big stars separate from the general rush of white 
 as the steamer goes on. We tried to lift some of the points 
 of light, but could not manage it ; so I take it they were 
 not glow-worms or any other living creatures, but an emana- 
 tion of gas from the peaty soils,only that, unlike the will-o-the- 
 wisp, they were quite stationary, and burned with a clear 
 white or blue-white flame — the size of the most of them 
 not bigger than the head of a common pin, and sometimes 
 about fifteen or twenty of them appearing where one foot 
 had been pressed into the soft soil. Had Mr. Melville been 
 at Gress 1 should have asked him about it ; no doubt he has 
 noticed this thing in his rambles ; but he has been away, as 
 I say, and nobody about here has any explanation to offer. 
 The shepherds say that the appearance of this phosphoresc- 
 ence, or electricity, or illuminated gas, or whatever it is, 
 foretells a change in the weatlier ; but I have never yet met 
 with any thing in heaven or earth of which the shepherds did 
 not say the same thing. But as you, my dear Yolande, have 
 not seen this phenomenon, and know absolutely nothing 
 about it, you will be in a position to furnish me with a per- 
 fectly consistent scientific theory about it, which I desire 
 to have from you at your convenience. 
 
 "A hamper of game goes to you to-day, also a bunch 
 of white heather from 
 
 "Your affectionate father, 
 
 " K. G. WiNTEKBOUENE." 
 
 She dwelt over the picture hero presented of his solitary 
 life in the north ; and she knew that now no longer were 
 there happy dinner parties in the evening, and pleasant 
 friends talking together ; and no longer was there any need 
 for Duncan — outside in the twilight — to play " Melville'i 
 Welcome Home." 
 
YOLANDE, 816 
 
 sMmM.^i. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVin. 
 
 AWAKING. 
 
 Anotheb two days passed, Yolande doing her best to 
 make the time go by briskly and pleasantly. They walked 
 on the promenade or the pier ; they drove away inland 
 through quaint little villages and quiet lanes. When the 
 weather was wet they staid indoors, and she read to her 
 mother, or they rigged up the big telescope in the bay-win- 
 dow to follow the slow progress of the distant ships. And 
 the strange? thing was that, as Yolande gradually perceived, 
 her mother's intellect seemed to grow clearer and clearer 
 while her spirits grew more depressed. 
 
 " I have been in a dream — I have been in a dream," 
 she used to say. " I will try not to go back. Yolande, 
 you must help me. You must give me your hand." 
 
 " You have been ill, mother ; the sea air will make you 
 strong again," the girl said, making no reference to other 
 matters. 
 
 However, that studied silence did not last. On the 
 evening of the fifth day of their stay at Worthing, Yolande 
 observed that her mother seemed still more depressed and 
 almost suffering ; and she did all she could to distract her 
 attention and amuse her. At last the poor woman said, 
 looking at her daughter in a curious kind of way, 
 
 " Yolande, did you notice when I came away from the 
 house with you that I went back for a moment into my 
 room ? " 
 
 " Yes, I remember you did." 
 
 " I will tell you now why I went back." She put her 
 hand in her pocket and drew out a small blue bottle, which 
 she put on the table. " It was for that," she said, calmly. 
 
 A Hush of color overspread the hitherto pale features of 
 the girl ; it was she who was ashamed and embarrassed; 
 and she said, quickly ; 
 
 " Yes, I understand, mother — I know what it is. But 
 BOW you will put it away ; you do not want it any longer — * 
 
 " I am afraid," the mother said in a low voice. " Some- 
 
816 YOLANDE. 
 
 times I have tried until it seemed as if I was dyinc, and 
 that has brought me to life again. Oh, I hope I shall 
 never touch it again : I want to be with you, walking by 
 your side among the other people, and like them — like 
 every one else.** 
 
 "And so you shall, n^other," Yolande said; and she 
 rose and got hold of the bottle. *' I am going to throw this 
 away." 
 
 " No, no, Yolande ; give it to me," she said, but with- 
 out any excitement. *' It is no use throwing it away. That 
 would make me think of it. I would get more. I could 
 not rest until I had gone to a chemist's and got more — per- 
 haps some time when you were not looking. But when it 
 is there I feel safe. 1 can push it away from me.'* 
 
 '' Very well, then,'* said Yolande, as she went to the 
 fire-place and placed the bottle conspicuously on the man- 
 tel-shelf. Then she went back to her mother. " It shall 
 remain there, mother — as something you have no further 
 need of. That is done with now. It was a great temptju 
 tion when you were living in lodgings in a town, not in 
 good air ; and you were ^^ry weak and ill ; but soon you 
 will be strong enough to get over your fits of faintness or 
 depression without ^Aar.** She put her hand on her 
 mother's shoulder. " It is for my sake that you have put it 
 away? " 
 
 In answer she took her daughter's hand in both hers 
 and covered it with kisses. 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes. I have put it away, Yolande, for your 
 sake — I have put it away forever, now. But you have a 
 little excuse for me ? You do not think so hardly of me as 
 the others ? I have been near dying — and alone. I did 
 not know I had such a beautiful daughter — coming to take 
 care of me, too ! And I don't want you to go away now 
 — not for a while, at least. Stay with me for a little time 
 — until — until I have got to be just like the people we meet 
 out walking — just like every one else; and then I shall 
 have no fear of being alone ; I shall never, never touch 
 ihaV 
 
 She glanced at the bottle on the mantel-shelf with a 
 sort of horror. She held her daughter's hand tight. And 
 Yolande kept by her until, not thinking it was prudent to 
 make too much of this little incident, she begged her 
 mother to come and get her things on for another short 
 stroll before tea. 
 
YOLANDE. 817 
 
 Toward the evening, however, it was clear that this 
 poor woman was suffering more and more, althougli she 
 endeavored to })ut a brave face on it, and only desired that 
 Yolande should be in the room with her. At dinner she 
 took next to nothing ; and Yolande, on her own responsi- 
 bikty, begged to be allowed to send for some wine for her. 
 But no. She seemed to think that there was something to 
 be got through, and she would go through with it. Some- 
 times she went to the window and looked out, listening to 
 the sound of the sea in the darkness. Then she would 
 come back and sit down by the fire, and ask Yolande to 
 read to her — this, that or the other thing. But what she 
 most liked to have read and re-read to her was " A Dream 
 of Fair Women " ; and she liked to have Yolande standing 
 by the fire-place, so that slie could regard her. And some- 
 ti'mes the tears would gather in her eyes, when the girJ 
 came to the lines about Jephthah's daughter : 
 
 " emptied of all joy, 
 Leaving the dance and song. 
 
 *' Leaving the olive gardens far below, 
 
 Leaving the promise of ray bridal bower, 
 The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow 
 Beneath the battled tower. 
 
 " The light white cloud swam over us. Anon 
 We heard the lion roaring from his den ; 
 We saw the large white stars rise one by one. 
 Or, from the darken' d glen, 
 
 " Saw God divide the night with flying flame, 
 And thunder on the everlasting hills. 
 I heard Him, for lie spake, and grief became 
 A solemn scorn of ills." 
 
 " It was not fair — it was not fair," iho murmured. 
 
 "What, mother?" 
 
 " To send you here." 
 
 " Where ought I to be, then," she asked, proudly, " ex- 
 cept by your side ? " 
 
 " Yen ? Your young life should not be sacrificed to 
 mine. Why did they ask you ? I should thank God, Yo- 
 lande, if you were to go away this evening — now — if you 
 were to go away, and be happy with your youth and beauty 
 and kind friends ; that is the life fit for you." 
 
 " But I am not going, mother." 
 
 " Ah, you don't know — you don't know," the other said, 
 
 \ 
 
818 YOLANDB. 
 
 with a kind of despair coining over her. " I am ill, Yolande 
 
 I am wretched and miserable." 
 
 " The more reason I should stay, surely." 
 
 " I wish you would go away and leave me. I can get 
 back to London. What have I been thinking of is beyond 
 me. I am too ill. But you — you — I shall always think of 
 you as moving through the world like a princess — in sun- 
 light." 
 
 " Dear mother," said Yolande, firmly, ** I think we said 
 we were ^oing to have no more nonsense. I am not going 
 to leave you. And what you were looking forward to is 
 quite impossible. If you are ill and suffering now, I am 
 sorry; I would gladly bear it for your sake. I have had 
 little trouble in the world ; I would take your share. But 
 going away from you I am not. So you must take courage 
 and hope ; and some day — ah, some day soon you will be 
 glad." 
 
 " But if I am restless to-night," said she, glancing at her 
 daughter, uneasily, " and walking up and down, it will dis- 
 turb you." 
 
 " What does it matter ? " said Yolande, cheerfully. 
 
 " You might get another room." 
 
 " I am not going into any other room. Do you think I 
 would forsake my patient." 
 
 " Will you leave the light burning, then ? " 
 
 " If you wish it, yes ; but not high, for you must sleep." 
 
 But when they were retiring to rest the mother begged 
 that the little blue bottle should be placed on the bedroom 
 chimney-piece. 
 
 " Why, mother, why ? You surely would not touch it ? " 
 
 " Oh, I hope not ! I hope not I But I shall know it is 
 near — if I am like to die." 
 
 '' You must not fear that, mother. I will put the bottle 
 on the chimney-piece, if you like, but you need not even 
 think of it. That is more likely to cause your death than 
 anything else. And you would not break your promise to 
 me?" 
 
 She [)re8sed her daughter's hand ; that was all. 
 
 Yolande did not go quickly to sleep, for she knew that 
 her mother was suffering — the labored sighs from time to 
 time told her as much. She lay and listened to the wash 
 of the sea along the shingle, and to the tramp of the latQ 
 wayfarers along the pavement. She heard the people of the 
 home go upstairs to bed. And then, bv-aud-bv, the stilJ 
 
YOLAKDE, 319 
 
 ness of the room, and the effects of the fresh air, and the 
 natural healthiness of youth, combined to make her drowsy, 
 and rather against her inclination, her eyes slowly closed. 
 
 She was waked by a moan — as of a soul in mortal agou^. 
 But even in her alarm she did not start up ; she took time 
 to recover her senses. And if the poor mother were really 
 in such suffering, would it not be better for her to lie as if 
 she were asleep ? No appeal could be made to her for any 
 relaxation of the promise that had been given her. 
 
 Then she became aware of a stealthy noise ; and a 
 strange terror took possession of her. She opened her eyes 
 ever so slightly — glimmering through the lashes only — and 
 there she saw that her worst fears were being realized. 
 Her mother had got out of bed and stolen across the room 
 to the sideboard in the parlor, returning with a glass. 
 Yolande, all trembling, lay and watched. She was not 
 going to interfere — it was not part of her plan ; and you 
 may be sure she had contemplated this possibility before 
 now. And very soon it appeared why the poor woman had 
 taken the trouble to go for a glass ; it was to measure out 
 the smallest quantity that she thought would alleviate her 
 anguish. She poured a certain quantity of the black-look- 
 ing fluid into the glass ; then she regarded it, as if with 
 hesitation ; then she deliberately poured back one drop, two 
 drops, three drops ; and drank the rest at a gulp. Then, 
 in the same stealthy fashion, she took the glass to the par- 
 lor and left it there, and crept silently back again and into 
 bed. 
 
 Yolande rose. Her face was pale, her lips firm. She 
 did not look at her mother ; but, just as if she were assum- 
 ing her to be asleep, she quietly went out of the room, and 
 presently returned with a glass in her hand. She went to 
 the chimney-piece. Very well she knew that her mother's 
 eyes were fixed on her, and intently watching her ; and as 
 she poured some of that dark liquid into the glass, no doubt 
 she guessed, the poor woman was imagining that this was 
 an experiment to see what had been taken out of the bottle. 
 But that was not quite Yolande's purpose. When she had 
 poured out, as nearly as she could calculate, the same 
 quantity that her mother had taken, she turned her face to 
 the light, and deliberately drank the contents of the glass. 
 It was done in a second ; there was a sweet, mawkish, 
 pungent taste in the mouth, and a shiver of disgust as she 
 
820 YOLANDK. 
 
 •wallowed the thing ; then she calmly replaced the bottle 
 on the chimney-piece. 
 
 But the mother had sprung from her bed with a wild 
 sliriek, and caught the girl by both hands. 
 
 "Yolandel Yolande ! what have you done ?" 
 
 " What is right for you, mother, is right for me," she 
 said, in clear and settled tones. " It is how I mean to do 
 always." 
 
 The frantic grief of this poor creature was pitiable to 
 witness. She flung her arms round her daughter,and drew 
 her to her, and wept aloud, and called down vengeance upon 
 lierself from Heaven. And then in a passion of remorse she 
 flew at the bottle that was standing there, and would have 
 hui-Ied it into the fireplace, had not Yolande, whose head 
 was beginning to swim already, interposed, calmly and 
 firmly. She took the bottle from her mother's hand and re- 
 placed it. 
 
 *' No ; it must remain there, mother. It must stand there 
 until you and I can bear to know that it is there, and not to 
 wish for it." 
 
 Even in the midst of her wild distress and remorse there 
 was one phrase in this speech that had the effect of silencing 
 the mother altogether. She drew back, aghast, her face 
 white, her eyes staring with horror. 
 
 ** You and I ?" she repeated. " Tou and I ? You — to 
 become like — like — " 
 
 " Ves," said Yolande. " What is right for you is right 
 for me ; that is what I mean to do — always. Now, dear 
 mother," she added, in a more languid way,*' I will lie down 
 —I am giddy — " 
 
 She sat down on the edge of the bed, putting her hand to 
 her forehead, and rested so awhile ; then insensible after a 
 time she drooped down on to the piilow, although the fright- 
 ened and frantic mother tried to get an arm round her 
 waist, and very soon the girl had relapsed inho perfect in- 
 sensibility. 
 
 And tlien a cry rang through the house like the cry of the 
 Egyptian mothers over the death of their first-born. The 
 l^nison seemed to act in directly opposite ways in the brains 
 oi these two women — the one it plunged into a profound stu- 
 por ; the other it drove into frenzy. She threw herself on 
 the senseless form, and wound her arms round the girl, and 
 •hrieked aloud that she had murdered her child — her beauti- 
 ful daughter — she was dying — dead — and no one to save 
 
YOLANDE. S21 
 
 her — murdered by her own mother I The little household 
 was roused at once, Jane came rushing in, terrified. The 
 landlady was the first to recover her wits, and instantly she 
 sent a house-maid for a doctor. Jane, being a strong-armed 
 woman, dragged the hysterical mother back from the bed, 
 and bathed her young mistress's with eau-de-Cologne ; it was 
 all the poor kind creature could think of. Then they tried 
 to calm the mother somewhat, for she was begging them 
 to give her a knife that she might kill herself and die witli 
 her child. 
 
 The doctor's arrival quieted matters somewhat ; and ho 
 had scarcely been a minute in the room when his eyes fell 
 on tlie small blue bottle on the mantelpiece. That he in- 
 stantly got hold of ; the label told him what were the con- 
 tents ; and when he went back to the bedside of the girl, 
 who was lying insensible in a heavy breathing sleep, her 
 chest laboring as if against some weight, he had to exercise 
 some control over the mother to get her to show him pre- 
 cisely the quantity of the fluid that had been taken. Tiie 
 poor woman seemed beside herself. She dropped on her 
 knees before him in a passion of tears, and clasped her 
 hands. 
 
 " Save her ! save her ! sgive my child to me ! If you can 
 give her back to me I will die a hundred times before harm 
 shall come to her — my beautiful child that came to me like 
 an angel, with kindness and open hands, and this is what I 
 have done ! " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " said the doctor, and he took her by the 
 hand and gently raised her. *' Now you must Ce quiet. 
 I am not going to wake your daughter. If that is what she 
 took she will sleep it off; she is young, and I should say 
 healthy. I am going to let nature work the cure, thoui^h I 
 fear the young lady will have a bad headache in the moj-ii- 
 ing. It is a most mischievous thing to have such drugs in 
 the house. " You are her maid, I understand ? " he said, 
 turning to Jane. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Ah. Well, I think for to-night you had better occupy 
 that bed over there, and the young lady's mother can have 
 a bed elsewhere. I don't think you need fear anything — ex- 
 cept a headache in the morning. Let her sleep as long 
 as she may. In the morning let her go for a drive in the 
 fresh air, if she is too languid to walk." 
 
 But the mother cried so bitterly on hearing of this ar- 
 
322 YOLANDE, 
 
 rangement that they had to consent to her retaining her 
 place in the room, while Jane said she could make herself 
 comfortable enough in an arm-chair. As for the poor 
 mother, she did not go back to her own bed at all ; she sat 
 at the side of Yolande's bed — at the foot of it, lest the sound 
 of her sobbing should disturb the sleeper ; and sometimes 
 she put her hand ever so lightly on the bedclothes, with a 
 kind of pat, as it were, while the tears were running down 
 her face. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 " O' BY-GANB DAYS AND ME." 
 
 The Master of Lynn was walking along Church Street, 
 Inverness, leisurely smoking liis morning cigar, when a small 
 boy from the hotel overtook him and handed him a letter. 
 He glanced at the handwriting, and saw it was from his sister; 
 so he put it in his pocket without opening it. Then he went 
 on and into Mr. Macleay's shop. 
 
 This was a favorite lounge of his. For not only was it a 
 valuable museum of natur^il history — all kinds of curiosities 
 and rarities being sent thither to be preserved — but also, to 
 any one with sufficient knowledge, it afforded a very fair re- 
 port as to what was going on in the different forests. More 
 than that, it was possible for one to form a shrewd guess as 
 to the character of some of the people then wandering about 
 the Highland — the sort of sportsmen, for example, who 
 sent to be stuffed such rare and remarkable birds as gannets, 
 kittiwakes, and skarts, or who wished to have all the honors 
 of a glass case and a painted background conferred on a 
 three-pound trout. It was not difficult (as he sat on the 
 counter or strolled about) to imagine the simple joy with which 
 these trophies had been secured and carefully packed and 
 sent away for preservation ; while, on the other hand, some 
 great stag's head — a magnificent and solitary prize — perhaps 
 awoke a touch of envy. The good-natured proprietor of the 
 establishment, busy with his own affairs, let this young man 
 do pretty much what he liked in the place; and so it was 
 that the Master, having had a look at the latest specimens 
 of the skill of tlie workshop, took out his sister's letter and 
 
YOLANDE. f,-ja 
 
 read it, and then begged for a sheet of paper and the loan 
 of a pen. He thought he might just as well iinisn his 
 cigar here, and answer his sister at the same time. 
 He wrote as follo-vs : 
 
 "Inverness, Sei^cmher 29. 
 
 " Dear Polly, — ^I wish you would be ])leased to moderate 
 the rancor of your tongue ; there is quite enough of that 
 commodity at Lynn. Whoever lias told you of the latest 
 row has probably not overstepped the truth ; but isn't it a 
 blessed dispensation of Providence that one can obtain a 
 little peace at the Station Hotel ? However, that is becom- 
 ing slow. I wish I knew where Jack Melville is ; I would 
 propose a little foreign travel. For one thing, I certainly 
 don't mean to go back to Lynn until Mr Winterbourne has 
 left AUt-nam-Ba ; of course he must see very well that the 
 people at the Towers' have cut him ; and no doubt he under- 
 stands the reason; and he might ask, don't you see ; and 
 very likely he might get angry and indignant (I shouldn't 
 blame him) and then he might ask Yolande to break off the 
 engagement. Such things have happened before. V>\\1 you 
 needn't get wild with me. 7" don't seek to break oft" the en- 
 gagement; certainly not; if that is what they are aiming at 
 they will find me just as pertinacious as you were about 
 Graham (you needn't assume that you have all the obstinacy 
 in the world); and although I'm not too squeamish about 
 most things, still, Pm not going to break my word simply 
 because Auntie Tab doesn't like Mr. Winterbourne's poli- 
 tics. 
 
 " Now there's is a chance for you. Miss Polly. Why 
 don't you set to work to make a leopard change his spots ? 
 You think you can talk anybody over. Why don't you talk 
 over Mr. Winterbourne into the paths of virtue and high 
 Toryism? I don't see why it should be so dilHcult. Of 
 course' he's violent enough in the House; but that's to keep 
 in with his constituents ; and to talk with him after a day's 
 shooting you wouldn't guess he had any jiolitics at all. Pd 
 bet a sovereign he would rather get a royal than be made a 
 cabinet minister. You'd much better go and coax him into 
 the paths of the just than keep getting into rages wdth me. 
 You talk as if it was you that wanted to marry Yolande ; or 
 rather as if it was you who were going to buy the Corrie- 
 ▼reak side from Sir John, and couldn't wait for the convey 
 ancing to be done. Such impetuosity isn't in accord AvitL 
 
324 YOLANDE. 
 
 your advancing years. The fact is, you haven't been having 
 your fair dose of flirtation lately, and you're in a bad tem- 
 per. But why with me? /didn't ask the people to Invers- 
 troy. I can see what sort of people they are by the cart-load 
 of heads Graham has sent here (1 am writing in Macleay's 
 shop). If ever I can afford to keep our forest in my own 
 hands there won't be anything of that going on — no matter 
 who is in the house. 
 
 " And why should you call upon me for the explanation 
 of the 'mystery'? What mystery is involved in Yolande's 
 going south? Her father, I understand, leaves on the ISth 
 of October; and I am not surprised that nothing has been 
 said about a lease of the place. Of course Winterbourne 
 must understand. But in the south, my dear Polly, if you 
 would only look at the reasonable aspect of affairs, we may 
 all of us meet on less embarrassing terras; and I for one 
 shall not be sorry to get away for the winter from the society 
 of Tabby and Co. Yolande and I have not quarelled in 
 the least; on that point you may keep your hair smooth. 
 But I am not at all sure that I am not bound in honor to 
 tell her how I am placed; and what treatment in the future 
 — or rather what no-treatment — she may expect from my 
 affectionate relatives. Of course it can not matter to her. 
 She will be independent of them — I also. But I think I 
 ought to let her know, so that she will not be surprised at 
 their silence; and of course if she resents their attitude to 
 her father (as is very likely) — well, that is their fault, not 
 mine. I am not going to argue any more about it; and as 
 for anything like begging for their patronage or sufferance 
 o^ Yolande, that is entirely out of the question. I will not 
 have it, and I have told you so before; so there may just 
 as well be an end to your lecture. I am a vertebrate an- 
 imal. 
 
 " Yolande is at Worthing — not in London, as you seem to 
 think. I don't know her address; but I have written to Allt- 
 nam-ba for it. I believe she left rather in a hurry. No; I 
 sha'n't send it to you ; for you would probably only make mis- 
 chief by interfering; and indeed it is not with her that any 
 pursuasion is necessary. Persuasion? — it's a little common- 
 sense that is necessary. But that kind of plant doesn't flourish 
 at the Towers — I never heard of Jack Melville getting it for his 
 collection of dried weeds. 
 
 " Well, good-by. Don't tear your hair. 
 
 " Your affectionate brother, Archie. 
 
TOLANDE. 325 
 
 "P.S. — It is very kind of you to remind me of baby^s 
 birthday ; but how on earth do you expect me to know 
 what to send it? A rocking-horse, or a Latin Grammar, or 
 what?" 
 
 He leisurely folded the letter, put it in an envelope, and 
 addressed it; then he turned to have a further chat with 
 Mr. Macleay about the various triumphs of the taxidermic 
 art standing around. Several of these were in the window; 
 and he was idly regarding them, when he caught sight, 
 through the panes, of someone passing by outside. For a 
 second he seeuied to pause, irresolute; then he quickly said 
 jiood-morning to Mr. Macleay, went outside, threw away 
 nis cigar, and followed the figure that he had seen passing 
 the window. It was that of a young woman, neatly dressed ; 
 indeed, it was no other than Shena Van — though probably 
 Janet Stewart had acquired that name when she was younger, 
 for now she could not strictly be described as fair, though her 
 hair was of a light brown and her eyes of a deep and exceed- 
 ingly pretty blue. 
 
 "Good-morning, Miss Stewart," said he, overtaking her. 
 
 The young lady turned quickly, perhaps with a slight 
 touch of alarm as well as surprise in her look. 
 
 " Oh, good morning, Mr. Leslie," said she, with a certain 
 reserve — not to say coldness — of manner ; though the sound 
 of her speech, with its slight accent, was naturally gentle and 
 winning. 
 
 " I had no idea you were in Inverness," said he. " I just 
 caught a glimpse of you while I was in Macleay's shop. Why, 
 it is a long time since I have seen you now. 
 
 She was a little embarrassed and nervous; probably desirous 
 of getting away, and yet not wishing to be rude. 
 
 " I am often in Inverness now," she said, with her eyes 
 averted, "since my sister was married." 
 
 "Are you going to the steamer?" he asked, for she carried 
 a small parcel in her hand. 
 
 " Yes," said she, with some hesitation. " I was thinking of 
 walking to the steamer." 
 
 •* Then I suppose I may go as far wjth you," said he, 
 " for I have a letter that I want the clerk to have sent on to 
 Invcrstroy." 
 
 She glanced quickly up and down the street ; but he did 
 not give her time to say yea or nay ; and then, with some- 
 thing of silence and resentment on her part, they set out 
 
826 YOLANDE. 
 
 together. It was a very ]>Ieasant and cheerful morning ; 
 and their way was out into the country ; for Miss Stewart s 
 destination was that lock on the Caledonian Canal from 
 which the steamer daily sails for the south. Nevertheless 
 the young lady did not seem over-well pleased. 
 
 At first they talked chiefly about her friends and rela- 
 tives, he asking the questions and she answering with some- 
 what few words ; and she was careful to inform him that 
 now she was more than ever likely to be away from Inver- 
 ness-shire, for her brother had recently been elected to one 
 of the professorships at Aberdeen, and he had taken a 
 house there, and he liked to have her in the house, because 
 of looking after things. She gave him to understand that 
 there was a good deal of society in the ancient city of 
 Aberdeen, and that the young men of the University were 
 anxious to visit at her brother's house. 
 
 "It is a natural thing," said pretty Shena Van, with a 
 touch of pride in her tone, *' for the young men to be glad 
 to be friends with my brother; not only because he is one 
 of the professors, but because he was very distinguished at 
 Edinburgh, and at Heidelberg too — very distinguished in- 
 deed." 
 
 " Oh yes ; I know that," said the Master of Lynn, 
 warmly. "I have heard Jack Melville speak of him. I dare 
 say your father is very proud of his success." 
 
 "Indeed I think we are all rather proud of it," said 
 Miss Stewart. 
 
 But when they had crossed the bridge over the wide and 
 shallow waters of the Ness, and were getting away from the 
 town into the quietude of the country, he endeavored to 
 win over his companion to something more of friendliness. 
 He was a gentle-spoken youth ; and this coldness on the 
 part of his ancient comrade he seemed to consider unfair. 
 
 " We used to be great friends," said he ; " but I sup- 
 pose you have forgotten all that. I suppose you have for- 
 gotten the time when Shena Van was reaching out for the 
 branches of a rowan-tree, and fell into the burn ? " 
 
 She blushed deeply ; but there was the same cold re- 
 serve in her manner as she said, 
 
 " That was a long time ago." 
 
 " Sometime ," said he, with a sort of gentleness in his look, 
 •* I wish your father had never gone away to Strathaylort ; 
 you and I use'd to be great friends at one time." 
 
 " Mv father is well ^leased with Strathaylort," said 
 
YOLANDE. 327 
 
 Miss Stewart, " and so are we all ; for the manse is larger, 
 and we have many more friends in Strathaylort. And tlie 
 friends we left — well I suppose they can remember us Avhen 
 they wish to remember us." 
 
 This was rather pointed ; but he took no notice of it — he 
 was so anxious to win his companion over to a more concil- 
 iatory mood. 
 
 " And are you as fond of reading poetry as ever ? " said 
 he, regarding her ; but always her eyes were averted. 
 
 " Sometime I read poetry, as I read other things," she 
 said ; " but with my sister in Inverness and my brother in 
 Aberdeen, I am very often visiting now." 
 
 ** Do you remember liow we to used to read " Horatius " 
 aloud, on the hill above Corrie-an- eich ? And the bridge 
 below was the bridge that the brave Horatus kept ; and 
 you seemed to see him jump into the Allt-crom, not the 
 Tiber at all ; and I am quite sure when you held out 
 your finger and pointed — when 
 
 " he saw on Palatinus 
 The white Porch of his home '— 
 
 you were looking at the zinc-roofed coach-house at Allt- 
 nam-Ba." 
 
 " I was very silly then," said Shena Van, with red 
 cheeks. 
 
 " And when you were Boadicea, a flock of sheep did very 
 well as an army for you to address ; only the collies used to 
 think you were mad." 
 
 " I dare say they were right." 
 
 " Do you remember the Sword Chant of Thorstein 
 Raudi, and my bringing you a halberd from the Towers — ' 
 Might-Giver ! I kiss thee ; ' * Joy-Giver ! I kiss thee ; ' 
 * Fame Giver ! I kiss thee, ? ' 
 
 " Indeed you have a wonderful recollction," said Misa 
 Stewart. " I should think it was time to forget such folly. 
 As one grows up there are more serious things to attend to. 
 I am told " — and here, for the first time, she turned her 
 beautiful dark blue eyes to him, but not her face ; so that 
 she was looking at him rather askance, and in a curious, 
 interrogative, and at the same time half-combative fashion — " 
 I am told that you are about to be married.'* 
 
 Now it was his turn to be enibarrassed ; and ho did 
 not meet those too searching eyes. 
 
 " As you say, Shena, life turns out to have serious duties 
 
328 YOLANDE. 
 
 and not lo be quite like what one dreams about when one 
 is young," he observed, somewhat vaguely. " That can't 
 prevent your remembering other days with a good deal of 
 affection — •" 
 
 " But you must let me congratulate you, Mr. Leslie," 
 said she, sharply bringing him to his senses. " And if the 
 wedding is to be at Lynn, I am sure my father would be 
 glad to come over from Strathaylort." 
 
 There could be nothing further said on this rather awk- 
 vvard subject just at the moment, for they had arrived at 
 the steamer, and he had to go and hunt out the clerk to in- 
 trust him with those small cojtn missions. Then he rejoined 
 Miss Stewart, and set-out for the town again ; but wliile 
 slie was quite civil and friendly in a formal fashion, he could 
 not draw her into any sort of conjoint regarding of their 
 youthful and sentimental days. Nay, more; when they got 
 bacii to the bridge she intimated, in the gentlest and most 
 respectful way, that she would rather go through the town 
 alone ; and so he was forced to surrender the cruel solace 
 of her companionship. 
 
 " Good-by Shena," said he, and held her hand for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Leslie,'* said she, without turning 
 her eyes toward him. 
 
 Then he walked away by the side of the river, with a 
 general sense of being aggrieved settling down on him. 
 Whichever way he turned, people seemed only disposed to 
 thwart and controvert him. Surely there was no harm in 
 being on friendly terms with Shena Van, and in reminding 
 her of the days when he and she were boy and girl together ? 
 If he had jilted her, she would have good grounds for be 
 ing vexed and angry ; but he had not. Nothing in that di- 
 rection had ever been spoken of between them. It is true 
 he had at one time been very much in love with her; and- 
 although he had but little romance in his character (that be- 
 ing an ingredient not likely to be fostered by the air of Ox- 
 ford, or by the society of the young officers of the Seaforth 
 Highlanders), still the glamor of love had for the moment 
 blinded him, and he had seriously contemplated asking her 
 to be his wife. He had argued with himself that this was 
 no stage case of a noble lord wedding a village maiden, 
 but the son of an almost penniless peer marrying a well ac« 
 complished young lady of perfectly respectable parentage, a 
 young lady whose beautiful qualities of mind were known 
 
YOLANDE, 829 
 
 only to a few — only to one, perhaps, who had discovered 
 them by looking into the magic mirror of a pair of strangely 
 dark and clear blue eyes. The infatuation was strong — for 
 a time ; but when ])retty Mrs. Graham came to learn of it 
 there was trouble. Now the master of Lynn detested trouble. 
 Besides, his sister's arguments in this case were terribly 
 cogent. She granted that Shena Van might be everything 
 he said, and quite entitled, by her intelligence and virtues 
 and amiabilities of character, to become the future mistress 
 of Lynn Towers. But she had not a penny. And was all 
 the labor that had been bestowed on freeing the estate from 
 its burdens to be thrown away? Were the Leslies to re- 
 main in those pinched circumstances that prevented their tak- 
 ing their proper place in the country, to say nothing of Lon- 
 don ? Mrs. Graham begged and implored ; there was some dis- 
 tant and awful thunder on the part of his lordship ; and then 
 Archie Leslie (who hated fuss) began to withdraw himself 
 from the fatal magnetism of those dark blue eyes. Nothing 
 had been said ; Miss Stewart could not complain. But the 
 beautiful blue eyes had a measure of shrewdness in them : 
 she may have guessed ; nay, more, she may have hoped, and 
 even cherished her own little romantic dreams of affection. 
 Be that as it may, the young Mastci' of Lynn gave way to 
 those entreaties, to that warning of storm. When his sister 
 said he was going to make a fool of himself he got angry, 
 but at the same time he saw as clearly as she that Lynn was 
 starved for want of money. And although love's young 
 dream might never return in all its freshness of wonder and 
 longing, still there were a large number of pretty and hand- 
 some young women in this country, some one of whom (if 
 •iier eyes had not quite the depth and clearness of the eyes 
 of Shena Van) might look very well at the head of the dinner 
 table at Lynn Towers. And so for a time he left Lynn, 
 and went away to Edinburgh ; and if his disappointment and 
 isolation did drive him into composing a little song with the 
 refrain, 
 
 " O Shena, Shena, my heart is true 
 To you where'er you go," 
 
 that was only the last up-flickering flame from the dust and 
 ashes of the extinguished romance ; and the Master of Lynn 
 had done everything that was required of him, and bad a 
 fair right to expect that his relatives would remember that 
 in the future. 
 
330 YOLANDE. 
 
 And now it can be well understood how, as he walked 
 alone along the shores of the wide river, he should feel that 
 he had been ill-treated. Not even Janet Stewart's friend- 
 /ship was left to him. He had looked once more into those 
 blue eyes ; and he could remember them shining with 
 laughter, or dilated with an awful majesty as Boadicea ad- 
 dressed an army of sheep, or perhaps softening a little in 
 farewell when he was going away to Oxford ; but now there 
 tvas nothing but coldness. She did not care to recall the 
 Did days. And indeed, as he walked on and out into the 
 country, some other verses that he had learned from Sheua 
 Van in those by-gone days began to come into his head, and 
 he grew in a way to compassionate himself, and to think of 
 himself in future years as looking back upon his youth with 
 a strange and pathetic regret — mingled with some other 
 feelings. 
 
 " O, mind ye, luve, how aft we lelt 
 
 The deavin', dinsorae toun, 
 To wander by the green burn-fiide 
 
 And hear its water croon ? 
 The simmer leaves hung ower our he&df, 
 
 The flowers burst round our feet, 
 And in the gloamin* o' the wood 
 
 The throssil whusslit sweet." 
 
 " O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Since we were sindered young 
 I've never seen your face, nor heard 
 
 The music o' your tongiie ; 
 But I could hug all wretchednesi, 
 
 And happy could I dee, 
 Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 
 
 O' by-gane days and mel " * 
 
 These were some of the lines he remembered (they were 
 great favorites of Shena Van in former times) ; but instead 
 of this compassionating of himself by proxy, as it were, 
 leading him to any gentleness of feeling, it only made him 
 the more bitter and angry. "•! have had enough of this — 
 I have had enough of it," he kept repeating to himself. 
 "Very few men I know have kept ai^ straight as I have. 
 They'd better look out. I have just about enough of this." 
 That evening he dined with the officers at Fort George, 
 and drank far more wine than he usually did — for he was 
 very abstemious in that direction. After dinner he pro- 
 posed unlimited loo ; but more moderate counsels prevailed, 
 
YOLANDE. 331 
 
 and the familiar and innocent sixpenny Nap was agreed 
 upon. But even at this mild performance you can lose a 
 fair amount if you persistently " go Nap " on almost any 
 sort of a hand that turns up. 
 
 CHAI^TER XL. 
 
 A GUESS. 
 
 Some well-known pieces of writing have described to us 
 the ecstatic visions vouchsafed to the incipient opium-eater, 
 and these, or some of these, may be a faithful enough 
 record. At all events, Yolande's first and only experience 
 was of a very different character. All through that terrible 
 night one horror succeeded another, and always she felt as 
 if she were bound and gagged — that she could neither flee 
 away from those hideous things, nor shriek out her fear and 
 cry for aid. First she was in a vast forest of impenetrable 
 gloom ; it was night, and yet there was a grayness in the 
 open glade ; there was no sky visible ; she was alone. Then 
 down one of those glades came a slow procession — figures 
 walking two by two ; and at first she thought they were 
 monks, but as she came nearer she could see that within 
 each cloak and hood there was a skeleton with eyes of white 
 fire. They took no heed of her; she could not move; in 
 the awful silence she beheld tliem range themselves behind 
 ihe trunks of the great oaks, and although they were now 
 invisible, it appeared to her that she could still see their 
 *yes of fire, and that they were gazing on the figure of a 
 woman that now drew near. The woman was wringing 
 her hands ; her hair was dishevelled ; she looked neither to 
 the rigl\t nor to the left. And then, as she passed, the 
 spectres came out two by two, and formed a crowd and fol- 
 lowed her; they j^ressed on her and surrounded her, 
 though she did not seem to see them ; it was a doom over- 
 taking her. The night grew darker ; a funeral song was 
 heard far away, not as from any opening heavens, but 
 within the black hollows of the wood — and then the ghastly 
 pageant disappeared. 
 
 Presently she was in a white world of snow and ice 
 
332 VOL AND E. 
 
 and a frantic despair had seized her, for she knew that she 
 was drifting away from the land. This way and that she 
 tried to escape, but always she came to a blue impassable 
 chasm. She tried to spring from one side to the other, but 
 something held her back ; she could not get away. There 
 was a fire-mountain there, the red flames looking so strange 
 in the middle of the white world ; and the noise of the 
 roaring of it was growing fainter and more faint as she 
 floated away on this moving ice. The sea that she waa 
 entering — she coidd see it far ahead of her — was black, but 
 a thin gray mist hung over it; and she knew that once she 
 was within that mist she would see nothing more, nor be 
 heard of more, for ever and ever. She tried no longer to 
 escape ; horror had paralyzed her ; she wanted to call 
 aloud for help, but could not. Denser and denser grew 
 the mist ; and now the black sea was all around her ; she 
 Avas as one already dead ; and when she tried to think ot 
 those she was leaving forever, she could not remember 
 them. Her friends? the people she knew? she could re- 
 member nothing. This vague terror and hopelessness filled 
 her mind ; otherwise it was a blank; she could look, but 
 she could not think ; and now the black waters had reached 
 almost to her feet, and around her were the impenetrable 
 folds of air, so that she could no longer see. 
 
 And so she passed from one vision of terror to another all 
 through the long night, until in the gray of the morning she 
 slowly awoke to a sort of half-stupefied consciousness. She 
 had a headache, so frightful that at first she could scarcely 
 open her eyes ; but she did not mind that ; she was over- 
 joyed that she could convince herself of her escape from 
 those hideous phantoms, and of her being in the actual 
 living world. Then she began to recollect. She thought 
 of what she had done — perhaps with a little touch of pride, 
 as of something that he might approve, if ever he should 
 come to know. Then, though her head was throbbing so 
 dreadfully, she cautiously opened her eyes to look around. 
 
 No sooner had she done so than Jane, who was awake, 
 stole noiselessly to her young mistress's bedside. Yolande 
 made a gesture to insure silence — for she saw that her 
 mother was lying asleep ; then she rose, wrapped a shawl 
 round her, and slipped out of the room, followed by her 
 maid. 
 
 «XVliat shall I get yon, miss? — I have kept the firo 
 alight down-stairs. I can get you a cup of tea in a minute." 
 
YOLANDE. 333 
 
 '*No, no, never mind," said Yolande, pressing her hand 
 to her head. " Tell me about my mother. How long has 
 ghe been asleep ? " 
 
 " Not very long. Oh, she has passed a dreadful night — > 
 the poor lady. She was so excited at first I thought she 
 would have killed herself ; but in the end she fairly cried 
 herself to sleep, after I got her to lie down on the bed. 
 And you don't feel very ill, miss, I hope? But it was a 
 terrible thing for you to do." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, miss," said Jane, with a little 
 embarrassment; "but I guessed what you had done. I 
 guessed from what the poor lady said. Oh, you won't do 
 that again, will you miss ? You might have killed yourself, 
 and then what ever should I have said to your papa ? And I 
 don't think you will ever have need to do it again — I heard 
 what the poor lady kept saying to herself ; you won't liave 
 to do* any such terrible thing again ; she declares that she 
 will kill herself before you have cause to do that again." 
 
 " I hope there won't be any occasion," said Yolande, 
 calmly ; and then she went to the window. 
 
 It was truly a miserable morning — dull and gray and 
 overclouded ; and it had rained during the night; the street 
 and the terrace were sodden and wet and aleaden-hued sea 
 tumbled on to the em]>ty beach. But notwithstanding that, 
 and notwithstanding her headache, Yolande vaguely felt 
 that she had never looked on a fairer picture. Tiiis plain, 
 matter-of-fact, commonplace world was such a beautiful 
 thing after those phantom horrors through which she had 
 passed. She liked to look at the solid black boats high up 
 on the shingle, at the terraced footway, at the iron lailing 
 along the road. She began to wish to be out in that sub- 
 stantial world ; to see more of it, and more closely : per- 
 haps the cold sea-breezes would temper the racking pain in 
 her head ? 
 
 " Jane," said she, "do you think you could slip into the 
 room and bring me my things without waking my mother ? " 
 
 ** But you are not going out, miss ?" said the maid, 
 wondering, " The night is scarcely over yet. Won't you 
 go back and lie down ? " 
 
 "No, no," said Yolande, almost with a shudder of 
 dread. " I have had terrible dreams — I want to get out- 
 side — and I have a headache besides. Perhaps the fresh 
 air will make it better. But you can lie down, Jane, after 
 
334 YOLANDE. 
 
 I have gone ; and don't wake my mother, no matter how 
 late she sleeps. When I come back, perhaps the j)eople in 
 the house will be up, and 1 shall try to take some break- 
 fast—" 
 
 " I could get it for you now, miss," said Jane, eagerly. 
 
 " I could not touch it," the girl said, shivering. 
 
 The maid went and fetched her things ; and when she had 
 dressed she stole noiselessly down the stairs and got out- 
 side. How cold and damp the air felt ! but yet it was fresh 
 and new and strange ; the familiar sound of the sea seemed 
 pleasant and companionable. As yet, in the dull gray 
 dawn, the little town appeared to be asleep ; all the people 
 she could find as she passed were a policeman leaning 
 against a railing and reading a newspaper, two men work- 
 ing at the roadway, and a maid-servant cleaning the win- 
 dows of a first-floor parlor. She walked on, and pushed 
 back the haii from her forehead to let the cold sea breeze 
 dispel this racking pain. But although the headache was 
 a bad one, and although it was a most rare thing for her to 
 know what a headache was, still it did not depress her. 
 She walked on with an increasing gladness. This was a fine, 
 real world ; there were no more processions of skeletons, or 
 arctic mists, or fields covered with cofiins. This was 
 Worthing : there was the pier ; these were most substantial 
 and actual waves that came rolling in until they thundered 
 over and rushed seething and hissing up the beach. More- 
 over, was there not a gatliering sense of light somewhere — 
 as if the day were opening and inclined to shine ? As she 
 walked on in the direction of Lower Lancing a more spa- 
 cious view of sea and sky opened out before her, and it 
 appeared to her that away in the direction of Brighton the 
 clouds seemed inclined to band up. And then, graduallv 
 and here and there, faint gleams of a warmer light came 
 shooting over from the east ; and in course of time, as she 
 still followed the windings of the shore, the rising sun shone 
 level along the sea, and the yellow brown waves, though 
 their curved hollows were in shadows as they rolled on to 
 the beach, had silver-gleaming ci "" "^nd the wide stretches 
 of retreating foam that gurgled a n- ' down the shingly 
 slopes were a glare of cream whi^ g to the eyes. 
 
 She walked quickly — and pre he had played a 
 
 bold game, and she hoped that shi 'in. Nay, more, 
 
 she was prepared to play it again. Sj not shrink fi'oni 
 
 any sacrifice. It was with no light h she had under- 
 
YOLANDE. 335 
 
 taken tLis duty. And would he approve ? — that was always 
 her secret thought, though generally she tried to banish all 
 remembrances of what was by-gone. Should he ever come 
 to know of what she had done ? For it was her own plan- 
 ning. It was not his suggestion at all ; probably, if he had 
 thought of such a means of terrorism, he would not have 
 dared to recommend it. But she had laid this plan ; and 
 she watched her opportunity ; and she was glad that some 
 days had elapsed before that opportunity had occurred, so 
 that her mother had had time to become attached to her. And 
 what if that once did not suffice ? Well, she was prepared 
 to go on. It was only a headache (and even 'that was 
 quietly lessening, for she had an elastic constitution, and was 
 a most capable walker). What were a few headaches ? But 
 no, she did not think that much repitition of this experiment 
 would be necessary ; she could not believe that any mother 
 alive could look on and see her daughter poisoning herself 
 to save her. 
 
 The morning cleared and brightened. When she got 
 to Lancing she struck inland by the quiet country ways ; a 
 kind of gladness filled her. And if she should be successful, 
 after all — if the thing that she had feared was to turn out a 
 beautiful thing, if the rescue of this poor mother was to be 
 her reward — what should she not owe him who liad told 
 her what her duty was ! He had not been afraid to tell 
 her, altliough she was only a girl. Ah, and where was he 
 now? Driven away into banishment, perhaps, by what 
 had happened up there in the north, through her blindness 
 and carelessness. Once or twice indeed, durino^ these lonoj 
 evenings, she had followed out a curious fancy that perhaps 
 his crossing the Monalea hills to catch the afternoon train 
 at Kingussie had really some connection with her coming 
 south. Had he wished to see that she was secure and 
 guarded, now that she was embarked on an errand of his 
 suggestion ? It pleased her to think of him being in the 
 same train. Perhaps, in the cold gray morning at Euston 
 Station, standing backward from the people, he had 
 watched her get into the cab ; perhaps he had even fol- 
 lowed in his own cab, and seen her enter the hotel? Why 
 should he have hurried to catch that particular train ? Why 
 should he have adopted that arduous route across the hills, 
 unless it was that he wished to travel with her, and yet 
 without her knowing it ? But it was so strange he should 
 
336 YOLANDE, 
 
 make this long journey merely to see that she was safely 
 lodged in her hotel. 
 
 Now she had been studying this matter on one or two 
 occasions, and letting her fancy play about it with a strange 
 curiosity ; but it was on this particular morning, as she was 
 entering the little village of Sonipting, that a new light sud- 
 denly flashed in on her. Who was i^ who had told Lawrence 
 & Lang of her being in London ? Who had explained to 
 them what her business was ? wlio had asked Mr. Lang to 
 go to her hotel and see her? Was it possible, then, that 
 he liad journeyed to London in that same train, and gone 
 direct to the lawyer's office, so that she should have their 
 assistance ? He knew they were her father's lawyers, for 
 she herself had told him to whom she should apply in case 
 of difficulty ; whereas, on the other hand, it was not possi- 
 ble for lier father to have written. Had he been guarding 
 her, then, and watching over her all that time — perhaps 
 even looking on ? And if looking on — Then, in a breath- 
 less kind of way, she recalled the circumstances of her tak* 
 ing h6r mother away. She had been disturbed and bewil- 
 dered, no doubt ; still, had she not the impression of some 
 one darting by — some one who felled the man who had 
 seized her arm, and then passed quickly by? Surely surely 
 it must have been he. Who else could have known ? Who 
 else could have interfered ? Her heart grew warm with grati- 
 tude toward him. Ah, there was the true friend, watch- 
 ing over her, but still keeping back, and unrequited by a 
 single word of thanks. She began to convince herself that 
 this must have been so. She accused herself of blindness 
 that slie had not seen it before. And for how long had his 
 guardianship continued ? When had he gone away ? 
 Perhaps — 
 
 Then her face grew pale. Perhaps he was even now in 
 Worthing, still exercising this invisible care over her? Per- 
 haps she might meet him, by some accident, in the street? 
 She stopped short in the road, apparently afraid to go on. 
 For what would their meeting be, if such a meeting were to 
 happen ? — But no, it would not happen — it should not hap- 
 pen. Even if he were in Worthing (and she tried to get 
 rid of the dreams and fancies begotten of this morning 
 walk) he would not seek to see her ; he would avoid her 
 rather ; he would know, as well as she, that it was not fit 
 and proper that tney should meet. And why should he be 
 iu Worthing ? His guardianship there could be of no avail : 
 
YOLANDE. V 
 
 she had nothing to fear in any direction where he could 
 help. The more she calmly reviewed the possibilities of 
 the case the more she considered it likely that he had indeed 
 come to London with her ; that he had given instructions 
 to the lawyers ; perhaps, even, that he had been present 
 when she bore her mother off ; but even if these things were 
 so, by this time he must have left, perceiving that he could 
 do no more. And whither ? She had a kind of dim notion 
 that he would not quickly return to Gress. But whitiier, 
 then — whither? She saw him an outcast and a wanderer, 
 she imagined him away in far places, and the morning 
 seemed less cheerful now. Her face grew grave; she 
 walked firmly on. She was returning to her appointed 
 task, and to any trials that might be in store for her in con- 
 nection with it. 
 
 She was getting near to Broadwater, when she saw 
 along the road a pony-carriage coming quickly in her 
 direction ; the next moment she perceived that her mother 
 was in it, and that Jane (who had been brought up in the 
 country) was driving. A few seconds sufficed to bring 
 them to her ; and then the mother, who seemed much ex- 
 cited, got out from the trap and caught her daughter by 
 both shoulders, and stroked her hair and her face in a sort 
 of delirium of joy. 
 
 " We have been driving everywhere in search of you — 
 I was so afraid. Ah, you are alive and well, and beautiful 
 as ever. My child, my child, I have not murdered you ! " 
 
 " Hush mother,*' said the girl, quite calmly. " It is a 
 pity you got up so early. I came out for a walk, because 
 my head was bad ; it is getting better now. I will drive 
 you back if you like." 
 
 She drew the girl aside for a few yards, caressing lier 
 arm and stroking her fingers. 
 
 "My child, I ought to be ashamed and miserable; bui 
 to see you alive and well — I — I was in des])air — I was afraid. 
 But you need not fear any more, Yolande, you need not 
 fear any more." 
 
 *'I hope not, mother," said Yolande, gravely, and she 
 regarded her mother. " For I think I would rather die 
 than go through again such a night as last night." 
 
 " But you need not fear — you need not fear," said the 
 other, pressing her hand. *'01i no ; when I saw you lyino, 
 on the bed last night, then — then I seemed to know wliatl 
 
338 YOLANDE. 
 
 was. But you need not fear. Ko, never again will you 
 have to poison yourself in order to shame ine." 
 
 " It was not to shame you mother ; it was to ask you 
 not to take any more of that — that medicine." 
 
 " You need not fear, Yolande, you need not fear," she re 
 peated eagerly. " Oh no ; I have everything prepared now, 
 I will never again touch it ; you shall never have to sacri- 
 fice yourslef like that — " 
 
 " Well, I am glad of it, dear mother, for both oursakes," 
 Yolande said. " I hope it will not cost you riiuch suffer 
 
 " Oh no, it will not cost me much suffering," said the 
 mother, with a strange sort of smile. 
 
 Something in the manner attracted her daughter's atten- 
 tion. 
 
 " Shall we go back ? " she asked. 
 
 " But I wish you to understand, Yolande, that you need 
 have no longer any fear — " 
 
 ** You have promised, mother." 
 
 " Yes ; but did I not promise before ? Ah, you — you, so 
 young, so strong, so self-reliant — you can not tell how weak 
 one can be. But now that is all over. This time I know. 
 This time I can tell that I have tasted that poison for the 
 last time — if there were twenty bottles standing by, it would 
 not matter." 
 
 " You must nerve yourself, mother — " 
 
 " Oh but I have made it secure in another way," she 
 said, with a curious smile. 
 
 *' How, then ? " 
 
 " Well, what am I worth in the world ? What is the 
 value of my life ? It is a wreck and worthless ; to save it for 
 a week, for a day, would I let you have one more headache, 
 .'ind be driven away into the country by myself like this? 
 Ah, no, Yolande ; but now you are secure ; there will be no 
 more of that. When I feel that I must break my promise 
 again, when I am like to die with weakness and — and the 
 craving, then, if there were twenty bottles standing by, you 
 need not fear, tf living is not bearable, then, rather than 
 you should do again what you did last night, I will kill my- 
 self — and gladly." 
 
 Yolande regarded her with the same calm air. 
 
 "And that is the end you have appointed for me 
 mother?" 
 
YOLANDE, S39 
 
 Her mother was stupified for a second ; then she uttered 
 ft short, quick cry of terror. 
 
 " Yolande, what do you mean ? " 
 
 " I think I have told you, mother, that I mean to follow 
 your example in all things — to the end, whatever it may be. 
 Do not let us speak of it." 
 
 She put her hand on her mother's arm, and led her 
 back to the pony-carriage. But the poor woman was trem- 
 bling violenily. This terrible threat had quite unnerved her. 
 It had seemed to her easy — if the worst came to the worst, 
 if slie could control her craving no longer — that, sooner 
 than lier daughter should be sacrificed, she herself should 
 throw away this worthless fragment of existence that re- 
 mained to her. And now Yolande's manner frightened her. 
 This easy way of escape was going to produce the direst of 
 catastrophes. She regarded the girl — who was ])re-occupied 
 and thouglitful, and who allowed Jane to continue to drive 
 — all the way back ; and there was something in her look 
 that sent the conviction to her mother's heart that that had 
 been no idle menace. 
 
 When they got back to Worthing, Yolande set about 
 the usual occupa^^^ions of the day with her accustomed com- 
 posure, and even with a measure of cheerfulness. She 
 seemed to attach little importance to the incident that had 
 just happened ; and probably wished her motlier to under- 
 stand that she meant to see this thing through, as slie had 
 begun it. But it was pitiable to see the remorse' on the 
 mother's face when a slight contraction of Yolande's brows 
 told that from time to time her head still swam with pain. 
 
 The first hamper of game arrived from the north that 
 day ; and it was with a curious interest that the motlier (who 
 was never done wondering at her daughter's knowledge and 
 accomplishments and opinions) listened to all that Yolande 
 could tell her about the various birds and beasts. As yet 
 the ptarmigan showed no signs of donning their winter 
 plumage ; but the mountain hares here and there — especially 
 about the legs — showed traces of white appearing under- 
 neath the brownish-gray. Both at the foot and at the top 
 of the hamper was a thick bed of stag's-horn moss (which 
 grows in extraordinary luxuriance at Alt-nam-Ba), and Yo- 
 lande guessed — and guessed correctly — that Duncan, who 
 had observed her on one or two occasions bring home some 
 of that moss, had fancied that the young lady would like to 
 have some sent to her to the south. And she wondered 
 
340 YOLANDE. 
 
 whether there was any other part of the world where 
 people were so thoughtful and so kind, even to visitors who 
 were almost strangers to them. 
 
 At night, when Yolande went into the bedroom, sha 
 noticed that there was no bottle on the mantel-piece. 
 
 *'Where is it, mother ? " she said. 
 
 " I have thrown it away. You need not fear now, 
 Yolande," her motlier saia. And then she regarded her 
 daughter. *' Don't mind what I said this morning, child. 
 It was foolish. If I can not bear the suffering well, il can not 
 be so hard a thing to die ; that must come if one waits." 
 
 *' You are not going to die, mother." said Yolande, gently 
 patting her on the shoulder. '* You are going to live ; for 
 some day, as soon as you are strong enough, you and I are 
 going to Nice, to drive all the way along to Genoa ; and I 
 know all the prettiest places to stop at. But you must have 
 courage and hope and determination. And you must get 
 well quickly, mother ; for I should like to go away with 
 you ; it is such a long, long time sence I smelt the lemon 
 blossom in the air." 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 A MESSAGE. 
 
 As subsequent events were to prove, Yolande had, by 
 this one bold stroke, achieved the victory she had set her 
 heart upon. But as yet she could not know that. She 
 could not tell that the frantic terror of the poor mother at 
 the thought that she might have killed her only cliild would 
 leave an impression strong enough to be a sufficient safe- 
 guard. Indeed, she could see no end to the undertaking on 
 Jvhich she had entered; but she was determined to prose- 
 ;ute that with unfailing patience, and with the hope in the 
 dual result ; and also, perhaps, with the consciousness thai; 
 this immediate duty absorbed her from the consideration 
 uf other problems of her life. 
 
 But while she tried to shut up all her cares and interests 
 within this little town of Worthing — devising new amuse- 
 yji^'iiLs and occupations, keeping her mother as much aspos- 
 
YOLANDE!li.\J . . .. 841 
 
 %vf^ ?^side 
 
 sible in the open air, and lightly piis^iiig j^side the poor 
 woman's remorse over the incidents of that critical night-— 
 there came to her reminders from the outer and -farthei 
 world. Among these was the following letter from the 
 Master of Lynn, which she read with strangely diverse emo- 
 tions contending for mastery in her mind : 
 
 "Station Hotel, Invebness, Oc«o6er2. 
 
 *' My dearest Tolande, — It is only this morning that 
 I have got your address from Allt-nam-Ba ; and I write at 
 once, though perhaps you will not care to be bothered with 
 much correspondence just at present. Your father has told 
 me what has taken you to the south, and indeed I had 
 guessed something of the kind from the note you sent me 
 when you were leaving. I hope you are well, and not over- 
 troubled ; and when you have time I should be glad to have 
 a line from you — though I shall not misconstrue your silence 
 if you prefer to be silent. In fact, I probably should not 
 write to you now but that your father is leaving Allt-nam- 
 Ba shortly, and I suppose he will see you as soon as he goes 
 south, and I think I am bound to give you some explanation 
 as to how matters stand. No doubt he will think it strange 
 that I have rather kept out of his way, and very likely he 
 will be surprised that my father has never called at the 
 lodge, or shown any sign of civility, and so forth. Well, 
 the plain truth is, dear Yolande, that I have quarrelled with 
 my father, if that can be called a quarrel which is all on one 
 side — for I simply retire, on my part, and seek quiet in an 
 Inverness hotel. The cause of the quarrel, or estrangement 
 is that is he opposed to our marriage ; and he has been put up 
 to oppose it, I imagine, chiefly by my aunt, the elderly and 
 agi'eeable lady whom you will remember meeting at the 
 Towers. I think I am bound in honor to let you know this ; 
 not that it in the least affects you or me, as far as our mar- 
 riage is concerned, for I am old enough to manage my own 
 affairs ; but in order to explain a discourtesy which may 
 very naturally have offended your father, and also to ex- 
 plain why I, feeling ashamed of the whole business, have 
 rather kept back, and so failed to thank your father, as 
 otherwise I should have done, for his kindness to me. Of 
 course I knew very well, when we became engaged in Egypt, 
 that my father, whose political opinions are of a fine old 
 crusted order, would be rather aghast at my marrying the 
 
342 YOLANDE. 
 
 . daughter of the Member of Slagpool ; but I felt sure that 
 when he saw you and knew you, dear Yolande, he w^ould 
 liave no objection ; and indeed I did not anticipate that tlie 
 eloquence of my venerated aunt would have deprived him 
 of the use of his senses. One ought not to Avrite so of one's 
 ])arcnt, I know ; but facts are facts ; and if you are driven 
 out of your own home through the bigotry of an old 
 man and the cattish temper of an old woman, and if 
 you have the most angelic of sisters take to nagging at you 
 with letters, and if you are forced into sweet seclusion of a 
 hotel adjoining a railway station, tlien the humor of the 
 whole affair begins to be apparent, and you may be inclined 
 to call things by their real names. I have written to your 
 father to say that he need not bother about either the dogs 
 or horses ; when he has left I will run down to AUt-nam-Ba 
 and see them sent off ; but I have not told him why I am at 
 present in Inverness ; and I tell you, my dear Yolande, be- 
 cause I think you ought to know exactly how matters stand. 
 I should not be at all surprised to hear from you that you 
 had imagined something of the state of the case ; for you 
 must have wondered at their not asking you and your 
 father to dinner, or something of the kind, after Polly taking 
 you to the Towers when you first came north ; but, at all 
 events, this is how we are situated now, and I should be in- 
 clined to make a joke of the whole affair if it were not that 
 when I think of you I feel a little bit indignant. Of course 
 it can not matter to you — not in the least. It is disagree- 
 able, that is all. If dogs delight to bark and bite, it does 
 not much matter so long as they keep their barking and 
 biting among themselves. It is rather hard, certainly, when 
 they take possession of your house, and turn you out into 
 the street ; especially when you have a lovely sister come 
 and accuse you of having no higher ambition in life than 
 playing billiards with commercial travellers. 
 
 " I shall hang on here, I expect, until our other tenants 
 — they who have the forest — leaves for the south ; then I 
 shall be able to make some final arrangements with our 
 agent here ; after which I shall consider myself free. You 
 must tell me, dear Yolande, when and where you wish to 
 see me. Of course I don't wish to inconvenience or trouble 
 you in any wa}^ — I shall leave it er.tirely in your hands as 
 to what you would have me do. Perhaps, if I go away for 
 a while, the people at Lynn may come to their senses. 
 Polly has been at them once or twice; she is a warm ally 
 
YOLANDE. 843 
 
 of yours ; but, to tell you the truth, I would not have you 
 made the subject of any appeal. No word of that kind 
 shall come from me. Most likely when the last of the 
 people that the Grahams have with them at Inverstwy have 
 gone, Polly may go over to Lynn and establish herself 
 there, and have" a battle royal with my revered aunt. Of 
 course I would not bother you with the details of this 
 wretched family squabble if I did not think that some ex- 
 planation were due both to you and to your father. 
 
 "I shall be glad to hear from you, if you are not too 
 much occupied. Yours, affectionately, 
 
 "AucniE Leslie. 
 
 "P.S. — I hope to be able to leave here about the 22d." 
 
 Her first impulse was to rush away at once and tele- 
 graph to him, begging him not to come south ; but a 
 moment's reflection showed her that was unnecessary. She 
 re-read the letter ; there was nothing of the impetuosity of 
 a lover in it, but rather a studied kindness, and also a reti- 
 cence with regard to her present surroundings and occupa- 
 tions that she could not but respect. For she knew as well 
 as any one that this matter concerned him too ; and she 
 could even have forgiven a trace of apprehension on his 
 part, seeing that a young man about to marry is naturally 
 curious about the new conditions that are to surround him. 
 His silence on this point seemed part of the careful conside- 
 ration that prevailed throughout this message to her. Then 
 it was so clear that he would be ruled by her wishes. He 
 was not coming to claim her by the right he had acquired. 
 She could put away this letter for future consideration, as 
 she had for the moment put aside her engagement ring. 
 While she was first reading it, some strange fancies and 
 feelings had held possession of her — a quick contrition, a 
 desire to tell him everything, and so release herself from 
 this bond, a remonstrance with herself, and a vague kind of 
 hope that she might make atonement by a life-long devo- 
 tion to him, after this first duty to her mother had been 
 accomplished. But these conflicting resolves she forced 
 herself to discard. She would not even answer this letter 
 now, "jChere was no hurry. He would not come to 
 Worthing if she did not wish it. And was it not fortu- 
 nate that she could turn aside from unavailing regrets, and 
 from irresolute means and purposes, to the actual needs of 
 the moment ? She calmly put the letter in her pocket, and 
 
344 YOLANDE. 
 
 went away to see whether her mother were not ready fof 
 her morning drive. And now it had come to pass that 
 whenever Yolande dr.ew near there was a look of affection 
 and gratitude in this poor woman's eyes that made the 
 girl's heart glad. 
 
 Day after day passed ; the weather happened to be fine, 
 and their exploration of the surrounding country was un- 
 wearied. The castles of Arundel and Bramber, the parka 
 of Augmering and Bad worth, Harrow Hill, Amberley Wild 
 Brook, SuUington, Washington, Storrington, Ashington— « 
 they knew them all ; and they had so educated the wise 
 old pony that, when Jane was not with them, and they 
 were walking along by the hedgeways or climbing a hill, 
 they could safely leave him and the pony-carriage far be- 
 hind them, knowing that he would come up at his leisure, 
 keeping his own side of the road, and refusing to be 
 tempted by the greenest of way-side patches. Yolande, 
 both at home and abroad, was always on the watch, and 
 carefully concealed the fact. But now she was beginning 
 less and less to fear, and more and more to hope ; nay, at 
 times, and rather in spite of herself, a joyful conviction 
 would rest upon her that she had already succeeded. Four 
 days after that relapse, a desperate fit of depression over- 
 took the poor woman ; but she bravely fought through it, 
 
 " You need not fear this time, Yolande," she would say, 
 with a sad smile. " I said that once before, but I did not 
 know then. I had not seen you lying on the bed — perhaps 
 dying, as I thought. You shall have no more headaches 
 through me." 
 
 " Ah, dear mother," said Yolande, " in a little time you 
 will not even think of such things. You will have forgotten 
 them. It will be all like a dream to you." 
 
 " Yes, like a dream— like a dream," the other said, ab- 
 s(3ntly. '' It was in a dream that you came to me. I could 
 not understand — I heard you, but I could not understand. 
 And then it seemed that you were leading me away, but I 
 scarcely knew who you were. And the evening in the hotel, 
 when you were showing me your things, I could scarcely 
 believe it all ; and when you said you would get me a dress- 
 ing-bag, I asked myself why I should take that from a stran- 
 ger. You were so new to me — and tall — and so beautiful 
 — it was a kind of wonder — I could not think you were in- 
 deed my own daughter, but a kind of angel, and I was glad 
 to follow you." 
 
YOLANDE, 345 
 
 " Woll; I carried you off," said Tolande, plainly (for she 
 did not like to encourago fantasy). " There is no mistake 
 about it ; aud I shall not let you go back to those friends of 
 yours, who were not at all good friends to you ; that also is 
 quite certain." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ? " she would say, grasping the girl's hand. 
 " I am not going back — never, never, to that house ! You 
 need not fear now, Yolande." 
 
 It has already been mentioned that this poor woman 
 was greatly astonished that Yolande should know so much, 
 and should have seen so much, and read so many different 
 things. And this proved to be a iield of quite unlimited 
 interest ; for there was not a single opinion or experience of 
 the girl that she did not regard with a strange fascination 
 and sympathy. Whether Yolande was relating to her leg- 
 endary stories of Brittany, of which she knew a good many, 
 or describing the lonely streets of Pompeii, or telling her of 
 the extraordinary clearness of the atmosphere in Washington 
 (the physical atmosphere, that is), she listened with a kind 
 of wonder, and with the keenest curiosity to know moi^e and 
 more of this young life that had grown up apart from hers. 
 And tlien Yolande so far wandered from the path of virtue 
 — as laid down by her father — as sometimes to read aloud 
 in French ; and while she frequently halted and stumbled in 
 reading aloud in English, there never was any stumbling, 
 but rather a touch of pride, when she was pronouncing 
 such sonorous line as tliis — 
 
 " La vaste mere murmure autour de son cercueil," 
 
 and it was strange to the poor mother that her daughter 
 should be more at home in reading French than reading 
 English. She would ask the minutest questions — about Yo- 
 lande's life at the Chateau, about her life on board ship 
 during her various voyages, about her experiences in those 
 mountain solitudes of the north. Her anxiety to be always 
 in the society of her daughter was insatiable ; she could 
 scarcely bear to have her out of sight. And when Lawrence 
 & Lang sent her, in the course of time, her usual allowance 
 of money, her joy was extreme. For now, whenever she 
 and Yolande went out, she scanned the shop windows with 
 an eager interest, and always she was buying this, that, or 
 the other trinket, or bit of pretty-colored silk, or something 
 of the kind for the girl to wear. Yolande had rather severu 
 
346 YOLANDE. 
 
 notions in the -^ay of personal adornment ; but she was well 
 content to put a bit of color round her neck or an additionaj 
 silver hoop round her wrist when she saw the pleasure in 
 her mother's eyes. 
 
 At length she felt justified in sending the following let- 
 ter to her father : 
 
 ** WoKTHiNG, October 12. 
 
 " My dear Papa, — I intend this to reach you before 
 you leave Allt-nam-Ba, because it carries good news, and I 
 know you have been anxious. I think every thing goes well 
 — sometimes I am quite sure of it — sometimes I look forward 
 to such a bright future. It has been a great struggle and 
 pain (but not to me ; please do not speak of me at all in 
 your letters, because that is nothing at all), but I have not 
 so much fear now. Perhaps it is too soon to be certain ; 
 but I can not explain to you in a letter what it is that gives 
 me such hope, that drives away what reason suggests, and 
 compeis me to think that all will be well. Partly it is my 
 mother's look. There is an assurance in it of her determi- 
 nation — of her feeling that all is safe now ; again and again 
 she says to me, " T have been in a dream, but now I am 
 come out of it. You need not fear now." Mr. Melville said 
 I was not to be too sanguine, and always to be watchful ; 
 and 1 try to be that ; but I can not fight against the joyful 
 conviction that my mother is now safe from that thing. 
 Only she is so weak and ill yet — she tries to be brave and 
 cheerful, to give me comfort ; but she suffers. Dear papa, 
 it is madness that you should reproach yourself for doing 
 nothing, and propose to take us to the Mediterranean. No, 
 no ; it will not do at all. My mother is too weak yet to go 
 anywhere; when she is well enough to go I will take her; 
 but 1 must take her alone ; she is now used to me ; there 
 must be no such excitement as would exist if you were to 
 come for us. I am very thankful to Mr. Shortlands that 
 you are going to Dalescroft ; and I hope you will find charm- 
 ing people at his house, and also that the shooting is good. 
 Dear papa, I hope you will be able to go over to "S lag- 
 pool while you are in the north ; and perhaps you might 
 give an address or deliver a lecture — there are many of the 
 members doing that now, as I see by the newspapers and 
 you owe something to your constituents for not grumbling; 
 about your going to Egypt. ' 
 
 fl 
 
yOLANDE. 347 
 
 " I hope everytliing lias been comfortable at the lodge 
 since I left ; but that I am sure of, for Mrs. Bell would take 
 care. You must buy her something very pretty when you 
 get to Inverness, and send it to her as from you and me 
 together — something very pretty indeed, papa, for she waa 
 very kind to me, and I would not have her fancy that one 
 forgets. Mr. Leslie says in a letter that he will see to the 
 ponies and dogs being sent off, so that you need have no 
 trouble ; he is at the Station Hotel, as probably you know, 
 if you wish to call and thank him. I remem))er Duncan 
 saying that when the dogs were going he would take tlieni 
 over the hills to Kingussie, and go with them by the train 
 as far as Pertli, where he has relatives, and there he could 
 see that the dogs had water given them in the morning. 
 But you will yourselves take them, perhaj^s, from Inver- 
 ness ? Another small matter, dear papa, if you do not 
 mind the trouble, is this — would you ask some one to pack 
 up for me and send here tlie boards and drying-paper and 
 hand-press that I had for the wild flowers ? We go much 
 into the country here, and have plenty of time in the even- 
 ing ; and my mother is so much interested in any pursuit 
 of mine that this would be an additional means of amusing 
 her. You do not say whether you have heard anything 
 farther of Mr. Melville. 
 
 "Do not think I am sad, or alone, or repining, Oh no; I 
 am very well ; and I am very happy when I see my mother 
 pleased with me. "We do a hundred things — examine the 
 shop windows, walk on the pier or along the promenade, 
 or we drive to different places in the country, and some- 
 times we have lunch at the old-fashioned inns, and make 
 the acquaintance of the people — so good-natured they are, 
 and well pleased with their own importance ; but I do not 
 understand them always, and my mother laughs. We call 
 the pony Bertrand du Guesclin ; I do not remember how it 
 happened ; but, at all events, he is not as adventurous as 
 the Connetable : he is too wise to run any risks. But when 
 lam quite sure, and if my mother is well enough for the 
 fatigue of the voyage, I think I will take her to the south 
 of France, and then along the Rivera, for I fear the winter 
 here, and she so delicate. Dear papa, you say I am not to 
 mind the expense ; very well, you see I am profiting by your 
 mands. In the meantime I woula not dare. I try to keep 
 <iown my excitement ; we amuse ourselves with the shops 
 with the driving, and what not ; it is all simple, pleasant^ 
 
348 YOLANDE. 
 
 and I wait for the return of her strength. Yes, I can see 
 she is much depressed sometimes; and then it is that she 
 has been accustomed to fly for relief to the medicines ; but 
 now I think that is over, and the best to be looked forward 
 to. Yes, in spite of caution, in spite of reason, I am already 
 almost assured. There is something in her manner toward 
 me that convinces me ; there is a sympathy which has 
 grown up ; she looks at me as she does not look at any one 
 else, and I understand. It is this that convinces me. 
 
 " Will you give a farewell gift to each of the servants, 
 besides their wages ? I think they deserve it ; always they 
 helped me greatly, and were so willing and obliging, in- 
 stead of taking advantage of my ignorance. I would not 
 have them think that I did not recognize it, and was un- 
 grateful. And please^ papa, get something very pretty for 
 Mrs. Bell. I do not know what : something she could be 
 proud to show to Mr. Melville would probably please her 
 best. Write to me when you get to Dalescourt. 
 
 " Your affectionate daughter, Yolande." 
 
 There is no doubt that Yolande made these repeated 
 references to Mr. Melville with the vague expectation of 
 learning that perhaps he had returned to Gress. But if 
 that was her impression she was speedily undeceived. The 
 very next morning, as she went down into the small lobby, 
 she saw something white in the letter-box of the door. The 
 bell had not been rung, so that the servant-maid had not 
 taken the letter out. Yolande did so, and saw that it was 
 addressed to herself — in a handwriting that she instantly 
 recognized. With trembling fingers she hastily broke open 
 the envelope, and then read these words, written in pencil 
 across a sheet of note-paper : 
 
 "You have done well. You will succeed. But be 
 patient. Good-by. J. M." 
 
 She stood still — bewildered — her heart beating quickly. 
 Had he been there all the time, then ? — always near her, 
 watching her, guarding her, observing the progress of the 
 experiment he had himself suggested? And now whither 
 had he gone — without a word of thanks and gratitude ? Her 
 mother was coming down the stairs. She quickly concealed 
 the letter, and turned to meet her. In the dusk of this 
 lobby the mother observed nothing strange or unusual in 
 the look of her daughter's face. 
 
YOLANDE, 840 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 A LAST INTERVENTION. 
 
 It has already been said of Mrs. Graham, as of her 
 brother, that she was not altogether mercenary. She Lad 
 a certain share of sentiment in her composition. It is true, 
 she had summarily stamped out the Master's boyish fancies 
 with regard to Janet Stewart ; but then, on the other hand 
 (when the danger to the estates of Lynn was warded off), 
 she could afford to cherish those verses to Shena Van with 
 a sneaking fondness. Nay, more than that, she paid them 
 the compliment of imitation — unknown to her husband and 
 everybody else ; and it may be worth while to print this, 
 her sole and only literary eff'ort, if only to show that, just 
 as seamstresses imagine the highest social circles to be the 
 realm of true romance, and like to be told of the woes and 
 joys of high-born ladies, so tliis pretty Mrs. Graham, being 
 the only daughter of a nobleman, when casting about for a 
 properly sentimental situation, must needs get right down 
 to the bottom of the social ladder, and think it fine to speak 
 of herself as a sailor's lass. One small touch of reality re- 
 mained — the hero she named Jim. But here are the versec 
 to speak for themselves : 
 
 " I care not a fig for your brag, you girls 
 
 And dames of high degree, 
 Or for all your silks and satins and pearls, 
 
 As fine as tine may be ; 
 For I'll be as rich as dukes and eai'ls 
 
 When my Jim comes home from sea. 
 
 ** It's in Portsmouth town that I know a lane, 
 
 And a small house jolly and free, 
 That's sheltered well from the wind and the rain, 
 And as snug as snug can be ; 
 And it's there that we'll be sitting again 
 When my Jim comes home from sea. 
 
 ** Twas a fine brave sight when the yards were 
 manned, 
 Though my eyes could scarcely see ; 
 It's a long, long sail to the Rio Grand,* 
 And a long, long waiting for me ; 
 But I'll envy not any one in the land 
 When my Jim comes home from sea. 
 
S50 YOLANDE. 
 
 " So here's to your health, you high -bom girls 
 And ladies of great degree, 
 And I hope you'll all be married to earls 
 
 As proud as proud may be ; 
 But I wouldn't give fourpence for all your pearls 
 When my Jim comes home from sea.'* 
 
 Of course she carefully concealed these verses — especially 
 from her husband, who would have led her a sad life if ho 
 had found them and discovered the authorskip ; and they 
 never attained to the ditrnity of type in the Inverness Cour- 
 ier., wliere the lines to Shena Van had appeared ; but all the 
 same, pretty Mrs. Graham regarded them with a certain 
 pleasure, and rather approved of the independence of the 
 r*ortsraouth young lady, although she had a vague impres- 
 sion that she might not be quite the proper sort of guest to 
 ask to Inverstory. 
 
 Now he ranger and dismay over the possible breaking 
 down of the scheme which she had so carefully formed and 
 tended were due to various causes, and did not simply arise 
 from a wish that the Master of Lynn should marry a rich 
 wife. It was her project, for one thing, and she had a cer- 
 tain sentimental fondness in regarding it. Had she not 
 wrought for it, too, and striven for it ? Was it for nothing 
 thatslie liad trudged through the dust of the Merhadj bazaars, 
 ind fought with cockroaches in her cabin, and grasped with 
 the Egyptian heat all those sweltering afternoons? She be- 
 gan to consider herself illtreated, and did not know which 
 to complain of the more — her brother's indifference or her 
 father's obstinacy. Then she could get no sort of sympathy 
 from her husband. He only lauglied, and went away to look 
 after his pheasants. Moreover, she knew very well .that 
 tliis present condition of affairs could not last. The Master's 
 illtemper would increase ratlier than abate. Yolande would 
 u;io\v a^.rustomed to his "neglect of her. Perhaps Mr. Winter- 
 ]K)unie would interfere, and finally put an end to that pretty 
 dream she had dreamed about as they went sailing down the 
 Mediterranean. 
 
 Accordingly she determined to make one more effort. 
 If slie should not be able to coax Lord Lynn into a more 
 complaisant frame of mind, at least she should go on to Allt- 
 nam-Ba and make matters as pleasant as possible with Mr. 
 Winterbourne before he left. The former part of her en- 
 deavor, indeed, she speedily found to be hopeless. She had 
 no sooner arrived at the Towers than she sought out her fa- 
 
YOLANDR. 361 
 
 ther and begged him to be less obdurate ; but when, as she was 
 putting forward Corrievreak as her chief argument, she was 
 nret by her father s affixing to Corrievreak, or rather prefix- 
 ing to it, a solitary and emphatic word — a word that was en- 
 tirely out of place, too, as applied to a sanctuary — she knew it 
 was all over. Lord Lynn sometimes used violent language, 
 for he was a hot-tempered man, but not language of that 
 sort; and when she heard him utter that dreadful wish 
 about such a sacred thing as the sanctuary of a deer forest, 
 slie felt it was needless to continue farther. 
 
 " Very well papa," said she, " I have done my best. It 
 is not my affair. Only everything might have been made 
 so pleasant for us all." 
 
 " Yes, and for the Slagpool Radicals," her father said, 
 contemptuously. " I suppose they would land at Foyers 
 with banners, and have picnics in the forest." 
 
 " At all events, you must remember this, papa," said Mrs. 
 Graham, with some sharpness, '' that Archie is a gentleman. 
 lie is pledged to marry Miss Winterbourne, and marry her 
 be will." 
 
 '* Let him, and welcome ! " said this short, stout, thick 
 person with the bushy eyebrows and angry eyes. " He may 
 marry the dairy-maid if he likes. I suppose the young gen- 
 tleman has a right to his own tastes. But I say he shall 
 not bring his low acquaintances about this house while I am 
 alive." 
 
 Mrs. Graham herself had a touch of a family temper, and 
 for a second or two her face turned quite pale with anger, 
 and when she spoke it was in a kind of forced and breath- 
 less way. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean. Who are low acquain- 
 tances? Yolande Winterbourne is my friend. She is tit 
 l.;> marry any one in the land, I care not what his rank is, 
 nud — and I will not have such things said. She is my friend. 
 Low acquaintances ! If it comes to that, it was I who in- 
 troduced Archie to Mr. Winterbourne ; and — and tliis is 
 what I know about them, that if they are not fit to — to be re- 
 ceived at Lynn, then neither am I." 
 
 And with that she walked calmly (but still with her face 
 rather pale) out of the room, and shut the door behind her ; 
 and then went away and sought out her own dressing-room 
 of former days, and locked herself in there and had a good 
 cry. She did feel injured. She was doing her best, and 
 this v;as what she got for it. But she was a courai4eou>< 
 
352 YOLANDE. 
 
 little woman, and presently she had dried her eyes and ar- 
 ranged her dress for going out ; then she rang, and sent a 
 message to the stables to get the dog-cart ready, for that 
 she wanted to drive to Allt-nam-Ba. 
 
 By-and-by she was driving along by the side of the pret- 
 ty loch under the great hills ; and she was comforting her- 
 self with more cheerful reflections. 
 
 " It is no matter," she was saying to herself. " If only 
 Mr. Winterbourne remains in good humor, everything will 
 go right. When Archie is married he will be rich enough 
 to have a home where he pleases. I suppose Jim wouldn't 
 have them always with us ? — though it would be nice to 
 have Yolande in the house, especially in the long winter 
 months. But x\rchie could build a house for himself, and 
 sell it when he no longer wanted it. The country about 
 Loch Eil would please Yolande. I wonder if Archie could 
 get a piece of land anywhere near Fassiefern ? That would 
 be handy for having a yacht, too, and of course they will 
 have a yacht. Or why shouldn't he merely rent a house — 
 one of those up Glen Urquhart, if only the shooting was 
 a little better ? or over Glen Spean way, if Lochaber isn't 
 a little too wild for Yolande ? or perhaps they might get 
 a place in Glengarry, for Yolande is so fond of wandering 
 through woods. No doubt Archie exaggerated that affair 
 about Yolande's mother ; in any case it could easily be ar- 
 ranged ; other families have done so, and everything gone 
 on as usual. Then if they had a town house we might all 
 go to the Caledonian Ball together. Archie looks so well 
 in the kilt, and Yolande might go as Flora Macdonald." 
 
 She drove quickly along the loch-side, but moderated 
 her pace when she reached the rough mountain-road lead- 
 ing up the glen, for she knew she would not mend matters 
 by letting down one of her father's horses. And as she 
 approached Allt-nam-Ba a chill struck her heart — those pre- 
 parations for departure were so ominous. Duncan w^s in 
 front of the body, giving the rifles and guns their last rub 
 with oil before putting them into the case ; boxes of empty 
 Boda-water bottles had been hauled out by the women-folk 
 for the men to screw up ; a cart with its shafts resting on 
 the ground stood outside the coach-house ; and various fig- 
 ures went hurrying this way and that. And no sooner had 
 Mrs. Graham driven up and got down from the dog-cart 
 than her quick eye espied a tall black-bearded man, who, 
 from natural shyness — or perhaps he wan Led to have a look 
 
YGLANDE. 853 
 
 at Duncan's gun-rack — had retreated into the bothy ; and 
 so, instead of going into the liouse, she quickly followed 
 him into the wide, low-roofed apartment, which Bmelled 
 considerably of tobacco smoke. 
 
 " Isn't your name Angus? " said she. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said he, with a very large smile that 
 showed he recognized her. 
 
 " I suppose Sir. Macpherson has«.sent you about the in- 
 ventory ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Have you been over the house yet ? " 
 
 "No, ma'am; I have just come out with the empty cart 
 from, Inverfariguig." 
 
 " Well, then, Angus, you need not go over the house. 
 I don't want the gentlemen bothered. Go back and tell 
 Mr. Macpherson I said so." 
 
 " There was £7 of breakages with the last tenant, ma'- 
 am," said he, very respectfully. 
 
 " Never mind," said she ; and she took out her purse 
 and got hold of a sovereign. " Go back at once ; and if 
 you have to sleep at Whitebridge that will pay the cost; 
 or you may get a lift in the mail cart. My brother is in In- 
 verness, isn't he ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Then you can go to him, and tell him I said there was 
 to be no going over the inventory. This tenant is a friend 
 of mine. You go to my brother when you get to Inverness, 
 and 'he will explain to Mr. Macpherson. Now good-by, 
 Angus ; " and she shook hands with him, as is the custom 
 in that part of the country, and went. 
 
 The arrival a stranger at Allt-nam-Ba was such an un- 
 ual circumstance that when she went up to door of the lodge 
 she found both Mr. Winterbourne and John Shorthands 
 awaiting her, they having seen her drive up the glen; and 
 she explained that she had been leaving a message with 
 one of the men. 
 
 " I heard you were leaving, Mr. Winterbourne," said 
 she, with one of her most charming smiles, when they had 
 got into the drawing room, " and I could not let you go 
 away without coming to say good-by. Both my husband 
 and I, expected to have seen much more of you this au- 
 tumn ; but you can see for yourself what it is in the High- 
 lands — everv household is so wrapped up in its own affairs 
 that there is scarcely any tine for visiting. If Inverstroy 
 
864 YOLANDE. 
 
 had come to Allt-nam-Ba, Inverstroy would have found Allt- 
 nam-Ba away shooting on the hill, and vice versa! and I 
 suppose tliat is why old-fashioned people like my fatlier 
 have almost given up the tradition of visiting. When do 
 you go ? " 
 
 " Well, if we are all packed and ready, I su])pose this 
 afternoon ; then we can pass the night at Foyers, and go on 
 to Inverness in the mot-ning." 
 
 "But if I had known I could have brought some of the 
 ])eople from the Towers to help you. iMy father would 
 liave been delighted." 
 
 " She said it without a blush ; perhaps it was only a 
 slip of the tongue. 
 
 " Do you think Mrs. Bell would suffer any interference ? " 
 said John Shortlands, with a laugh. *' I can tell you, my 
 dear Mrs. Graham, that she rules us with a rod of iron — 
 though we're not supposed to know it." 
 
 "And how is dear Yolande? " said Mrs. Graham. 
 
 " She is very well," Yolande's father said, instantly 
 lowering his eyes, and becoming nervous and fidgety. 
 
 " I heard something of what had called her away to 
 the south — at least I presumed that was the reason," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Graham, forcing herself to attack this danger- 
 ous topic in order to show that, iri her estimation at least 
 nothing too important had occurred. " Of course one sym- 
 pathizes with her. I hope you have had good news from 
 her?" 
 
 " Oh yes," said he hastily. " Oh yes. I had a letter 
 last night. Yolande is very well." 
 
 "Archie," continued Mrs. Graham, thinking enough had 
 been said on that point, " is at Inverness. I declare the 
 way those lawyers fight over trifles is perfectly absurd. 
 And I confess," she added, with a demure smile, " that the 
 owners of deer forests are not much better. Of course they 
 always tell me I don't know, that it is my ignorance ; but 
 to find people quarrelling about the line the march should 
 take — when an acre of the ground wouldn't give grazin 
 for a sheep — seems stupid enough. Well, now, Mr. Win 
 terbourne, may I venture to ask how you found the shoot- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Oh, excellent — excellent,'* said he, brightly, for Jie also 
 was glad to get away from that other topic. " We have 
 not found as many deer coming about as we expected; but 
 
 o 
 
YOLANDE. 865 
 
 otherwise the place has turned out everything that could be 
 wished." 
 
 '' I am glad of that," said she, " for I know Archie had 
 qualms about inducing you to take the shooting. I remem- 
 ber very well, on board ship, he used to think it was a risky 
 thinsz. Supposing the place had not turned out well, then 
 you might have felt that — that — " 
 
 " No, no, my dear Mrs. Graham," said he, with a smile, 
 " caveat emptor. I knew I was taking the place with the 
 usual attending risks ; I should not have blamed your bro- 
 ther if we had had a bad year." 
 
 She was just on the point of asking him whether he 
 liked Alt-nam-Ba well enough to come back again, but she 
 thought it was too dangerous. She had no means of know- 
 ing what he thought of Lord Lynn's marked unneighbor- 
 liness ; and she deemed it more prudent to go on talking of 
 general subjects, in her light and cheerful way, and always 
 on the assumption that two families were on fi-iendly terms, 
 and that Yolande's future home would be in the Highlands. 
 At length she said must be going. 
 
 " I would ask you to stay to lunch," said Mr. Winter- 
 bourne, "but I dare say you know what lunch is likely to be 
 on the day of leaving a shooting-box — " 
 
 " Dear me ! " said she, in tones of vexation. 
 " Why did they not think of that at the Towers ? They 
 might have saved you a great deal of bother that way ; 
 but they have got into an old fashioned groove there." 
 
 " At the same time, my dear Mrs. Graham," said Mr. 
 Winterbourne, with great courtesy, " if you like to take the 
 risk, I dare say Mrs. Bell can find you something ; and we 
 have not often the chance of entertaining any one at AUt- 
 nam-Ba. Will you take pity on us ? Will you sit in Yo- 
 lande's place ? The house has been rather empty since she 
 left." 
 
 " I should like it of all things," said pretty Mrs. Graham, 
 taking off her hat and gloves and putting them on the sofa, 
 *' for I feel that I haven't given you half the messages I 
 wish you to take to dear Yolande, And you must let me 
 have her address, so that Jim can send her a haunch of 
 venison at Christmas." 
 
 " I am afraid that would not he of much use, thank you," 
 said he ; " for I hope by that time, if all goes well, that Yo- 
 lande will be away in the south of Europe." 
 
 ** Archie is going south also," said Mrs. Graham pleaa- 
 
856 YOLANDE. 
 
 antly. " There is little doing here in the winter. After he 
 has made all the arrangements with papa's agents in Inver- 
 ness, then he will be off to the south too. Where is Yo- 
 lande likely to be ? " 
 
 " Well I don't exactly know," said Mr. Winterbourne, 
 with a kind of anxious evasion. "But she will write to 
 you. Oh yes, I will tell her to write to you. She is — slie 
 is much occupied at present — and — and perhaps she has not 
 much time. But Yolande does not forget her friends." 
 
 " She shall not forget me for I won't let her," said Mrs. 
 Graham, blithely. " If she should try, I will come and fer- 
 ret her out, and give her a proper scolding. But I don't 
 think it will be needed." 
 
 The luncheon, frugal as it was, proved to be a very pleas- 
 ant affair, for the two men-folk were glad to have the table 
 brightened by the unusual presence of a lady guest, who was, 
 moreover, very pretty and talkative and cheerful ; while on 
 the other hand, Mrs. Graham, having all her wits about her, 
 very speedily assured herself that Yolande's father was 
 leaving Allt-nam-Ba in no dudgeon whatever ; and also that, 
 although he seemed to consider Yolande as at present set 
 apart for some special duty, and not to be interfered with 
 by any suggestions of future meetings or arrangements, he 
 appeared to take it for granted that ultimately she would 
 live in the Highlands. Mrs. Graham convinced herself that 
 all was well, and she was a skilful flatterer, and could use 
 her eyes ; and altogether this was a very merry and agree- 
 able luncheon party. Before she finally rose to go she had 
 got Yolande's address, and had undertaken to write to her. 
 And then she pleased Mr. Winterbourne very much by 
 asking to see Mrs. Bell ; and she equally pleased Mrs. Bell 
 by some cleverly turned compliments, and by repeating 
 what the gentlemen had said about their obligations to her. 
 In good truth Mrs. Bell needed some such comfort. She 
 was sadly broken down. When Mrs. Grahaoi asked her 
 about Mr. Melville, tears rose unbidden to the old dame's 
 eyes, and she had furtively to wipe them away with her 
 hand^ierchief while pretending to look out of the window. 
 
 " He has written two or three times to the young lad 
 Dalrymple," said she, with just one suppressed sob; " and 
 all about they brats o' bairns, as if he wasna in mair con- 
 sideration in people's minds than a wheen useless lads and 
 lassies. And only a message or two to me, about this 
 family or the other family — the deil take them, that h© 
 
YOLANDE. 357 
 
 should bother his head about their crofts and their cows 
 and their seed-corn ! And just as he might be having his 
 ain back again — ^to gang awa' like that, without a word o* 
 .an address. I jalouse it's America — ay, I'm thinking it's 
 America, for there they have the electric things he was aye 
 speaking o' ; and he was a curious man, that wanted to ken 
 everything. I wonder what the Almichty was about when 
 He put it into people's heads to get fire out o' running 
 water ! They miglit hae been content as they were ; and 
 Mr. Melville would hae been better occupit in planting his 
 ain hill-sides — as a' the lairds are doing nowadays — than in 
 running frae ae American town to anither wi' his boxes o* 
 steel springs and things." 
 
 " But he is sure to write to you, Mrs. Bell," said Mrs. 
 Graham. 
 
 " I just canna bear to think o't," said the older W6<nan, 
 in a kind of despair. " I hope he didna leave because he 
 thought I would be an encumbrance on him. I hae mair 
 sense than that. But he's a proud man, though I shouldna 
 say it — Ay, and the poor lad without a home — and with- 
 out the land that belongs to him — " 
 
 The good old lady found this topic too much for her, 
 and she was retiring wnth an old-fashioned courtesy, when 
 Mrs. Graham shook hands with her in the most friendly 
 manner; and assured her that if any tidings of Mr. Melville 
 came to Inverstroy (as was almost certain), she would 
 write at once. 
 
 CHAPTER XLin. 
 
 LOOSENED CHAIN'S. 
 
 " Tom have done well — t/ou will succeed." Tolande read 
 and again read that brief note ; pondering over it in secret, 
 and always with an increasing joy. He had seen ; he had 
 approved. And now, when she was walking about the 
 streets of Worthing with her mother, she found a strange 
 interest in guessing as to which of those houses he had lived 
 in while, as she assured herself, he was keeping that invisible 
 guard over her. Was it this one, or that ; or perhaps tho 
 
858 YOLANDE. 
 
 hotel at the corner? Had he been standing at the window 
 there, and regarding her as she passed unconscious ? Had he 
 seen her drive by in the little pony-carriage ? Had he watched 
 her go along the ]^ier, himself standing somewhere out 
 of the way ? Slie had no longer any doubt that it was he who 
 had gone to the office of Lawrence Lang on the morning of 
 her arrival in London ; she was certain he must have been 
 close by when she went to fetch her mother on that fateful 
 evening. 
 
 And indeed, as time went on, it became more and more 
 certain that that forgetfulness to which she had looked for- 
 ward was still far from her ; and now she began to regard 
 with a kind of dismay the prospect of the Master of Lynn 
 coming to claim her. She knew it was her duty to become 
 his wife — that had been arranged and approved by her fa- 
 ther ; she had herself pledged away her future ; and she had 
 no right of appeal. She reminded herself of these facts a 
 hundred times, and argued with herself; slie strove to 
 banish those imaginings about one who ought henceforth to 
 be as one dead to her; and strove also to prove to herself 
 that if she did what was right, unhappiness could not be 
 the result ; but all the time there was growing up in her 
 heart a fear — nay, almost a conviction — that tliis marriage 
 was not possible. She turned away her eyes and would 
 not regard it; but tliis conviction pressed itself in .on her 
 whether she would or no. And then she would engage 
 herself with a desperate assiduity in the trivial details of 
 their daily life there, and try to gain foi-getfulness that 
 way. 
 
 This was the letter she wrote to the Master of Lynn, in 
 reply to his. It cost her some trouble, and also here and 
 there some qualm of self-reproach ; for she could not but 
 know that she was not telling the whole truth ; 
 
 '• WoKTHiNG, Wednesday afternoon, 
 " Dear Archie, — I am exceedingly grieved to hear of 
 your trouble with your family, and also to think that I am 
 the cause of it. It seems so great a pity, and all the more 
 that, in the present circumstances, it is so unnecessary. You 
 will understand from my papa's letter that the duty I have 
 undertaken is surely before any other ; and that one's per- 
 sonal wishes must be put aside, when it is a question of what 
 a daughter owes to her mother. And to think there should 
 be trouble and dissension now over what must in any oast 
 
YOLANDE. S50 
 
 be 80 remote — that seems a very painful and unnecessary- 
 thing ; and surely, dear Archie, you can can do something 
 to restore yourself to your ordinary position with regard to 
 your family. Do you think it is pleasant to me to think 
 that I am the cause of a quarrel? And to think also that 
 tliis quarrel might be continued in the future ? But the fu- 
 ture is so uncertain now in these new circumstances that I 
 would pray you not to think of it, but to leave it aside, and 
 become good friends with your family. And how, you 
 may ask ? Well, I would consider our engagement at an 
 end for the present ; let it be as nothing ; you will go back 
 to Lynn ; I am here, in the position that I can not go 
 from ; let the future have what it may in store, it will be 
 time to consider afterwards. Pray believe me, dear Ai'chie, 
 it is not in anger that I write, or any resentment ; for I un- 
 derstand well that my papa's politics are not agreeable to 
 every one ; and 1 have heard of differences in families on 
 smaller matters than that. And I pray you to believe tliat 
 neither my father nor myself was sensible of any discourtesy 
 — no, surely every one has the right to choose his friends as 
 he pleases ; nor could one expect one's neighbors to alter 
 their habits of living, perhaps, and be at the trouble of en- 
 tertaining strangers. No, there is neither resentment nor 
 anger in my mind ; but only a wish that you should be re- 
 conciled to your friends ; and this is an easy way. It would 
 leave you and me free for the time thatmiglit be necesary; 
 you can go back to Lynn, where your proper place is ; and 
 I can give myself up to my mother, without other thoughts. 
 Will you ask Mrs. Graham if that is not the wisest plan ? — 
 I am sure she must be distressed at the thought of your be- 
 ing estranged from your relatives; and I know she will 
 think it a pity to have so much trouble about what must in 
 any case be so distant. For, to tell you the truth, dear 
 Archie, I can not leave to any one else what I have now un- 
 dertaken ; and it may be years of attention and service that 
 are wanted ; and why should you wait and wait, and always 
 with the constraint of a family quarrel around you ? For 
 myself, I already look at my position that way. I have 
 put aside my engagement ring. I have given myself over 
 to the one who has most claims on me ; and I am proud to 
 think that I may have been of a little service already. Will 
 you consent, dear Archie? Then we shall both be free ; and 
 the future must be left to itself. 
 
 " It was so very kind of you to look after the sending 
 
860 YOLANDE, 
 
 away of the dogs and ponies from AUt-nara-Ba I my papa 
 has written to me from Dalescroft about it ; and was very 
 grateful to you. No, I will not tell him anything of what 
 is in your letter ; for it is not necessary it should be known 
 — especially as I hope you will at once take steps for a re- 
 conciliation and think no more of it. And it was very good 
 of your sister to go out and pay them a visit at Allt-nara-Ba. 
 I have had a letter from her also — as kind as she always is 
 — asking me to go to Inverstroy at Christmas ; but you will 
 understand from what I have said that this is impossible, 
 nor can I make any engagement with any one now, nor 
 have I any desire to do so. I am satisfied to be as I am — 
 also, I rejoice to think that I have the opportunity ; I wish 
 for nothing more except to hear that you have agreed to 
 my suggestion and gone back to Lynn. As for my mother 
 and myself, we shall perhaps go to the south of France 
 wlien she is a little stronger ; but at present she is too weak 
 to travel ; and happily we find ourselves very well content 
 with this place, now that we are familiar with it, and have 
 found out different ways of passing the time. It is not so 
 wild and beautiful as Allt-nam-Ba, but it is a cheerful place 
 for an invalid : we have a pretty balcony, from which we 
 can look at the people on the -promenade, and the sea, and 
 the ships ; and we have a pony-carriage for the country 
 roads, and have driven almost everywhere in the neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 " So now I will say good-by, dear Archie ; and 1 hope 
 you will consider my proposal ; and see that it is wise. 
 What may occur in the future, who can tell? — but in the 
 meantime let us do what is best for those around us ; and 
 I think this is the right way. I should feel far happier if I 
 knew that you were not wondering when this service that 
 I owe to my mother were to end ; and also I should feel far 
 happier to know that I was no longer the cause of disagree- 
 ment and unhappiness in your family. Give my love to 
 your sister when you see her ; and if you hear anything 
 about the Gress people, I should be glad to hear some news 
 about them also. 
 
 ** Believe me, yours affectionately, 
 
 " YOLAKDB." 
 
 She looked at this letter for a long time before putting 
 it into an envelope and addressing it ; and when she posted 
 it, it was with a guilty conscience. So far as it went, Bh« 
 
YOLANDE. 861 
 
 had told the truth. This duty she owed to her mother was 
 paramount ; and she knew not for how long it might be de- 
 manded of her. And no doubt she would feel freer and 
 more content in her mind if her engagement were broken 
 off — if she had no longer to fear that he might be becoming 
 impatient over the renewed waiting and waiting. But that 
 was only part of the truth. She could not blind herself to 
 the fact that this letter was very little more than a skillful 
 piece of prevarication ; and this consciousness haunted her, 
 and troubled her, and shamed her. Sliegrew uneasy. Her 
 mother noticed that the girl seemed anxious and distraught, 
 and questioned her ; but Yolande answered evasively. She 
 did not think it worth while to burden her mother's mind 
 with her private disquietudes. 
 
 No, she had not been true to herself ; and she knew it ; 
 and the knowledge brought shame to her cheeks when she 
 was alone. With a conscience ill at eas.', the cheerfulness 
 with which she set about l)er ordinary task of keeping her 
 mother employed and amused was just a little bit forced ; 
 and despite herself she fell into continual reveries — think- 
 ing of the arrival of the letter, of his opening it, of his pos- 
 sible conjectures about it. Then, besides these sraitings of 
 conscience, there was another thing : would he consider 
 the reason she had advanced for breaking off the engage- 
 ment as sufficient? Would he not declare himself willing to 
 wait? The tone of his letter had been firm enough. He 
 was unmoved by this opposition on the part of his own 
 people ; it was not to gain any release that he had written 
 to her. And now might he not still adhere to his resolution 
 — refusing to make up the quarrel ; resolved to wait Yo- 
 lande's, good pleasure ; and so, in effect, requiring of her 
 the fulfilment of her plighted troth ? 
 
 It would be difficult to say which was the stronger mo- 
 tive — the shamed consciousness that she had not spoken 
 honestly, or the ever-increasing fear that, after all, she 
 might not be able to free herself from this impossible bond ; 
 but at all events she determined to supplement that letter 
 with a franker one. Indeed, she stole out that same even- 
 ing, under some pretence or other, and went to the post- 
 office and sent off this telegram to him : 
 
 " Letter posted to you this afternoon : do not answer it 
 until you get the following." Then she went back to the 
 rooms quickly, her heart somewhat lighter, though, indeed, 
 aU during dinner she was puzzling to decide what she 
 
862 YOLANDE. 
 
 should say, and how to make her confession not too humv 
 liating. She did not wish him to think too badly of her. 
 Was it not possible for them to part friends ? Or would he 
 be angry, and call her *'jilt," "light o' love," and so 
 forth, as she had called herself? Indeed, she had re- 
 proached herself enough; anything that he could say would 
 be nothing new to her. Only she hoped — for she had had 
 a gentle kind of regard for him, and he had been mixed up 
 in her imaginings of the future, and they had spent happy 
 days and evenings together, on l>oard ship or in the small 
 lodge between the streams — that they might part friends, 
 without angry words. 
 
 "Yolande there is something troubling you," her 
 mother said, as they sat at table. 
 
 She had been watching the girl in her sad, tender way. 
 As soon as she had spoken Yolande instantly pulled herself 
 together. 
 
 "Why, yes, there is indeed !" she said. "Shall I tell 
 you what it is mother? I have been thinking that soon we 
 shall be as tired of pheasants as we were of grouse and hares. 
 Papa sends us far too many; or rather it is Mr. Shortlands 
 now ; and I don't know what to do with them — unless 
 somebody in the town would exchange them. Is it possi- 
 ble ? Would not that be an occupation, now — to sit in a 
 poulterer's shop and say, ' I will give you three brace of 
 pheasants for so many of this and so many of that? ' " 
 
 " You wrote a long letter this afternoon," the mother 
 said, absently. " Was it to Mr. Shortlands ? " 
 
 " Oh no," Yolande said, with a trifle of color in her 
 face. " It was to the Master of Lynn. I have often told 
 you about him, mother. And one thing I quite forgot. I 
 forgot to ask him to inquire of Mrs. Bell where the ballad 
 of ' Young Randal' is to be found — you remember I told 
 you the story ? No, there is nothing of it in the stupid 
 book I got yesterday — no, nor any story like it, except, pei- 
 haps, one where a Lord Lovat of former times comes home 
 from Palestine and asks for May Maisrey. 
 
 * And bonnier than them a' 
 May Maisrey, where is she V * 
 
 It 18 a pretty name, is it not mother ? But I think I must 
 write to Mrs. Bell to send me the words of * Young 
 Randal,* if it is not to be found in a book." 
 
YOLANDE, ^m 
 
 " I wish you wonld go away to your friends now, Yo- 
 Jande," the mother said, regarding her in that sad and affec- 
 tioiiHte way. 
 
 " That is so very likely ! " she answered, with much 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 " You ought to go, Yolande. Why should you remain 
 here ? Why should you be shut up here — away from all 
 your friends? You have done what you came for — I feel 
 that now — you need not fear to leave me alone now — to 
 leave me in these same lodgings. 1 can stay here very 
 well, and amuse myself with books and with looking at the 
 people passing. I should not be dull. I like the rooms. 
 I should find amusement enough." 
 
 " And where am I to go, then ? " the girl said, calmly. 
 
 '' To your friends — to all those people you have told me 
 about. That is the proper kind of life for you, at your age 
 — not shut up in lodgings. The lady in the Highlands, for 
 example, Avho wants you to spend Christmas there." 
 
 " Weil, now, dear mother," said Yolande, promptly, " I 
 will not show you another one of my letters if you take the 
 nonsense in them as if it were serious. Christmas, indeed ! 
 Why, do you know where we shall be at Christmas ? 
 Well, then, at Monte Carlo ? No, mother, you need not 
 look forward to the tables ; I will not permit any such 
 wickedness, though I have staked more than once — or, 
 rather, papa staked for me — five-franc pieces, and always 
 I won — for as soon as I had won five francs I came away 
 to make sure. But we shall not go to the tables ; 
 there is enough without that. There are beautiful drives ; 
 and you can walk through the gardens and down the ter 
 races until you get a boat to go out on the blue wat^r. 
 Then, the other side you take a carriage and drive u]) to 
 the little town, and by the sea there are more beautiful 
 gardens. And at Monte Carlo I know an excellent hotel, 
 with tine views ; and always there is excellent music. And 
 — and you think 1 am going to spend Christmas in a High- 
 land glen I Grazie alia honta sua I " 
 
 " It is too much of a sacrifice. You must leave me to 
 myself — I can do very well by myself now," the mother 
 said, looking at the girl with wistful eyes. '' I should be 
 ha])py enougli only to hear of you. I should like to hear 
 of your being married, Yolande." 
 
 " I am not likely to be married to any one," said she, 
 with averted eyes and burning forehead. "Do not speak 
 
364 YOLANDE, 
 
 of it, mother. My place is by you ; and here I remain — ^un- 
 til you turn me away." 
 
 That same night she wrote the letter which was to sup- 
 plement the former one and free her conscience : 
 
 " Dear Archie, — In the letter I sent you this afternoon 
 I was not quite frank with you ; and I can not rest until I 
 tell you so. There are other reasons besides those I men- 
 tioned why I think our engagement should be broken oi¥ 
 now ; and also, for I wish to be quite honest, and to throw 
 myself on your generosity and forbearance, why I think 
 that we ought not to look forward to the marriage that was 
 thought of. Perhaps you will ask me what these reasons 
 are — and you have the right ; and in that case I will tell 
 you. But perhaps you will be kind, and not ask ; and I 
 should never forget your kindness. When I promised to 
 marry you, I thought that the friendliness and affection that 
 prevailed between us was enough ; I did not imagine any 
 thing else ; you must think of how I was brought up, witli 
 scarcely any women friends except the ladies at the chateau, 
 who were very severe as to the duty of children to their 
 parents, and w^hen I learned that my papa approved my 
 marrying you, it was sufficient for me. But now I think 
 not. I do not think I should bring you happiness. There 
 ought to be no regret on the marriage-day — no thoughts 
 of going away elsewhere. You have the right to be angry 
 with me, because I have been careless, and allowed myself 
 to become affectionate to some one else without my know- 
 ing it ; but it w^as not wath intention ; and now that I know% 
 should 1 be doing right in allowing our engagement to con- 
 tinue ? Yes, you have the right to upbraid me ; but you 
 can not think worse of me than I think of myself ; and per- 
 haps it is well that the mistake was soon found out, before 
 harm was done. As for me, my path is clear. All that I 
 said in the other letter as to the immediate future, and I 
 hope the distant future also, is true ; you have only to look 
 at this other explanation to know^ exactly how I am situ- 
 ated. I welcome my position and its duties — they drive away 
 sometimes sad thinking and regret over what has happened. 
 You were ahvays very kind and considerate tome; you 
 deserved that I kept my faith to you more strictly; and if I 
 were to see your sister, what should I say ? Only that I am 
 sorry that I can make no more amends ; and to beg for 
 your forgiveness and for hers. And perhaps it is better ai 
 
YOLANDE. S(J5 
 
 it is for all of us. My way is clear. I must be with ray 
 mother. Perhaps, some day, if our engagement had con- 
 tinued, I might have been tempted to repine. I hope not ; 
 but I have no longer such faith in myself. But now you 
 are free from the impatience of waiting; and I — I go ray 
 own way, and am all the more certain to give all my devo- 
 tion where it is needed. 1 would pray you not to think 
 too harshly of me, only I know that I have not the right to 
 ask ; and I should like to p^rt friends with you, if only for 
 the sake of the memories that one treasures. My letter is 
 ill-expressed — that I am sure it must be ; but perhaps you 
 will guess at anytliing I should have said and have not said ; 
 and believe that I could stretch out my hands to you to beg 
 for your forgiveness, and for gentle thoughts of me in the 
 future, after some years have given us time to look back. I 
 do not think little of any kindness that has been shown to 
 me ; and I shall remember your kindness to me always ; 
 and also your sister's; and the kindness of every one, as it 
 seemed to me, whom I met in the Highlands. I have made 
 this cc^ifession to you without consulting any one ; for it is 
 a matter only between you and me ; and I do not know how 
 you. will receive it; only that I pray you once more for 
 your forgiveness, and not to think too harshly, but, if you 
 have such gentleness and commiseration, to let us remain 
 friends, and to think of each other in the future as not alto- 
 gether strangers. I know it is much that I ask, and that 
 you have the right to refuse ; but I shall look for your 
 letter with the rememberance of your kindness in the 
 past. 
 
 TOLANDE." 
 
 ll was a piteous kind of letter ; for she felt very solitary 
 and unguidcd in this crisis ; moreover, it was rather hard 
 to fight through this thing, and preserve at the same time 
 an appearance of absolute cheerfulness, so long as her mo- 
 ther was in the room. But she got it done ; and Jane was 
 sent out to the post-office ; and thereafter Yolande — with 
 something of trial and trouble in her eyes, perhaps, but 
 otherwise with a brave face — fetched down some volumes 
 from the little book-case, and asked her mother what she 
 wanted to have read. 
 
i€6 YOLANDE. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE HOUR OF VENGEANCE. 
 
 The Master of Lynn had spent the whole of the morning 
 in arranging affairs with his father's agent ; and when he 
 left Mr. Ronald Macpherson's office he knew that he had 
 now all tlie world to choose from. He was anxious to get 
 away from this dawdling life in Inverness ; but, on the 
 other liand, he was not going back to Lynn. He still felt an- 
 gry and indignant; he considered he had been badly used ; and 
 it is far from improbable that if, at this moment, Yolande 
 had been differently situated, and if Mr. Winterbourne had 
 been likely to give his consent, he, the Master, would now 
 have proposed an immediate mai-riage, leaving his father and 
 aunt to do or think as they pleased. But, in the present 
 circumstances, that was impossible ; and he did n15t know 
 well which way to turn ; and had generally got himself into 
 an unsettled, impatient, irritable condition, which boded no 
 good either for himself or for them who had thwarted him. 
 
 He returned to the Station Hotel, and was having lunch 
 by himself in the large and almost empty dining-room, when 
 two letters were brought him which liad doubtless arrived 
 by that morning's mail. As he was thinking of many things, 
 it did not occur to him to look at both addresses and decide 
 which letter should have precedence ; he mechanically 
 opened and read the first that came to hand : 
 
 St. James's Club, Piccadilly, October 31. 
 
 " Dear Leslie, — Ai« you game for a cruise ? I will go 
 where you like ; and start any day you like. 1 have never 
 taken the Juliet across the Atlantic — what do you say ? 
 The worst of it is, there ain't much to see when you get 
 there ; but we should have some fun going over and coming 
 back. Drop me a line. She is at Plymouth, and could be 
 got ready in a week. 
 
 " Yours ever, Dartown." 
 
 " llTow, to have a three-hundred-ton steam-yacht put at 
 your disposal is an agreeable kind of thing ; but there were 
 
YO LANDS. 867 
 
 Other circumstances in this case. Lord Dartown was a 
 young Irish peer who had inherited an ilhistrious name, 
 large estates (fortunately for him, some of them were in 
 England), and a sufficiency of good looks ; but who, on the 
 other hand, seemed determined to bid a speedy farewell to 
 all of these by means of incessant drinking. His friends 
 regarded him with much interest, for he was doing it on dry 
 champagne ; and as that is a most unusual circumstance — • 
 champagne being somewhat too much of child's play for 
 the serious drinker — they looked on and wondered how long 
 it would last, and repeated incredible stories as to the 
 number of bottles this youth could consume from the mo- 
 ment of his awaking in his berth until his falling asleep in 
 the same. The Jxiliet was an exceedingly well-appointed 
 vessel ; the cook had a reputation that a poet might envy ; 
 but the habits of the owner were peculiar, and most fre- 
 quently he had to make his cruises alone. But he had al- 
 ways had a great respect for the Master of Lynn, who was 
 his senior by a year or two, when they were school-fellows 
 together ; and sometimes in later years a kind of involun- 
 tary admiration for the firm nerve and hardened frame of 
 his deer-stalking friend would lead to a temporary fit of re- 
 formation, and he would even take to practising with dumb- 
 bells, which his trembling muscles could scarcely hold out 
 at afm^s-length. 
 
 " Owley must be off his head altogether this time," 
 the Master of Lynn coolly said to himself, as he regarded 
 the shaky handwriting of the letter. '' To think of facing 
 the "rolling forties ' at this time of year ! We should die 
 of cold besides. Not good enough, Owley : you must 
 throw a fly over somebody else." 
 
 So he put that letter aside, and took up the other. It 
 was the second one of the two that Yolande had sent him ; 
 he had got its predecessor on the previous day. And now, 
 as he read this final declaration and confession, it was with 
 an ever-increasing surprise ; but it certainly was with no 
 sense of dismay or disappointment, or even the resentment 
 of wounded vanity. He did not even, at this moment heed 
 the piteous appeal for charity and kindliness ; it was not of 
 her he was thinking, and scarcely of himself ; it was rather 
 of the people at Lynn, 
 
 " Now I will show them what they have done I " he 
 was saying to himself, with a kind of triumph. " They 
 ■hall see what they have done, and I hope they will bo sat- 
 
d68 YOLANDE. 
 
 islied. As for me, I am going my own way after this. 1 
 have had enongh of it. Polly may scheme as she likes * 
 aud they may rage, or refuse, or go to the deuce, if they like ; 
 I am going to look after myself now." 
 
 He picked up the other letter, and took both with him 
 into the writing-room ; he had forgotten that he had left 
 his lunch but half finished. And there he read Yolande's 
 appeal to him with more care ; and he was touched by tlie 
 penitence and the simplicity, and the eager wish for friend- 
 liness in it ; and he determined, as he sat down at the 
 writing-table, that, as far as he had command of the English 
 language, she should have safe assurance that they were to 
 ])art on kindly terms. Indeed, as it turned out, this was 
 the most affectionate letter lie had ever sent her ; and it 
 might have been said of him, with regard to this engage- 
 ment, that nothing in it so well became him as his manner 
 of leaving it : 
 
 " My Dearest Yolande," lie wrote, — " I am inexpres- 
 sibly grieved tliat you should have given yourself the pain 
 to write such a letter ; and you might have known that 
 whenever you wished our engagement to cease I should con- 
 sider you had the right to say so, and so far from accusing 
 you or doing anything in the tragedy line, I should beg to 
 be allowed to remain always your friend. And it won't 
 take any length of time for me to be on quite friendly terms 
 with you — if you will let me ; for I am so now ; and if I 
 saw you to-morrow I should be glad of your companionship 
 for as long as you chose to give it me ; and I don't at all 
 think it impossible that we may have many another stroll 
 along the streets of Inverness, when you come back to the 
 Highlands, as you are sure to do. Of course 1 am quite 
 sensible of what I have lost — you can't expect me to be 
 otherwise ; and I dare say if all the circumstances had been 
 propitious, and if we had married, we should have got on 
 very well together — for when Polly attributes everthing 
 that happens to my temper, that is merely because she is 
 in the wrong, and can't find any other excuse ; whereas, if 
 you and I had got married, I fancy we should have agreed 
 very well, so long as no one interfered. But, to tell you 
 the honest truth, my dear Yolande, I never did think you 
 were very anxious about it ; you seemed to regard our 
 engagement as a very light matter — or as something that 
 would please everybody all round ; aud though I trusted 
 

 TOLANDE)^ y> . 02^ ,^mU 
 
 thnt the futnre would right all that — I Incah'that we Sliouid 
 become more intimate and affectionate — still, there would 
 have been a risk ; and it is only common-sense to regard 
 these things now as some consolation, and as some reason 
 why, if you say, " Let us break off this engagement,*' I 
 should say, " Very well ; but let us continue our friend- 
 ship." 
 
 " But there is a tremendous favor I would beg and en- 
 treat of you, dearest Yolande ; and you always had the 
 most generous disposition — I never knew you to refuse any- 
 body anything (I do believe that was why you got engaged 
 to me — ^because you thought it would please the Grahams 
 and all the rest of us), I do hope that you will consent to 
 keep the people at Lynn in ignorance — they could only 
 know through Polly, and you could keep it back from her — 
 as to who it was, or why it was, that our engagement was 
 broken off. This is not from vanity ; I think you will say I 
 haven't shown much of that sort of distem])er. It is merely 
 that I may have the Avliip-hand of the Lynn people. They 
 have used me badly ; and I mean to take care that they 
 don't serve me so again ; and if they imagine that our en- 
 gagement had been broken off solely, or even partly, through 
 their opposition, that will be a weapon for me in the future. 
 And then the grounds of their opposition — that they or their . 
 friends might have to associate with one professing such 
 opinions as those your father owns ! You may rest assured, 
 dearest Yolande, that I did not put you forward and make 
 any appeal ; and equally I knew you would resent ray 
 making any apology for your father, or allowing that any 
 consideration on their part was demanded. It's no use rea- 
 soning with raving maniacs ; I retired. But I mention this 
 once more as an additional reason why, if our engagement 
 is to be broken off, we should make up our minds to look on 
 the best side of affairs, and to part on the best of terms ; for 
 I must confess more frankly to you now that there would 
 have been some annoyance, and you would naturally have 
 been angry on account of your father, and I should have 
 taken your side, and there would simply have been a series 
 of elegant family so'uabbles. 
 
 " There are one or two other points in your letter that 
 I don't touch on ; except to say that I hope you will write 
 to me agam— and soon ; and that you will write in a very 
 different tone. I hope you will see that many things justi- 
 fy you in so doing ; and I hope I have made this letter as 
 
870 YOLANDE. 
 
 plain as can be. I have kept back nothing ; so you needn't 
 be reading between the lines. If you have no time to write 
 a letter, send nie a few words to show that you are in a 
 more cheerful mood. If you don't I shouldn't wonder if I 
 broke through all social observances, aud presented myself 
 at your door — to convince you that you have done quite 
 right, and that everytliing is well, and that you have given 
 nie a capital means of having it out with the Lynn people 
 wlien the proper times comes. So please let me have a few 
 lines ; and in the meantime I hope I may be allowed to 
 sign myself. 
 
 " Yours, most affectionately, A. Leslie. 
 
 " P.S. — Do you remember my telling you of the small 
 youth who was my fag — the cheeky young party wlio was 
 always smuggling champagne and pastry ? I may have 
 told you that he is now the owner of a three-hundred-ton 
 yacht? Well, he wants me to go a cruise with him. I had 
 not intended doing so ; but it occurs to me that I might do 
 worse — as all my affairs are settled up here ; and so, if you 
 can write to me within the next few days, will you please 
 address me at the Hotel, Jermyn Street?" 
 
 Then he wrote : — 
 
 Inverness, October 31. 
 
 " Dear Owlet, — It isn't a compagnon de voyage you 
 want; it's a straight-waistcoat. You would knock the 
 Juliet all to bits if you took her across now ; and a fine 
 thing to choose winter for a visit to New York, where the 
 weather is cold enough to freeze the ears off a brass 
 monkey. This letter will reach London same time as my- 
 self; so you can look me up at Hotel, Jermyn Street; 
 
 and I'll talk to you like a father about it. My notion is you 
 should send the Juliet to Gib., and we could make our way 
 down through Spain ; or, if that is too tedious for your 
 lordship, send her to Marseilles, and then we could fill up 
 the intervening time in Paris. I have never been to Venice 
 in a yacht ; and don't remember whether you can get near 
 enough to Danieli's to make it handy ; but I suppose, even 
 if you have to lie down by the Giudecca, there would be 
 no difficulty about getting people to a dance on board ? 
 I'll see you through it. 
 
 Yours, A. Lbslib, 
 
 I 
 
YOLANDE. 371 
 
 And then (for now the hour of vengeance had struck) 
 he wrote as follows to his sister : — 
 
 Station Hotel, October Z\* 
 " Dear Polly, — I have to inform you, and I hope you 
 will convey the information to his papaship and to Aunty 
 Tab, that my engagement to Yolande Winterbourne is 
 finally, definitely, and irrevocably broken off. I hope they 
 will be satisfied. I shall be more careful another time to 
 keep the affair in my own hands. 
 
 " I am off for a cruise with Dartown, in the Juliet. 
 Guess there'll be about as much fluid inside as outside that 
 noble craft. 
 
 " Your affectionate brother, Aechie. 
 
 And then, having folded up and addressed his letters, 
 he arose and went outside and lit a cigar. He thought he 
 would have a stroll away through the town and out by the 
 harbor, just to think over this that had occurred, and 
 what was likely to occur in the future. It happened to be 
 a very bright and cheerful afternoon ; and he walked quickly, 
 with a sort of glad consciousness that he was now master of 
 his own destiny, and meant to remain so; and when he 
 came in sight of the ruffled and windy blue sea, that had 
 suggestions of voyaging and the seeing of strange places that 
 wer€ pleasant enough. Then his cigar drew well ; and that, 
 although it may be unconsciously, tells on a man's mood. 
 Pie began to be rather grateful to Yolande. He hoped she 
 would quite understand his letter ; and answer it in the old 
 familiar, affectionate way, just as if nothing had occurred. 
 It distressed him to think she should be in such grief — in 
 such penitence. But he knew he should get some cheerful 
 lines from her ; and that, and all, was well. 
 
 By-and-by, however, a very uncomfortable suspicion got 
 liold of him. He had had no very large experience of women 
 and their ways ; and he began to ask liimself whether the 
 ready acquiescence he had yielded to Yolande's prayer 
 would please her overmuch. It certainly was not flattering 
 to her vanity. For one thing, he could not wholly explain 
 his position to her. He could not tell her that he had vir- 
 tually said to his father, " Plere is a way of getting back 
 Ck)rrievreak ; and getting the whole estate into proper 
 condition. You refuse ? Very well ; you mayn't get 
 another chance, remem])er." He could not fully explain t« 
 
872 YOLANDE. 
 
 her why her proposal, instead of brmging him disappointr 
 ment, was rather welcome, as offering him a means of ven- 
 geance for the annoyance he had been subjected to. She 
 knew nothing of Shena Van. She knew nothing of the pro- 
 posal to complete the Lynn deer forest. So he began to 
 think that his letter, breaking off the engagement so very 
 willingly, might not wholly please her; and as he was well 
 disj^osed toward Yolande at that moment, and honestly de- 
 siring that they should part the best of friends, he slowly 
 walked back to the hotel, composing a few more sentences 
 by the way, so that her womanlv pride should not be wound- 
 ed. 
 
 But it was a difficult mattei*. He went upstairs to his 
 room, and packed his things for the journey to London, while 
 thinking over what lie would say to her. And it was very 
 near dinner-time before he had finished this addendum to 
 his previous letter : 
 
 " My dearest Yolande," he wrote, — " I want to say 
 something more to you ; if you get the two letters together, 
 read thirS one second. Perhaps you may think, from what 
 I said in the other, that I did not sufficiently value the pros- 
 pect that was before me at one time, or else I should say 
 something more about losing it. I am afraid you may think 
 1 have given you up too easily and lightly ; but you would 
 make a great mistake if you think I don't know what I have 
 lost. Only I did not want to make it too grave a matter ; 
 your letter was very serious, and I want you to think, that 
 there is no reason why we should not continue on quite 
 friendly and intimate terms. Of course I know what I have 
 lost ; I wasn't so long in your society — on board ship, 
 and in the dahabeeyah, too, and at Allt-nam-Ba — without 
 seeing how generous you were, and sincere and anxious to 
 make every one around you happy; and if it comes to 
 that, and if you will let me say it, a man naturally looks 
 forward with some pride to having always him a wife 
 who can hold her own with everybody in regard to per- 
 sonal appearance, and grace and finish of manner, and ac- 
 complishments. Of course I know what I have lost. I 
 am not blind. I always looked forward to seeing you and 
 Polly together at the ball at the Northern Meeting. But 
 when you say it is impossible, and seem put out about it, 
 naturally I tried to find out reasons for looking at the best 
 side of the matter. It is the wisest way. When you miss 
 a bird it is of no use saying, * Confound it, I have misged ; 
 
YOLANDE, 87S 
 
 It 18 mnch better to say, * Thank goodness I didn't go near 
 It ; it won't go away wounded.' And, quite apart from 
 anything you said in your letter of to-day, there was enough 
 in your letter of yesterday to warrant us both in consenting 
 to break off the engagement, Circumstances woic against 
 it on both sides. Of course I would have gone on — as I 
 wrote to you. A man can't be such a cur as to break his 
 word to his promised wife simply because his relatives are 
 ill-tempered — at least, if, I came across such a gentleman he 
 wouldn't very long be any acquaintance of mine. But there 
 would have been trouble and family squabbles, as I say* if 
 not a complete family separation — which could not be 
 pleasant to a young wife ; and then, on your side, there is 
 this duty to your mother, which was not contemplated 
 when we were engaged ; and so, when we consider every- 
 thing, perhaps it is better as it is. I dare say, if we had 
 married, we should have been as contented as most people ; 
 and I should have been veiy proud of you as my wife, natu- 
 rally ; but it is no use speculating on what might have been. 
 It is very fortunate, when an engagement is broken off, if 
 not a particle of blame attaches to either side : and in that 
 way we should consider ourselves lucky, as giving no handle 
 for any ill-natured gossip. 
 
 " Of course Polly will be cut up about it. She always 
 had an extraordinary affection for you ; and looked forward 
 to your being her sister. Graham will be disappointed too ; 
 yon were always liery highly valued in that quarter. But 
 if you and I are of one mind that the decision we have 
 come to is a wise one, it is our business, and no one else's." 
 
 He stopped and read over again those last sentences. 
 
 " I consider, now," he was saying to himself, " that 
 that is a friendly touch — No blame attaching to either side: 
 that will please her ; she always was very sensitive, and 
 pleased to be thought well of.'* 
 
 " And even," he continued, " if I should get reconciled 
 to my people (about which I am in no hurry), Lynn will 
 seem a lonely place after this autumn ; and I suppose I shall 
 conceive a profound detestation for next year's tenant of 
 AUt-nam-Ba. Probably two or three bachelor fellows will 
 have the Lodge ; and it will be pipes and brandy-and-soda 
 and limited loo in the evening ; they won't know that there 
 was once a fairy living in that glen. But I don't despair 
 of seeing you again in the Highlands, and your father too ; 
 and, as they say the subject of deer forests is to be brought 
 
874 YOLANDE, 
 
 before tlie House, he will now be in a position to talk a 
 little common-sense to them about that subject. Did you 
 see that the chief agitator on this matter has just been 
 caught speaking about the grouse and red-deer of lona? 
 Now 1 will undertake to eat all the red-deer and all the 
 grouse he can find in lona at one meal ; and I'll give him 
 three months for the search." 
 
 He thought this was very cleverly introduced. It was 
 to give her the impression that they could now write to each 
 other indifferently on the subjects of the day — in short, 
 tha^ they were on terms of ordinary and pleasant friend- 
 ship. 
 
 '' But I dare say you will consider me prejudiced — for 
 I have been brought up from ray infancy, almost, with a 
 rifle in my hand ; and so I will end this scrawl, again ask- 
 ing from you a few lines just to show that we are friends 
 as before, and as I hope we shall ever remain. 
 " Yours, most affectionately, 
 
 Abchie Leslie." 
 
 It was a clever letter, he considered. The little touches 
 of flattery ; the business-like references to the topics of the 
 day ; the frank appeals to her old friendship — these would 
 not be in vain. And so he went in to his dinner with a 
 light heart, and the same night went comfortably to sleep 
 in a saloon-carriage bound for London. 
 
YOLANDE. 375 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 A PERILOUS SITUATION. 
 
 The Master of Lynn, however, was not destined to get to 
 London without an adventure — an adventure, moreover, that 
 was very near ending seriously. Most people who have trav- 
 elled in the north will remember that the night train from Inver- 
 ness stops for a considerable time, in the morning, at Perth, 
 before setting out again for the south ; and this break in the 
 journey is welcome enough to passengers who wish to have the 
 stains of travel washed from their hands and faces, to get their 
 breakfast in peace and comfort, and have their choice of the 
 morning newspapers. The Master of Lynn had accomplished 
 these various duties ; and now he was idly walking up and down 
 the stone platforms of the wide-resounding station, smoking a 
 cigarette. He was in a contented frame of mind. There had 
 been too much trouble of late up there in the north ; and lie 
 hated trouble ; and he thought he would find the society of 
 " Owley" very tolerable, for " Owlcy" would leave him alone. 
 He finished his cigarette ; had another look at the book-stall; 
 purchased a two-shilling novel that promised something fine, 
 for there was a picture outside of a horse coming to awful 
 grief at a steeplechase, and its rider going through the air like 
 a cannon-ball ; and then he strolled back to the compartment 
 he had left, vacantly whistling the while "The Hills of Lynn." 
 
 Suddenly he was startled to find a well-known face regarding 
 him. It was Shena Van ; and «he was seated in a corner of a 
 second-class carriage. The moment she saw that he had noticed 
 her she averted her eyes, and pretended not to have seen him ; 
 but he instantly went to the door of the carriage. 
 
 " It isn't possible you are going to London, Miss Stewart T 
 said he, in great surprise. 
 
 " Oh no," said Shena V^n. " I am not going so far as that." 
 
 " How far, then ?" he asked — for he saw that she was embar- 
 rassed, and only wishing to get rid of him, and certainly that she 
 would afford no information that wasn't asked for. 
 
376 YOLANDE. 
 
 " I am going to Carlisle," said she, not looking at him. 
 
 " And alone ?" 
 
 " Oh yes. But my brother's friends will be waiting for m« at 
 the station." 
 
 " Oh, you must let me accompany you, though," said he, 
 quickly. " You won't mind ?" 
 
 He did not give her the chance of refusing ; for he had little 
 enough time in which to fetch his things along from the other 
 carriage. Then he had to call the newsboy, and present to Miss 
 Stewart such an assortment of illustrated papers, comic journals, 
 and magazines as might have served for a voyage to Australia. 
 And then the door was shut, the whistle shrieked, and the long, 
 heavy train moved slowly out of the station. 
 
 "Well, now," said he, "this is lucky ! Who could have ex- 
 pected it? I did not see you at the station last night." 
 
 She had seen him, however, though she did not say so. 
 
 " I did not even know you were in Inverness ; I thought you 
 were at Aberdeen." 
 
 " 1 have been in Aberdeen," said she. "I only went back a 
 day or two ago to get ready for going south." 
 
 " I suppose I mustn't ask you what is taking you to Carlisle ? 
 — and yet we used to be old friends, you know." 
 
 Now Miss Stewart was a little bit annoyed at his thrusting 
 himself on her society, and she was very near answering saucily 
 that it was the train that was taking her south ; but a little 
 touch of feminine vanity saved him from that reproof. Shena 
 Van was rather glad to have the chance of telling him why she 
 was going south. 
 
 " It is no great secret," said she. " I am going to stay with 
 the family of the young lady whom my brother will marry be- 
 fore long. It appears that the professorship will be worth a 
 good deal more than we expected — oh yes, indeed, a good deal 
 more — and there is no reason why he should not marry." 
 
 " Well, that is good news," said the Master, cheerfully. "And 
 what sort of girl is she ? NiceT' 
 
 " She is a very well-accomplished young lady," said Shena 
 Van, with some dignity. "She was two years in Germany at 
 school and two years in France, and she is very well fitted to be 
 a professor's wife, and for the society that comes to my broth- 
 er's house." 
 
 " I hope she's good-looking?" 
 
 " As to that," said Miss Stewart, "I should say she was very 
 pretty indeed ; but that is of no consequence nowadays." 
 
 " Why, what else is!" he exclaimed, boldly. 
 
YOLANDE. 377 
 
 But this was clearly dangerous ground ; and Miss Stewart 
 sought refuge in the pages of Punch. 
 
 He had time to regard her. He had never seen her look so 
 well. She had made ample use of the clear water supplied at 
 Perth station, and her face was as fresh as the morning, while 
 her pretty, soft light brown hair was carefully brushed and 
 tended. As for her eyes — those strangely dark blue eyes that 
 he could remember in former years brimming over with girlish 
 merriment or grown pensive with imaginative dreams — he could 
 not get a fair glimpse of them at all, for when she spoke she 
 kept them averted or turned down ; and at present she devoted 
 them to the study of Punch. He began to regret those exten- 
 sive purchases at the station. He made sure she was at this 
 moment poring over Mr. Du Maurier's drawings — for it is to 
 them that women-folk instinctively turn first ; and he grew to 
 be jealous of Mr. Du Maurier, and to wish, indeed, that Mr. Du 
 Maurier had never been born — a wish, one may be certain, then 
 formulated for the first and only time by any inhabitant of these 
 three countries. Moreover, when she had finished with Punch, 
 she took up this magazine and that magazine, and this journal 
 and that journal, the while answering his repeated attempts at 
 conversation in a very distant and reserved way, and clearly in- 
 timating that she wished to be allowed to prosecute her studies. 
 He hated the sight of those pages. He was ready to devote the 
 whole periodical literature of liis country to the infernal gods. 
 Why, look now on this beautiful, shining morning, how she 
 ought to be admirmg those far-stretching Ochils and the distant 
 Braes of Donne ! Here" were the wooded banks of Allan Water; 
 had these no romantic associations for her, no memories of 
 broken-hearted lovers and sad stories, and the like ? Had she 
 no eye for the wide open strath they were now entering, with 
 the silver winding Links of Forth coming nearer and nearer, and 
 a pale blue smoke rising afar over the high walls and ramparts 
 of Stirling town ? He verily believed that, just to keep away 
 from him, and fix her attention on something, she was capable 
 of reading Parliamentary Debates — the last resort of the vacant 
 mind. 
 
 But once they were away from Stirling agam he determined 
 at all hazards to startle her out of this distressing seclusion. 
 
 " Shena," said he, " do I look illT' 
 
 She glanced up, frightened. 
 
 « No." 
 
 " I ought to look ill — I ought to look unhappy and miserable." 
 said he, cheerfully. " Don't you know that I have been jilted f 
 
378 YOLANDE. 
 
 Well, she did not quite know what to say to that. He looked 
 as if he was joking ; and yet it was not a thing he was likely to 
 mention in joke — and to her. 
 
 " It is quite true, I assure you," said he, seeing that she did 
 not make answer. " You said yoH had heard I was going to be 
 married. Well, it's all broken off." 
 
 " I am very sorry," said Shena Van, as in duty bound ; but 
 she was clearly not very sure as to how to take the news. 
 
 " Oh, please don't waste any pity on me," said he. " I don't 
 feel very miserable. I feel ratber the other way. ' Ah, freedom 
 is a noble thing' — you remember how Barbour used to puzzle 
 you, Shena? Yes, I am free now to follow out my own wishes; 
 and that's what I mean to do." 
 
 "You are going to live in London, perhaps?" said Miss Stew- 
 art, regarding him, but not betraying any keen personal interest. 
 
 " Why, this is the point of it," said he, with greater anima- 
 tion, for at last she had deigned to Jay down the newspaper, 
 "that I don't in the least know where I am going, and don't 
 much care. I have determined to be my own master, since my 
 folk at home appeared disinclined to accept the programme I 
 had sketched out ; absolutely my own master. And now if 
 you, Shena, would tell me something very fine and pleasant for 
 me to do, that would be a kindness." 
 
 " In the mean time," said she, with a slight smile, " I wish 
 you would call me by my right ;iame." 
 
 " Do you think I can forget the days when you were always 
 'Shena' ?" said he, with a sort of appealing glance that her eyes 
 were careful to avoid. " Don't you rerfiember when I brought 
 you the white kitten from Inverness, and how it was always 
 pulling its collar of daisies to pieces ? Don't you remember my 
 getting you the falcon's wings ? Wliy, I had to lie all night 
 among the rocks on Carn-nan-Gael to get at that falcon. And 
 you were always 'Shena' then." I 
 
 " Because I was a child," said Miss Stewart, with a slight liusli 
 on the pretty, fresh-colored face. " When we grow up we put 
 aside childish things." 
 
 " But we can't always forget," said he. 
 
 "Indeed, it seems easy enough to many," she answered, but 
 ■with no apparent sarcasm or intention. " And you have not 
 fixed when you are going, Mr. Leslie ?" she added, with a cer- 
 tain formality. 
 
 " At the present moment, to tell you the truth,'* said he, " I 
 have half made an engagement to go away on a yachting cruise 
 with a young fellow I know. But he is rather an ass. I am 
 
YOLANDE. 379 
 
 not looking forward to it with any great pleasure. Ah ! 1 could 
 imagine another kind of trip," 
 
 She did not ask him what it was. She seemed more inclined 
 to turn over the title-pages of the magazines. 
 
 " I can imagine two young people who are fond of each other 
 being able to go away by themselves on a ramble through Italy 
 — perhaps two young people who had been separated, and meet- 
 ing after a time, and inclined to take their lives into their own 
 hands, and do with them what seemed best — leaving friends 
 and other considerations aside altogether. And they might 
 have old times to talk about as they sat at dinner — by them- 
 selves — in a room at this or that hotel — perhaps overlooking the 
 Rhine, it may be, if they were still in Germany; or perhaps 
 overlooking the Arno, if they were in Florence. Fancy having 
 only the one companion with you, to go through the galleries, 
 and see all the pictures; and to go to the opera with you in the 
 evening — just the one and only companion you would care to 
 have with you. Wouldn't that be a trip?" 
 
 " I dare say," replied Miss Stewart, coldly. " But the two 
 people would have to be pretty much of one mind." 
 
 " I am supposing they arc fond of each other," said he, look- 
 ing at her; but she would not meet his glance. 
 
 " I suppose it sometimes happens," said she, taking up one 
 of the magazines, so that he was forced to seek refuge in a 
 comic journal, greatly against his will. 
 
 By-and-by they were hurling onward through the solitudes 
 where the youthful Clyde draws its waters from the burns that 
 trickle and tumble down the slopes of "Tintock Tap." He 
 thought it was not kind of Shcna V^n to hide herself away like 
 that. Her imagination would not warm to any picture he could 
 draw — though that of their being together in a Florentine gallery 
 seemed to him rather captivating. Perhaps she was offended 
 at his having neglected her for such a long time ? But she was 
 a sensible young woman; she must have understood the reasons. 
 And now had he not intimated to licr that he was no longer 
 inclined to submit to the influence of his friends? But she did 
 not betray any interest or curiosity. 
 
 " I wonder whether -we stop at Beattock Junction?" said he. 
 
 "I am sure I don't know," she answered, civilly. 
 
 " Has it occurred to you, Shena," said he, with a peculiar 
 sort of smile, " that if any one who knew both of us happened 
 to be at one of those stations, they might make a curious sur- 
 mise about us ?" 
 
 " I do not understand you," Miss Stewart observed. 
 
380 YOLANDE. 
 
 " Did you ever hear of Allison's Bank Tollhouse ?" he asked. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "That was where they made the Gretna Green marriages — it 
 is just on this side the Border. I think it is rather a pi-ty the 
 Gretna Green marriages were done away with ; it was an ef- 
 fectual way of telling your friends to mind their own business. 
 ^ There was no trouble about it. But it is just about as easy now, 
 !if you don't mind paying for a special license ; and I do believe 
 it is the best way. Your friends can get reconciled to it after- 
 ward if they like ; if they don't like, they can do the other 
 thing. That was what I was thinking, Shena — if some of our 
 friends were to see us in this carriage, it wouldn't surprise me 
 if they imagined we were on a venture of that kind." 
 
 Shena Van blushed deeply, and was ashamed of her embar- 
 rassment ; and said, with some touch of anger, 
 
 " They could not think of such nonsense !" 
 
 "It's the sensible plan, though, after all," said he, pertinacious 
 ly, and yet appearing to treat the subject as a matter of specula^ 
 tion. Jock o' Hazledean, Young Lochinvar, Ronald Macdonald, 
 and the rest of them, why, they said, ' Oh, hang it, let's have no 
 more bother about your friends ; if you are willing to cliance it, 
 so am I ; let's make a bolt of it, and they can have their howl 
 when they find out.' And it answered well enough, according 
 to all accounts. I rather think there was a row about Bonny 
 Glenlyon; but then the noble sportsman who carried her off 
 carried her off against her will; and that is a mistake. It's 
 * Will ye gang to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay ?' and if you can 
 persuade her, she * kilts up her coats o' green satin,' and you lift 
 her into the saddle ; but if she doesn't see it — if she thinks it isn't 
 good enough — you drop the subject." 
 
 " You seem to have been reading a good many songs," said 
 Shena Van, rather coldly. "But people don't go on in that way 
 in ordinary life." 
 
 " Perhaps it might be better if they did occasionally," said 
 he. "You remember Jack Melville, of course?" 
 
 " Oh, certainly," said she, with some eagerness, for she 
 thought he would now leave that other perilous topic. 
 
 " Well, I remember one night, in my rooms, when we were 
 at Oxford together, he propounded the theory that morality is 
 merely a system of laws devised by the aged and worn-out for 
 keeping young people straight. Of course it was only a joke; 
 but it startled the boys a bit. And although it was only a joke, 
 mind you, there was something in it; I mean, for example, that 
 it doesn't follow, because you're seventy, you know what is best 
 
YOLANDE. 381 
 
 for a person of five-and-twenty. You may know what is most 
 prudent, from the money point of view ; but you don't neces- 
 sarily know what is best. You look with dificrcnt eyes. And 
 there is a great deal too much of that going on nowadays." 
 
 " Of what r she asked, innocently. 
 
 " Oh, of treating life as if everything were a question of 
 money," replied this profound philosopher — who had for the 
 moment forgotten all about Corrievreak in his anxiety to get a 
 peep at Shena Van's unfathomable blue eyes. 
 
 Miss Stewart now returned to one of those inhuman periodi- 
 cals; and he searched his wits in vain for some subject that 
 would draw her thence. Moreover, he began to think that this 
 train was going at a mercilous speed. They smashed through 
 Lockerbie. They had scarcely a glimpse of Ecclefechan. Kirtle- 
 bridge went by like a flash of lightning. And then he recol- 
 lected that very soon they would be at Gretna Green. 
 
 " Shena," said he, eagerly — " Shena, have you been as far 
 south as this before ?" 
 
 " Oh no," she answered. " I have never been farther south 
 than Edinburgh and Glasgow. But Mary Vincent is to be at 
 the station waiting for me." 
 
 ' " I did not mean that. Don't you know that soon you will 
 be at Gretna ? Don't you know you will soon be crossing the 
 Border? Why, you should be interested in that! It is your 
 first entrance into England. Shall I tell you the moment you 
 are in England ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, if you please," said Miss Stewart, condescending to 
 look out and regard the not very picturesque features of the sur- 
 rounding scenery. 
 
 " Well, you be ready to see a lot of things at once, for I 
 don't know v^'hether you actually see Gretna Green church ; but 
 I will show you the little stream that divides the two countries 
 — that was the stream the runaway lovers were so anxious to 
 get over. I am told they have extraordinary stories in Gretna 
 about the adventures of those days — I wonder nobody goes and 
 picks them up. They had some fun in those days. I wish I 
 had lived then. Modern life is too monotonous — don't you 
 think so ?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Shena Van, honestly. 
 
 " I mean I wish I had lived in those days if I had had the 
 chance of running away with somebody that made it worth the 
 risk. Shena," said he, " supposing you had lived at that time, 
 don't you tliink you would rather have had the excitement of 
 that kind of wedding than the ordinary, humdrum sort of affair ?" 
 
382 YOLANDE. 
 
 " I have never thought anything about it," said Miss Stewart 
 with some precision — as if any properly conducted young 
 woman would give a moment's consideration to the manner in 
 wliich she might M'ish to be married ! 
 
 '■' Look ! look !" said he, jumping up, and involuntarily put- 
 ting his hand on her arm. " Look, Shena! The village is over 
 there — here is the river, see ! — it is tbe Sark — and the bridge is 
 down there, to the left of that house — that house is an inn, the 
 last in England on the old coach-road — " 
 
 She took away her arm. . 
 
 " Ah," said he, as he sat down, " many a happy couple were 
 glad to find their great big George the Fourth phaeton clatter* 
 ing over the bridge there — the triumph after all the risk — " 
 
 Then he reflected that in a few minutes' time they would be 
 in Carlisle ; and this made him rather desperate ; for when again 
 should he see Shena Van — and Shena Van alone ? 
 
 "Can you imagine yourself living at that time, Shena; and 
 if I were to ask you to make off for Gretna with me and get 
 married, what would you say?" 
 
 '* You — you have no right to ask me such a question," said 
 Shena Van, rather breathlessly. 
 
 " There would have been no chance of your saying ' yes ' ?" 
 he asked, gently. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," said she, and she was nerv- 
 ously twisting the magazine in her hand. " I — I think you are 
 forgetting. You are forgetting who you are — who I am — and 
 everything that — that once happened — I mean, that nothing 
 happened — for how could it ? And to ask such a question — 
 even in joke — well, I think you have no right to ask me such a 
 question, and the absurdity of it is enough answer." 
 
 " I did not mean it as a joke at all, Shena," said he, quite 
 humbly, and yet trying to catch sight of her eyes. " I asked 
 you if you could imagine other circumstances — other circum- 
 stances in which I might ask you such a question. Of course, 
 I am very sorry if I have offended you — " 
 
 " I think there Ijas been enough said," said Miss Stewart^ 
 quietly, and indeed with a good deal of natural dignity. 
 
 Just before they were going into Carlisle station, she said: 
 
 " I hope, Mr. Leslie, you won't misunderstand me, but — but, 
 of course Miss Vincent and her friends won't know who you 
 are, and I would rather they did not know. There is always 
 silly talk going on; it begins in amusement, and then people 
 repeat it and believe it." 
 
 " I shall be quite a stranger to you ^Yhcn we get into the 
 
YOLANDE. 383 
 
 station," said he. " And in the mean time I will say good-by 
 to you ; and you must tell me that we part good friends, 
 although you do seem to care so little about those by-gone davs, 
 Shcna." 
 
 "Good-by," said she, holding out her hand (but with her 
 eyes cast down). " And perhaps I care for them as much as I 
 ought ; but one acquires a little common-sense as one grows up. 
 I hope you will have a pleasant trip in the yacht, Mr. Leslie." 
 
 At the station he got out first, and assisted her to alight; 
 then he got a porter for her, and raised his hat to her with the 
 air of a perfect stranger, as she disappeared with her friends. 
 Then he had his own things shifted into a first-class smoking 
 compartment, and the journey was resumed. 
 
 It was a lonely journey. There was something wrong. Ho 
 already hated the Juliet^ and looked forward with disgu.st to 
 being tlirown on the society of a brainless young idiot. Nay, 
 this was the matter: why had he not asked Janet Stewart plump 
 and plain? Why had he not asked her to stop at Carstairs 
 Junction, and go back with him to Edinburgh or Glasgow, 
 where he could easily have found friends to take care of her 
 until the special license had been obtained ? Why had he not 
 dared his fate ? Sometimes women were captured by the very 
 suddenness of the proposal. 
 
 " And as for the people at Lynn," he was saying to himself 
 during these perturbed meditations, "why, then they might 
 have had some good occasion to squawk. They might have 
 squawked to some good purpose then. But I missed my chance 
 — if ever there was one, and now it is this accursed yacht and 
 that insufferable young nincompoop !" 
 
 Things did not look altogether serene for the Right Honor- 
 able Lord Dartown of Dartown, County Limerick, and Ashwood 
 Manor, Berks. 
 
 CHAPTER XLYL 
 
 A SPY. 
 
 It is quite impossible to describe the gladness and gratitude 
 with which Yolande read the letter from the Master of Lynn, 
 which not only gave her her freedom, but said good-by in such 
 a friendly fashion. For once a ray of sunlight fell on a life 
 which of late had not been of the brio^htest. 
 
384 YOLANDE. 
 
 " Yolande, what is tlie matter? You have had good news 
 this morning?" said the mother, coming into the room, and 
 noticing the radiant face of the girl. 
 
 ''Yes, indeed, mother — the best I have had for many a day," 
 said she, and she led her mother to the window, and put her in 
 the easy-chair, and patted her shoulder affectionately. " The 
 best news I have had for many a day." 
 
 " What is it ? May I ask ?" 
 
 For an instant Yolande hesitated ; then she laughed, and put 
 the letter in her pocket. 
 
 " No ; it would be too long to explain. But shortly 1 will 
 tell you what it is, mother — why, only that one of the friends 
 I know in the Highlands has been generous and kind to me. 
 Is it a wonderful thing? • Is it new — unexpected?" 
 
 "Ah, you ought to be with them, Yolande: not here, throw- 
 ing away your time on me." 
 
 "Ridiculous! ridiculous!" said she, in her French v/ay, and 
 then with a light step and a bright face she went off to get 
 writing materials. 
 
 " Dear Archie " (she wrote), — " It is so good of you. I do 
 not deserve it. You have made me very happy; and I hope 
 you also will soon be reconciled at home, and everything go 
 well. It is a great pleasure you offer me that we should al- 
 ways continue friends, and I hope it will be so ; I know it will 
 on my side; and one may be in Inverness some day, perhaps? 
 — then I should be pleased to see you again, and also your 
 sister, and Colonel Graham. But that will be a long time, if at 
 all; for my mother, though she is much better, does not get 
 strong as I wish, and naturally I remain with her — perhaps for 
 always. How could I leave her? But if once she were strong 
 enough to travel, then one might perhaps see one's friends, in 
 the Highlands or elsewhere ; and in the mean time it is conso- 
 lation to know that they remain your friends, and think of you 
 occasionally. Dear Archie, you are really too kind to me, and 
 too flattering also; but you can not expect a woman to fight 
 very hard against that, so I am glad you will have as generous 
 an opinion of me as is possible, even if it is exaggerated, and 
 perhaps not quite true. I remember your speaking of year 
 school-fellow very well — is he the most favorable of companions 
 for a yachting voyage? I suppose you are going south, for now 
 the days are becoming cold, and we are thinking of going away 
 to the south also. How strange it would be if my mother and 
 I were to be seated on one of the terraces at Monte Carlo, and 
 
YOLANDE, 385 
 
 you were to come sailing into the harbor below us! You must 
 tell me the name of the yacht ; and when we are at Nice or 
 Cannes, or such places, I will look in the newspapers for the 
 lists, and perhaps hear of you. 
 
 " This is all I can write to you at the moment, but you must 
 believe me that it does not convey to you anything like what I 
 feel. You will excuse me — perhaps you will understand. But 
 I will not forget your kindness. 
 
 " Your grateful Yolande. 
 
 " P.S. — I will do as you wish about not stating any reasons, 
 though I am afraid that is only another part of your con- 
 sideration and generosity in disguise." 
 
 She went to get her hat and cloak. 
 
 *' Taistoi, mon gas, 
 Et ne ris pas, 
 Tout va de mal en pire," 
 
 she was humming to herself, most inappropriately, as she put 
 them on. And then she went back to her mother. 
 
 " Will you get ready, mother ? I have a letter to post. And 
 I want to see if they can get me as much more of that fur as will 
 make a hood for a travelling cloak — ah, you have no idea how 
 comfortable it is if the weather is cold, and you are on a long 
 railway journey." 
 
 " Why, you spoil me, Yolande — you make a petted child of 
 me," the mother protested. 
 
 " Come, get on your things," said she, not heeding. " And 
 perhaps when we are seeking for the fur I might get a winter 
 cloak for Jane. Does she not deserve a little present? She has 
 been very attentive — has she not, do you think ?" 
 
 " When she has had the chance, Yolande," the mother said, 
 with a smile. " But you do everything yourself, child." 
 
 The alteration in the girl's manner after the receipt of that 
 letter was most marked. Gladness dwelt in her eyes, and spoke 
 in her voice. She grew so hopeful, too, about her mother's 
 health that now, when they went out for a morning stroll among 
 the shops, she would buy this or the other small article likely to be 
 of use to them in travelling. That was partly why she presented 
 Jane with that winter cloak; Jane was to be their sole attend- 
 ant. And now all her talk was about orange groves and palms, 
 and marble terraces shaded from the sun, and the summer-blue 
 waters of the south. 
 
 But there was one person who certainly did not regard tlje 
 
386 YOLANDE. 
 
 breaking off of this engagement witli equatiimity. Immediately 
 on receiving the brief note sent from the Station Hotel at Inver- 
 ness, Mrs. Graham, astonished and indignant and angry, posted 
 over straightway to Lynn, and told her tale, and demanded ex- 
 planations. Well, they had no explanations to offer. If it 
 were true, Lord Lynn said, indifferently, it was a very good 
 thing ; but he did not choose to bother his head about it. Then 
 pretty Mrs. Graham had a few words, verging on warmth, with 
 ]ier Aunt Colquhoun ; but she quickly saw that that would not 
 lucnd matters. Thereupon she thought she would appeal to 
 Yolande herself; and she did so — dating the letter from Lynn 
 Towers. 
 
 " My dear Yolande" (she said), — " Is it true ? Or has 
 Archie been making a fool of us? Of course he is off without 
 a word of explanation, and I can not imagine it possible tha/*; his 
 and your engagement should have been so suddenly broken off, 
 and without any apparent cause. Forgive me for interfering, 
 dearest Yolande ; I know it is no concern of mine, except in so 
 far as this goes, that Archie is my brother, and I have a right 
 to know whether he acted as he should have done, and as be- 
 comes the honor of our family. I have a right to know that. 
 At the same time it seems incredible that you and he should have 
 parted — and so suddenly — without any warning; for although 
 there was some disagreement here, as he probably hinted to you, 
 still that could have nothing to do with him and you ultimately, 
 and he distinctly informed me that his position with regard to 
 you was not affected, and would not be affected, by anything 
 happening here. I hope I am not giving you pain in making 
 these inquiries, dear Yolande ; but I think I have a right to know 
 that my brother conducted himself honorably ; for it was through 
 us, you may remember, that he made your acquaintance, and 
 Iboth Jim and I would consider ourselves in a meagre responsi- 
 ble if he has behaved badly. But I dare say it is not so serimis 
 as that. I know he is impatient of worry, and probably he has 
 asked you to — well, I don't know what he could fairly ask; and 
 all I can say is that I hope, if matters are as he says, that he has 
 done nothing to cause us reproach. You may well think that we 
 shall both — I mean Jim and I — be exceedingly grieved if it is 
 true, for we both looked forward to having you as our sister and 
 friend, and you may depend on it that if there had been any 
 temporary disagreement in one quarter, that would have been 
 more than atoned for in the warmth of the welcome you would 
 have got from us. Pray forgive me, dearest Yolande, for beg- 
 
YOLANDE. 387 
 
 ging a line from you at your very earliest convenience ; it is not 
 idle curiosity, and I trust your answer will be that Archie's ex- 
 aggeration only means that for a while he is Jeaving you to the 
 duties that now occupy you, and that in time everything will be 
 as it was. My best love to you, dearest Yolande, from your 
 affectionate friend, Mary Graham. 
 
 <' P.S. — Surely it cannot be true, or your father would have 
 told me on the day of his leaving AUnam-ba? Will you please 
 write to Inverstroy T 
 
 Yolande remembered her promise to the Master of Lynn, and 
 deemed it safest to say as little as possible. So she merely 
 wrote : 
 
 " My dear Mary, — I hasten at once to say that your broth- 
 er's conduct has been always and throughout most honorable, 
 and that in the breaking off of our engagement it has been even 
 more — it has been most manly fmd generous. Pray have no 
 fears on that head. As for the reasons, it is scarcely worth 
 while explaining them, when it is all over and gone now. Do 
 you think you need tell me that you would have given me wel- 
 come in the Highlands? — indeed, I have had experience of that 
 already. I hope still to be your friend, and perhaps some day, 
 in the Highlands or elsewhere, we may be once more together. 
 In the mean time please remember me most kindly to your hus- 
 band, and believe me, yours affectionately, 
 
 " Yolande Winterbourne." 
 
 Yolande now seemed to consider that episode in her life as 
 over and done with, and set herself all the more assiduously to 
 the service of her mother, who, poor woman ! though she could 
 not fail to see the greater cheerfulness and content of the girl, 
 and probably herself derived some favorable influence from that, 
 still remained in a weak and invalidish condition which prevent- 
 ed their migration to the south. However, something now oc- 
 curred which stopped, once and for all, her recurrent entreaties 
 that Yolande should go away to her OAvn friends and leave her 
 by herself. One day, as she was seated in her accustomed easy- 
 chair, looking at the people and the sea and the ships, she sud- 
 denly uttered a slight exclamation, and then quickly rose and 
 withdrew from the window. 
 
 " Yolande dear !" she exclaimed, in a voice of terror — *' Yo- 
 lande !" 
 
 " Yes, mother," the girl answered, looking calmly up from her 
 sew in o;. 
 
388 YOLANDE. 
 
 And then she saw that her mother was strangely agitated, and 
 instantly she rose and caught her by the hand. 
 
 " What is it, mother ?" 
 
 " I have seen that man that you know of — Romford." 
 
 " Well, what of that?" the girl said, quietly. 
 
 *' But he was looking up at the house, Yolande," said she, ob- 
 viously in great alarm. " He must know that we are here. He 
 must have sought us out." 
 
 "Very well, and what of that?" said Yolande. And she 
 added, with a gentle touch of scorn : " Does he wish to be asked 
 to have some tea with us ? I think we are not at home just now." 
 
 *' But you don't understand, child — you don't understand," 
 said the mother, with a kind of shiver. " To see him was to 
 recall everything. I was in a dream, and now it looks hideous 
 to me ; and the thought of his coming here, and wishing to take 
 me back to that life, when I did not care whether each day was 
 to be the last — " 
 
 " My dear mother," said Yolande, " is it of much consequence 
 what the gentleman wishes? It is of more consequence what I 
 wish; and that is that you are to remain with me." 
 
 " Oh yes, with you, Yolande, with you !" she exclaimed, and 
 she eagerly caught both hands of the girl and held them tight. 
 " Always with you — always, always ! I am not going away 
 from you — I dare not go away. I have asked you to go to your 
 friends, and leave mc by myself; but I will not ask it again; I 
 am afraid ; if I were alone, he might come and speak to me — 
 and — and persuade me that his wife was the one who best knew 
 how to take care of me. Oh, when I think of it, Yolande, it 
 maddens me !" 
 
 "Then you need not think of it, mother dear," said the girl, 
 pressing her to sit down. "Leave Mr. Romford to me. Oh, I 
 will make him content with mc, if he chooses to be troublesome. 
 Do not fear." 
 
 " If he should come to the house, Yolande ?" 
 
 "The ladies do not receive this afternoon," she answered, 
 promptly, " nor to-Tnorrow afternoon, nor the next day morning, 
 nor any other time, when the gentleman calls whom you will de- 
 scribe to the landlady and her two girls, and also to Jane. As 
 for me, I scarcely saw him — I was too bewildered, and too 
 anxious about you, mother, and then at last, when he did come 
 near to me, pouf ! away he went on the pavement And as for 
 him now, I do not care for him that .^" and she flicked her mid- 
 dle finger from the tip of her thumb. 
 
 " But he may speak to us on the street, child !" 
 
YOLANDE. 389 
 
 " And if we do not wish to be spoken to, is there ilo protec- 
 tion V said Yolande, proudly. " Come to the window, mother, 
 and I will show you something-." 
 
 " Oh, no, no !" she said, shrinking back. 
 
 " Very well, then, I will tell you. Do you not know the good- 
 natured policeman who told us when the harness was wrong at 
 the shaft, and put it right for us? And if we say to him that 
 we do not wish to have any of the gentleman's conversation, is 
 it not enough?" 
 
 " I do not think I could go back now," the mother said, ab- 
 sently, as if she were looking over the life, or rather the living 
 death, she had led. " I have seen you. I could not go back 
 and forget you ; and be a trouble to you, and to your father. 
 He must be a forgiving man to have let^you come to me ; and yet 
 not wise. I was content ; and those people were kind to me. 
 Why should your life be sacrificed ?" 
 
 " What a dreadful sacrifice, then !" exclaimed Yolande, with 
 a smile. " Look around — it is a dreadful sacrifice ! And when 
 we are at Cannes, and at San liemo, and at Bordighera, it will 
 be even more horrible and dreadful." 
 
 "But no, no, I can not go back now," she said. "The sight 
 of that man recalls everything to me. And yet they were kind 
 to me. I could do as I pleased ; and it was all in a kind of 
 dream. I seemed to be walking through the aight always. 
 And indeed I did not like the daytime — I liked to be in my 
 own room alone in the evening, with newspapers and books — 
 and it was a kind of half-sleep with waking pictures — sometimes 
 of you, Yolande — very often of you ; but not as you are now-v - 
 and then they would come and torture me with telling me hov 
 badly I was treated in not being allowed to see you — and then — 
 then I did not know what I did. It is terrible to think of." 
 
 " Don't think of it, mother, then." 
 
 "It is all before me again," the wretched woman said, with a 
 kind of despair. " I see what I have been, and what people 
 have thought of me. How can I raise myself again ? It is no 
 use trying. My husband away from me, my friends ashamed to 
 speak of me, my child throwing away her young life to no end 
 — why should I try ? — I should be better away — anywhere — to 
 hide myself, and be no longer an injury and a shame." 
 
 "Mother," said Yolande, firmly (for she had had to fight 
 those fits of hopelessness before, and knew the way of them well), 
 " don't talk nonsense. I have undertaken to make you well, and 
 I have very nearly succeeded, and I am not going to have my 
 patient break down on mv hands, and people say I am a bad 
 
390 YOLANDE. 
 
 doctor. I wonder what you would have said if I had called in 
 a real doctor, to give you physic and all the rest of it, whereas 
 I get all kinds of nice things for you, and take you out for drives 
 and walks, and never a word of medicine mentioned. And I 
 don't think it is fair, when you are getting on so well, to let 
 yourself drop into a fit of despondency, for that will only make 
 you worse, and give me so much longer trouble before I have 
 you pulled through. For you are not going to shake me off- 
 no, not at all — and the sooner you are well, the sooner we are 
 off to France and Italy, and the longer you are not well, the 
 longer it is you keep me in Worthing, which perhaps you will 
 not find so cheerful when the winter comes. Already it is cold; 
 some morning when you get up you will see — what? nothing but 
 snow ! — everything white^and then you will say it is time to fly, 
 and that is right, but why not sooner?" 
 
 "Well, to be beside you, Yolande," said the mother, stroking 
 the girl's hand, " is what I live for. If it were not for that, I 
 should not care what happened." 
 
 Yolande professed to treat this Mr. Romford as a person of 
 little account; but she was in her inmost heart a trifle more dis- 
 quieted than outwardly she made believe. She shrewdly sus- 
 pected that he was not the sort of gentleman to be disporting 
 himself at a watering-place merely for amusement; and she made 
 no doubt that, somehow or other, he had found out their address, 
 and had followed them hither in the hope of getting her mother 
 once more under his control. As to that, she had no fear ; but, 
 to make sure that he had no monetary or other claim that 
 could warrant his even knocking at the door of the house, she 
 resolved to write at once to Lawrence & Lang. The answer was 
 prompt; she got it by the first post next morning; and it said 
 that as " our Mr. Lang," by a fortunate accident, happened to be 
 at the moment in Brighton, they had telegraphed to him to go 
 along and see her ; consequently Miss Winterbourne might expect 
 him to call on her during the course of the day. 
 
 This was far from being in accordance with Yolande's wish ; 
 but she could not now help it ; and so she went to her mother, 
 and said that a gentleman would probably call that day with 
 whom she wanted to have a few minutes' private talk ; and 
 would the mother kindly remain in her room for that time? 
 
 " Not — not Romford ?" said she, in alarm. 
 
 " I said a gentleman, mother," Yolande answered. 
 
 And then a strange kind of glad light came into the mother's 
 face ; and she took her daughter's hands in hers. 
 
 " Can it be, then, Yolande ? There is one who is dear to you ?" 
 
YOLANDE. 391 
 
 The girl turned very pale for a second or so ; but she forced 
 herself to laugh. 
 
 "Nonsense, mother. The gentleman is calling on business. 
 It is very inconvenient; but the firm told him to come along 
 from Brighton ; and now I can't prevent him." 
 
 " I had hoped it was something more," said the mother, gen- 
 tly, as she turned to her book again. 
 
 Mr. Lang called about half-past twelve. 
 
 "I am very sorry you should have taken so much trouble 
 about so small an affair," said Yolande. 
 
 " But you must understand, Miss Winterboume," said the tall, 
 white-haired man, with the humorous smile and good-natured 
 eyes, "that our firm are under the strictest injunctions to pay 
 instant heed to the smallest things you ask of us. You have no 
 idea how we have been lectured and admonished. But I grant 
 you this is nothing. The man is a worthless fellow, who is 
 probably disappointed, and he may hang about, but you have 
 nothing to fear from him. Everything has been paid; we have a 
 formal acquittance. I dare say the scoundrel got three times 
 what was really owing to him, but it was not a prodigious sum. 
 }j[ow what do you want me to do? I can't prosecute him for 
 being in Worthing." 
 
 " No ; but what am / to do if he persists in speaking to my 
 mother when we are out walking ?" 
 
 " Give him in charge. He'll depart quick enough. But I 
 should say you had little to fear in that direction. Unless he 
 has a chance of speaking to your mother alone, he is not likely 
 to attempt it at all." 
 
 " And that he shall not have ; I can take care of that," said 
 Yolande, with decision. 
 
 " You really need not trouble about it. Of course if he 
 found your mother in the hands of a stranger, what happened 
 before might happen now ; that is to say, he would go and try 
 to talk her over ; would say that she was never so happy as 
 when he and his wife were waiting on her, that they were her 
 real friends, and all that stuff. But I don't think he will tackle 
 you," he added, with a friendly sort of smile. 
 
 " He shall not find my mother alone," said Yolande. 
 
 " I hear everything is going on well ?" he ventured to say. 
 
 " I hope so — I think so," she answered. 
 
 " It was risky — I may say, it was a courageous thing for you 
 to do, but you had warm friends looking on." 
 
 She started and looked up, but he proceeded to something 
 else. 
 
YOLANDE. 
 
 " I suppose I may not see Mrs. Winterbourne — or may I ?" 
 
 "I think not," said Yolande. "It would only alarm her, or 
 at least excite her, and I am keeping all excitement away from 
 her. And if you will excuse me, Mr. Lang, I will not keep 
 her waiting. It is so kind of you to have come along from 
 Brighton." 
 
 " I dare not disobey such very strict orders," said he, with a 
 smile, as he took up his hat and opened the door. 
 
 She did not ring the bell, however, for the maid-servant ; she 
 said she would herself see him out, and she followed him down- 
 stairs. In the passage she said : 
 
 " I want you to tell me something, Mr. Lang. I want you 
 to tell me who it was who explained to you what you were to 
 do for me when I arrived in London, for I think I know." 
 
 " Then there can be no harm in telling you, my dear young 
 lady. He called again on us, about a couple of weeks ago, on 
 his way north, and laid us under more stringent orders than 
 ever. Mr. John Melville. Was that your guess ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Yolande, with her eyes downcast, but in per- 
 fectly calm tones. " I thought it was he. I suppose he was 
 quite well when you saw him ?" 
 
 "Oh yes, apparently — certainly." 
 
 '' Good-by, Mr. Lang. It is so kind of you to have taken all 
 this trouble." 
 
 " Good-morning," said Mr. Lang, as he opened the door and 
 went his way. And he also had his guess. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIL 
 
 NOW AN DSUN LIGHT. 
 
 Yolande, however, was a strict and faithful guardian ; and 
 Mr. Romford, no doubt iBnding it impossible to get speech of 
 her mother alone, had probably left the place, for they saw no 
 more of him. - Indeed, they were thinking of other matters. 
 Yolande was anxious to get away to the south, and yet afraid to 
 risk the fatigue of travelling on a system obviously so frail as 
 her mother's was. She kept lingering on and on in the hope of 
 seeing some improvement taking place, but her mother, though 
 much more cheerful in spirits, did not seem to gain in strength ; 
 indeed, she seemed physically so weak that again 'and again 
 
YOLANDE. 393 
 
 Yolande postponed their departure. Tins also had its draw- 
 backs, for the weather was becoming more and more wintry, 
 and out-of-door exercise was being restricted. It was too cold 
 for driving ; Yolande had sent back the pony-carriage. Then 
 she dared not expose her mother to northerly or easterly winds. 
 Frequently now she liad to go out for her morning walk by 
 herself, a brisk promenade once or twice up and down the pier 
 being enough to send her home with pink cheeks. At last she 
 said to her mother, with some timidity, 
 
 " I have been thinking, mother, that we might take some 
 one's advice as to whether you are strong enough to bear the 
 journey." 
 
 " i think I could go," the mother said. " Oh yes, I should 
 like to try, Yolande, for you seem so anxious about it, and of 
 course Worthing must be dull for you." 
 
 The girl did not mind this reference to herself. 
 
 " I have been thinking how it could be most easily done, 
 mother. I would get a carriage here, and have you nicely 
 wrapped up from the cold, and we should drive to Newhaven ; 
 that would be more comfortable than the tedious railway 
 journey round by Lewes. Then we should choose our own 
 time of crossing when the sea was calm ; and the railway journey 
 from Dieppe to Paris is so much shorter than the Calais route. 
 But to Marseilles — that is a terrible long journey." 
 
 " I think I could do it, Yolande ; I see you are so anxious to 
 get away — and no wonder." 
 
 " I am anxious for your sake, mother. But I am afraid to 
 take the responsibility. Would you mind my asking some one ? 
 Would you mind my taking some advice ?" 
 
 " But you are the best doctor I have ever had," said the 
 mother, with a smile. " I would rather take your advice than 
 any one's." 
 
 " But I am afraid, mother," she said. And then she added, 
 cautiously, " It was not the advice of a doctor I was thinking of." 
 
 "Whose, then?" 
 
 The girl went and stood by her mother's side, and put hei 
 hand gently on her shoulder. 
 
 " Mother, my father is fretting that he can be of no service to 
 us." 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no, Yolande !" the other cried, with a sudden 
 terror. " Don't think of it, Yolande — it would kill me — he will 
 never forgive me." 
 
 " There is no forgiveness needed, mother ; all that is over and 
 forgotten. Mother — " 
 
394 YOLANDE. 
 
 But the mere mention of this proposal seemed to have driven 
 the poor woman into a kind of frenzy. She chmgto her daugh- 
 ter's arm, and said in a wild sort of way, 
 
 " If I saw him, Yolande, I should think he was coming to take 
 you away from me — to take you away from me ! It would be 
 the old days come back again — and — and the lawyers — " 
 
 She was all trembling now, and clinging to the girl's arm. 
 
 "Stay with me, Yolande; stay with me. I know I have done 
 great harm and injury, and I can not ask him to forgive me; but 
 you — I have not harmed you ; I can look into your face with- 
 out reproach." 
 
 "I will stay with you, mother; don't be afraid. Now pray 
 calm yourself ; I won't speak of that again, if it troubles you ; 
 we shall be just by our two selves for as long as ever you like ; 
 and as for lawyers, and doctors, or anybody else, why, you shall 
 not be allowed to know that they exist." 
 
 So she gradually got her mother calmed again ; and by-and- 
 by, when she got the opportunity, she sat down and wrote to 
 her father, saying that at present it was impossible be should 
 come and see them, for that the mere suggestion of such a 
 thing had violently alarmed and excited her mother, and that 
 excitement of any kind did her most serious mischief. She 
 added that she feared she would have to take on her own shoub 
 ders the responsibility of deciding whether they should attempt 
 the journey ; that most likely they would try to proceed by 
 short stages; and that, in that case, she would write to him again 
 for directions as to where they should go on ariiving in Paris. 
 
 That, indeed, was what it came to ; althongh the girl naturally 
 wished to share with some qualified person the responsibility of 
 the decision. But now, as heretofore, whenever she hinted that 
 they ought to call in a skilled physician, merely for a consultation, 
 the mother betrayed such a nervous horror oJF the idea of seeing 
 any stranger that the proposal had to be dropped. 
 
 "Why, Yolande, why?" she would say. "I am well enough 
 — only a little weak. I shall be stronger by-and-by. What 
 could you ask of a doctor ?" 
 
 " Oh, well, mother," the girl said, rather vaguely, " one might 
 leave it to himself to make suggestions. Perhaps he might be 
 of some help — who knows ? There are tonics now, do you see, 
 that might strengthen you — quinine, perhaps? — or — " 
 
 " No, no," said she, in rather a sad fashion. "I have done 
 with drugs, Yolande. You shall be my doctor ; I don't want 
 any one else. I am in your hands." 
 
 " It is too great a responsibility, mother." 
 
YOLANDE. 395 
 
 "You mean to decide whether we leave Worthing?" said the 
 mother, cheerfully. "Well, I will decide for you, Yolande. I 
 say — let us go." 
 
 " We could go slowly — in short distances," the girl said, 
 thoughtfully. " Waiting here or there for fine weather, do you 
 I see, mother ? For example, we would not set out at this mo- 
 ment, for the winds are boisterous and cold. And then, mother, 
 if there is fatigue — if you are very tired with the journey, think 
 of the long rest and idleness at Nice — and the soft air." 
 
 " Very well, Yolande ; whatever you do will be right. 
 And I am ready to set out with you .whenever you please." 
 
 Yolande now set about making final preparations for leaving 
 England ; and amongst the first of these was the writing a letter 
 to Mrs. Bell, It was little more than a message of good-by ; 
 but still she intimated that she should be glad to hear how af- 
 fairs were going on at Gress, and also what was being done 
 about Monaglen. And she begged Mrs. Bell's acceptance of 
 the accompanying bits of lace, which she had picked up at some 
 charitable institution in the neighborhood, and which she thougjit 
 would look nice on black silk. 
 
 The answer, which arrived speedily, was as follows : 
 
 Gress, Hie Wih Novemh&i'. 
 " My dear young Lady, — It was a great 1 onor to me to re- 
 ceive the letter from you this morning, and a great pleasure to 
 me to know that you arc well, this leaving us all here in the 
 same. Maybe I would have taken the liberty to write to you before 
 now, but that I had not your address, and Duncan, the keeper, was 
 ignorant of it. And I had a mind to ask the Hon. Mrs. Gra- 
 ham, seeing her drive past one day on her return; but they glai- 
 ket lassies that were to have told me when they saw her come 
 along the road again were forgetful, as usual, and so I missed 
 the opportunity. My intention was to tell you about Monaglen, 
 which you are so kind as to ask about. It is all settled now, 
 and the land made over to its rightful possessor ; and I may say 
 that when the Lord, in His good time, sees fit to take me, I will 
 close my eyes in peace, knowing that I have done better with 
 what was intrusted to me than otherwise might have happened. 
 But in the mean time my mind is ill at ease, and I am not thank- 
 ful for such mercies as have been vouchsafed to me, because I 
 would fain have Mr. Melville informed of what has been done, 
 and yet not a word dare I speak. At the best he is a by-ordi- 
 nar proud, camstrary man ; but ever since he has come back 
 this last ^ime l\e is more unsettled and distant like — not con- 
 
396 YOLANDE. 
 
 versing with people, as was his custom, but working at all kinds 
 of hours, as if his life depended on they whigmaleeries ; and then 
 again away over the hills and moors by himself, without even 
 the pastime of fishing that used to occupy him. Deed, I tried 
 .once to tell him, but my brain got into a kind of whummle; I 
 could not get out a word ; and as he was like to think me an 
 idiwut, I made some excuse about the school-laddies, and away 
 he went. Howsever, what's done can not be undone. The lawyers 
 vouch for that; and a pretty penny they charged me. But 
 Monaglen is his, to have and to hold, whether he wil or no, 
 and the Melvilles have got their ain again, as the song says. 
 And if any one tells me that I could have done better with the 
 money I will not gainsay them, for there are wiser heads than 
 mine in the world ; but I will say that I had the right to do what 
 pleased myself with what belonged to me. 
 
 "Many's the time I wish that I had an intervener that would 
 tell him of it, and take the task off my hands ; for I am sore 
 afraid that did I do it myself, having little skill of argument 
 or persuasion, he would just be off in a fluff, and no more to be 
 said. For that matter, 1 might be content with things as they 
 are, knowing that his father's land would go to him when my 
 earthly pilgrimage was come an end; but sometimes my heart is 
 grieved for the poor lad, when I'm thinking that maybe he is 
 working early and late, and worrying himself into a whey-faced 
 condition, to secure a better future for himself, when the future 
 is sure enough if he only kenned. Besides that, I jalouse 
 there's a possibility of his going away again ; for I see there are 
 bits of things, that he put together on the day when you, dear 
 young lady, left Allt-nam-ba, that he has not unpacked again; 
 and he has engaged the ;[oun^ lad Dalrymple at a permanent 
 wage now, seeing that the chiel does very well with the school- 
 bairns — though I envy not the mother that had to keep him in 
 porridge when he was a laddie. Now that is how we are situ- 
 ate here, my dear young lady, since you have been so kind as 
 to remember us; and I would fain be asking a little more news 
 about yourself if it was not making bold, for many's the time I 
 have wondered whether ye would come back again to Allt-nam- 
 ba. It is a rough place for gentle-nurtured people, and but 
 little companionship for a young lady ; but I heard tell the 
 shooting was good, and if the gentlemen are coming back, I hope 
 you'll no be kept away by the roughness of the place, for I'm 
 sure I would like to have a glint of your face again. And I 
 would say my thanks for the collar and cuffs in that beautiful fine 
 lace, but indeed there is more in my heart than the tongue can 
 
YOLANDE. 397 
 
 speak. It is just too good of ye ; and although such things are 
 far too fine for an old woman like me, still I'm thinking I'll be 
 putting them on next Sabbath morning, just to see if Mr. Mel- 
 ville will be asking if I have taken leave of my five senses. But 
 he has not been familiar like since his coming back, which is a 
 sorrow to me, that must keep my tongue tied when I would fain 
 speak. 
 
 " This is all at present, dear young lady, from your humble 
 servant, Christina Bell." ^ 
 
 For one breathless second it flashed across Yolande's brain 
 that she would become the " intervener." Would it not be a 
 friendly thing to do, as she was leaving England, to write and 
 tell him, and to lay an injunction on him not to disappoint this 
 kind creature's hopes? But then she turned away. The past 
 was past. Her interests and duties were here. And so — with 
 something of a sigh, perhaps — she took to the immediate busi- 
 ness of getting ready for the journey ; and had everything so 
 prepared that they were ready to start at a moment's notice, 
 whenever the weather was propitious. 
 
 And, indeed, they had fixed definitely the day of their de- 
 parture, when, on the very night before, the varying northerly 
 winds, that had been blowing with more or less of bitterness for 
 some time, culminated in a gale. It was an unusual quarter — 
 most of the gales on that part of the coast coming from the south 
 and the southwest; but all the same the wind during the night 
 blew with the force of a hurricane, and the whole house shook 
 and trembled. Then, in the morning, what was their astonish- 
 ment to find the sunlight pouring in at the parlor windows; and 
 outside, the world white and hushed under a sheet of dazzling 
 snow ! That is to say, as much of the world as was visible — 
 the pavement, and the street, and the promenade, and the 
 beach; beyond that the wind-ruffled bosom of the sea was dark 
 and sullen in comparison with this brilliant white wonder lying 
 all around. And still the northerly gale blew hard ; and one 
 after another strangel}^ dark clouds were blown across the sky, 
 until, as they got far enough to the south, the sun would shine 
 through them wfth a strange coppery lustre, and then would 
 disappear altogether, and the dark sea would become almost 
 black. And then again the fierce wind would hurry on the 
 smoke-colored pall to the horizon ; and there would be glimpses 
 of a pale blue sky flecked with streaks of white; and the brilliant 
 sunlight would be all around them once more, on the boats and 
 the shingle and the railings and the snow-whitened streets. 
 
398 YOLANDE. 
 
 Now Yolande's mother was strangely excited by the scene; 
 for it confirmed lier in a curious fancy she had formed that dur- 
 ing all the time she had been under the influence of those drugs 
 she had been living in a dream, and that she was now making 
 the acquaintance again of the familiar features of the world as she 
 once had known them. 
 
 " It seems years and years since I saw the snow," she said, 
 looking on the shining white world in a mild entrancement of 
 delight. " Oh, Yolande, I should like to see the falling snow — 1 
 should like to feel it on my hands." 
 
 "You are likely to see it soon enough, mother," said the 
 girl, who had noticed how from time to time the thick clouds 
 going over shrouded everything in an ominous gloom. " In the 
 mean time I shall go round after breakfast and tell Mr. Wather- 
 ston not to send the carriage : we can't start in a snow-storm." 
 
 " But why not send Jane, Yolande ? It will be bitterly cold 
 outside." 
 
 " I suppose it will be no colder for me than for her," Yolande 
 said. And then she added, with a smile of confession, "Be- 
 sides, I want to see what everything looks like." 
 
 "Will you let me go with you? May I?" said the mother, 
 wistfully. 
 
 " You ? " said Yolande, laughing. /' Yes, that is likely — that 
 is very likely ! You are in good condition to face a gale from 
 the northeast, and walk through snow at the same time !" 
 
 When Yolande went out she found it was bitterly cold, even 
 though the terrace of houses sheltered her from the northeast 
 wind. She walked quickly — and even with a kind of exhilara- 
 tion, for this new thing in the world was a kind of excitement; 
 and when she had gone and delivered her message, she thought 
 she would have a turn or two up and down the pier, for there 
 the snow had been in a measure swept from the planks, and 
 there was freer walking. Moreover, she had the whole prome- 
 nade to herself ; and when she got to the end she could turn to 
 find before her the spectacle of the long line of coast and the 
 hills inland all whitened with the snow, while around her the 
 suilen-hued sea seemed to shiver under the gusts of wind that 
 swept down on it. Walking back was not so comfortable as 
 walking out; nevertheless, she took another turn or two, for she 
 knew that if the snow began to fall she might bo imprisoned for 
 the day; and she enjoyed all the natural delight of a sound con- 
 stitution in brisk exercise. She had to walk smartly to withstand 
 the cold, and the fight against the wind was something; alto- 
 gether, she remained on the pier longer than she had intended. 
 
YOLANDE. 399 
 
 Then sometliing tonched her cheek, and stung her, as it were. 
 She turned and looked : soft, white flakes — a few of them only, 
 but they were large — were coming, fluttering along and past her ; 
 and here and there one alighted on her dress like a moth, and 
 hung there. It was strange, for the sunlight was shining all 
 around her, and there were no very threatening clouds visible 
 over the land. But they grew more and more frequent ; they 
 lit on her hair, and she shook them ojff ; they lit on her eyelashes, 
 and melted moist and cold into her eyes ; at length they had 
 given a fairly white coating to the front of the dress, and so she 
 made up her mind to make for home, through this bewilderment 
 of snow and sunlight. It was a kind of fairy thing, as yet, and 
 wonderful and beautiful ; but she knew very well that as soon 
 as the clouds had drifted over far enough to obscure the sun, it 
 would look much less wonderful and supernatural, and she 
 would merely be making her way through an ordinary and some- 
 what heavy fall of snow. 
 
 But when she got nearer to the house something caught her 
 eye there that filled her with a sudden dismay. Her mother 
 was standing in the balcony, and she had her hands outstretched 
 as if she were taking a childish delight in feeling the flakes fall 
 on her fingers ; and when she saw Yolande she waved a pleasant 
 recognition to her. Yolande — sick at heart with dread — hur- 
 ried to the door ; ran upstairs when she got in, and rushed to 
 the balcony. She was breathless; she could not speak; she 
 could only seize her mother by the arm, and drag her into the 
 room. 
 
 " Why, what is it, Yolande ?" the mother said. *' I saw you 
 coming through the snow. Isn't it beautiful — beautiful ! It 
 looks like dreams and pictures of long ago — I have not felt snow 
 on my hands and my hair for so many and many years — " 
 
 " How could you be so imprudent, mother !" the girl said, 
 when she had got breath. '' And without a shawl ! Where was 
 Jane? To stand out in the snow — " 
 
 "It was only for a minute, Yolande," said she, while the girl 
 was dusting the snow from her mother's shoulders and arras with 
 her pocket-handkerchief. "It was only a minute — and it was 
 so strange to see snow again." 
 
 " But why did you go out? — why did you go out?" the girl 
 repeated. " On a bitterly cold morning like this, and bare-headed 
 and bare-necked." 
 
 " Well, yes, it is cold outside," she said, with an involuntary 
 shiver. " I did not think it would be so cold. There, that will 
 do, Yolande; I will sit down by the fire, and get warm again." 
 
400 YOLANDE, 
 
 " What you ought to do is to have some hot brandy and water, 
 and go to bed, and have extra blankets put over you," said Yo- 
 lande, promptly. 
 
 " Oh no ; I shall be warm again directly," said she, though 
 she shivered slightly, as she got into the easy-chair by the fire, 
 and began chafing her hands, which were red and cold with the 
 wet snow. " It was too much of a temptation, Yolande — that 
 is the fact. It was making the acquaintance of the snow again." 
 
 " It was more like making the acquaintance of a bad cold," 
 said Yolande, sharply. 
 
 However, she got some thick shawls and put them round her 
 mother, and the shivering soon ceased. She stirred up the fire, 
 and brought her some illustrated papers, and then went away to 
 get some things out again from the portmanteaus, for it was 
 clearly no use thinking of travelling in this weather. It had set- 
 tled down to snowing heavily; the skies were dark; there was 
 no more of the fairy-land performance of the morning; and so 
 Yolande set about making themselves as comfortable as possible 
 within-doors, leaving their future movements to be decided by 
 such circumstances as should arise. 
 
 But daring that evening Yolande's mother seemed somewhat 
 depressed, and also a little bit feverish and uncomfortable. 
 
 " I should not wonder if you were going to have a very bad 
 cold, mother," the girl said. " I should not wonder if you had 
 caught a chill by going out on the balcony." 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense, child ; it was only for a minute or 
 so." 
 
 " I wish you would take something hot before going to bed, 
 mother. Port-wine negus is good, is it not? I do not know. 
 I have only heard. Or hot whiskey and water? Mr. Short- 
 lands had three tumblers of it after he fell into the Uisge-nan- 
 Sithean, and had to walk the long distance home in wet clotlits ; 
 and the rugs and shawls we had put on his bed — oh, it is im- 
 possible to tell the number." 
 
 " No, never mind, Yolande," the mother said. " I would 
 rather not have any of these things. But I am a little tired. I 
 think I will go to bed now ; and perhaps Jane could ask for an 
 extra blanket for me. You need not be alarmed. If I have 
 caught a slight cold — well, you say we ought not to start in 
 such weather in any case." 
 
 "Shall I come and read to you, mother?" 
 
 " No, no ; why should you trouble ? Besides, I am rather 
 tired; most likely I shall go to sleep. Now I will leave you to 
 your novel about the Riviera; and you mufct draw in your chair 
 
YOLANDh. 401 
 
 to the fire ; and soon you will have forgotten that there is such 
 a thing as snow." 
 
 And so they bade good-night to each other, and Yolande was 
 not seriously disturbed. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 A MEETING. 
 
 But next morning the mother was ill — nay, as Yolande in her 
 first alarm imagined, seriously ill. She could hardly speak ; her 
 hands and forehead were hot and feverish ; she would take no- 
 thing in the shape of breakfast ; she only turned away her head 
 languidly. Yolande was far too frightened to stay to consult 
 her mother's nervous fancies or dislikes ; a doctor was sent for 
 instantly — the same doctor, in fact, who had been called in be- 
 fore. And when this portly, rubicund, placid person arrived his 
 mere presence in the room seemed to introduce a measure of 
 calm into the atmosphere ; and that was well. He was neither 
 excited nor alarmed. He made the usual examination, asked a 
 few questions, and gave some general and sufficiently sensible 
 directions as to how the patient should be tended. And then 
 he said he would write out a prescription — for this practitioner, 
 in common with most of his kind, had retained that simple and 
 serene faith in the efiicacyof drugs which has survived centuries 
 of conflicting theories, contradictions in fact, and scientific doubt, 
 and which is perhaps more beneficial than otherwise to the human 
 race, so long as the quantities prescribed are so small as to do no 
 positive harm. It was aconite, this time, that he chose to ex- 
 periment with. 
 
 However, when he followed Yolande into the other room, in 
 order to get writing materials, and when he sat down and began 
 to talk to her, it was clear that he understood the nature of the 
 case well enough ; and he plainly intimated to her that, when a 
 severe chill like this had caught the system and promised to 
 produce a high state of fever, the result depended mainly on 
 the power of the constitution to repel the attack and fight its 
 way back to health. 
 
 " Now I suppose I may speak frankly to you, Miss Winter- 
 bourne ?" said he. 
 
402 YOLANDE. 
 
 "Oh yes; wliy not?" said Yolande, who was far too anxious 
 to care about formalities. 
 
 "You must remember, then, that tlion2;h you have only seen 
 me once before, I have seen you twice. The first time you were 
 insensible. Now," said he, fixing his eyes on her, " on that 
 occasion I was told a little, but I guessed more. It was to 
 frighten your mother out of the habit lliat you took your first 
 dose of that patent medicine. May I assume that?" 
 
 " Well, yes," said Yolande, with downcast eyes — though, in- 
 deed, there was nothing to be ashamed of. 
 
 "Now, I want you to tell me honestly whether you believe 
 that warning had effect." 
 
 " Indeed, I am sure of it," said Yolande, looking up, aiul 
 speaking with decision. 
 
 " You think that since then she has not had recourse to any 
 of those opiates ?" 
 
 " I am positively certain of it," Yolande said to him. 
 
 " I suppose being deprived of them cost tlic poor lady a strug- 
 gle ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes, once or twice — but that was some time ago. Latterly 
 she was growing ever so much more l>right and cheei'ful, bi?t 
 still she was weak, and I was hesitating about risking the long 
 journey to the south of Fi'ance. Yes, it is I that am to blame. 
 Why did I not go sooner? Why did I not go sooner?" she re- 
 peated, with tears coming into her eyes. 
 
 "Indeed you can not blame yourself. Miss Winterbournc," the 
 doctor said. "I have no doubt you acted for the best. The 
 imprudence you tell me of might have happened anywhere. If 
 you keep the room warm and equable, your mother will do as 
 well here as in the south of France — until it is safe for you to 
 remove her." 
 
 "But how soon, doctor? — how soon? Oh, when I get the 
 chance again I will not wait." 
 
 " But you must wait — and you must be patient, and careful. 
 It will not do to hurry matters. Your mother is not strong. 
 The fight may be a long one. Now, Miss Winterbourne, you 
 will send and get this prescription made up; and I will call 
 again in the afternoon." 
 
 Yolande went back to her mother's room, and sent away 
 Jane ; she herself would be nurse. On tiptoe she went about, 
 doing what she thought would add to her mother's comfort ; 
 noiselessly tending the fire that had been lit, arranging a shutter 
 so that less light should come in, and so forth, and so forth. 
 But the confidence inspired by the -presence o^ the doctor w;\s 
 
YOLANDE. 403 
 
 gone now ; a terrible anxiety had succeeded ; and when at last she 
 sat down in the silent room, and felt that she could do nothing 
 more, a sense of helplessness, of loneliness, entirely overcame 
 her, and she was ready to despair. Why had she not gone 
 away sooner, before this terrible thing happened ? Why had she 
 delayed? They might now have been walking happily together 
 along some sunny promenade in the South — instead of this — this 
 hushed and darkened room ; and the poor invalid, whom she 
 had tended so carefully, and who seemed to be emerging into a 
 new life altogether, thus thrown back and rendered once more 
 helpless. Why had she gone out on that fatal morning? Why 
 had she left her mother alone ? If she had been in the room 
 there would have been no venturing into the snow, whatever 
 dreams and fancies were calling. If she had but taken courage 
 and set out for the South a week sooner — a day sooner — this 
 would not have happened ; and it seemed so hard that when 
 she had almost secured the emancipation of her mother — when 
 the undertaking on which she had entered with so much of 
 fear, and wonder, and hope was near to being crowned with 
 success — the work should be undone by so trifling an accident. 
 She was like to despair. 
 
 But patience — patience — she said to herself. She had been 
 warned, before she had left Scotland, that it was no light 
 matter that lay before her. If she was thrown back into prison, 
 as it were, at this moment, the door would be opened some day. 
 And, indeed, it was not of her own liberty she was thinking — 
 it was the freedom of light and life and cheerfulness that she 
 had hoped to secure for this stricken and hapless creature 
 whom fortune had not over-well treated. 
 
 Her mother stirred, and instantly she went to the bedside. 
 
 "What does the doctor say, Yolande?" she asked, appa- 
 rently with some difficulty. 
 
 "Only what every one sees," she said, with such cheerfulness 
 as v/as possible. " You have caught a bad cold, and you are 
 feverish; but you must d > everything that we want you to do, 
 and you will fight it off in time." 
 
 " AVhat kind of day is it outside ?" she managed to ask 
 again. 
 
 " It is fine, but cold. There has been some more snow in the 
 night." 
 
 "If you wish to go out, go out, Yolande. Don't mind me." 
 
 "But I am going to mind you, mother, and nobody else. 
 Here I am, here I stay, till yoa are well again. You shall 
 have uo other nurse." 
 
404 YOLANDE. 
 
 " You will make yourself ill, Yolande. You must go out." 
 
 She was evidently speaking with great difficulty. 
 
 *' Hush, mother, hush T' the girl said ; " I am going to stay 
 with you. You should not talk any more — it pains you, does 
 it not?" 
 
 " A little." And then she turned away her head again. " If 
 I don't speak to you, Yolande, don't think it is unkind of me. 
 I — I am not very well, I think." 
 
 And so the room was given over to silence again, and the 
 girl to anxious thoughts as to the future. She had resolved not 
 to write to her father until she should know more definitely. 
 She would not unnecessarily alarm him. At first, in her sudden 
 alarm, she had thought of summoning him at once ; but now 
 she had determined to wait until the doctor had seen her mother 
 again. If this were only a bad cold, and should show symp- 
 toms of disappearing, then she could send him a re-assuring 
 message. At present she was far too upset, and anxious, and 
 disturbed to carefully weigh her expressions. 
 
 About noon Jane stole silently into the room, and handed 
 her a letter, and withdrew again. Yolande was startled when 
 she glanced at the handwriting, and hastily opened the envelope. 
 The letter came from Inverness, and was dated the morning of 
 the previous day : that was all she noted carefully — the rest 
 seemed to swim into her consciousness all at once, she ran her 
 eye over the successive lines so rapidly, and with such a breath- 
 less agitation. 
 
 " My dear Yolande," Jack Melville wrote, — " I shall reacb 
 Worthing just about the same time as this letter. I am coming 
 to ask you for a single word. Archie Leslie has told me — quite 
 casually, in a letter about other things — that you are no longer 
 engaged to him ; and I have dared to indulge in some vague 
 hopes — well, it is for you to tell me to put them aside forever, 
 or to let them remain, and see what the future has in store. 
 That is all. I don't wish to interfere with your duties of the 
 moment — how should I ? — but I can not rest until I ascertain 
 from yourself whether or no I may look forward to some dis- 
 tant time, and hope. I am coming on the chance of your not 
 having left Worthing. Perhaps you may not have left; and I 
 beg of your kindness to let me see you, for ever so short a 
 time." 
 
 She quickly and quietly went to the door and opened it. 
 Her face was very pale. 
 
YOLANDE. 405 
 
 "Jane!" 
 
 The maid was standing at the window, looking out; she im- 
 mediately turned and came to her mistress. 
 
 " You remember Mr. Melville,who used to come to the lodge ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, miss." 
 
 " He will be in Worthing to-day — he will call here — perhaps 
 soon — " 
 
 She paused for a second, in this breathless, despairing way of 
 talking, as if not knowing what to say. 
 
 " He will ask to see me — well — you will tell him I can not see 
 him. I can not see him. My mother is ill. Tell him I am 
 sorry — but I can not see him." 
 
 *'0h yes, miss," said the girl, wondering at ber young mis- 
 tress's agitation. 
 
 Then Yolande quietly slipped into the room again — glancing 
 at her mother, to see whether her absence had been noticed ; and 
 her hand was clutching the letter, and her heart beating violently. 
 It was too terrible that he should arrive at such a moment— 
 amid this alarm and anxiety. She could not bear the thought 
 of meeting him. Already she experienced a sort of relief that 
 she was in the sick-room again : that was her place ; there her 
 duties lay. And so she sat in the still and darkened room, 
 listening with a sort of dread for the ring at the bell below ; and 
 then picturing to herself his going away ; and then thinking of 
 the years to come, and perhaps his meeting her ; and she grew to 
 fancy (while some tears were stealing down her cheeks) that very 
 likely he would not know her again when he saw her, for she 
 knew that already her face was more worn than it used to be, 
 and the expression of the eyes changed. When she did hear the 
 ring at the bell her heart leaped as if she had been shot ; but she 
 breathed more freely when tlie door was shut again. She could 
 imagine him walking along the pavement. Would he think her 
 unkind ? Perhaps he would understand ? At all events, it was 
 better that he was gone; it was a relief to her; and she went 
 stealthily to the bedside, to see whether her mother was asleep ; 
 and now all her anxiety was that the doctor should make his 
 appearance soon, and give her some words of cheer, so that she 
 should have no need to write to her father. 
 
 This was what happened when Melville came to the door. To 
 begin with, he was not at all sure that he should find Yolande 
 there, for he had heard from Mrs. Bell that she and her mother 
 were leaving England. But when Jane, in response to his ring. 
 ing of the bell, opened the door, then he knew that they were 
 not gone. 
 
406 YOLANDE. 
 
 " Miss Winterbourne is still here, then ?" he said, quicldy, and 
 indeed with some appearance of anxiety in the pale, handsome 
 face. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 He paused for a second. 
 
 " Will you be good enough to ask her if I can see her for a 
 moment?" he said, at length. "She knows that I meant to call 
 on her." 
 
 " Please, sir. Miss Winterbourne told me to say that she was 
 very sorry, but that she can not see you." 
 
 He seemed as one stupefied for a moment. 
 
 *' Her mother is ill, sir," said Jane. 
 
 "Oh," he said, a new light breaking in on him — for indeed 
 that first blunt refusal, as uttered by the maid, was bewildering. 
 
 " Not very ill, is she ?" 
 
 "Well, sir," said Jane, in the same stolid fashion, "I tliinkshe 
 is very ill, sir, but I would not say so to my young mistress, 
 sir." 
 
 " Of course not — of course not," he said, absently ; and then 
 he suddenly asked, " Has Miss Winterbourne sent for her 
 father?" 
 
 " I think not, sir. I think she is waiting to hear what the 
 doctor says." 
 
 " Who is the doctor ?" 
 
 She gave him both the name and address. 
 
 *' Thank you," said he. '' I will not trouble Miss Winterbourne 
 with any message." And with that he left. 
 
 But he sent her a message — some half-hour thereafter. It 
 was merely this : 
 
 "Dear Yolande, — I am deeply grieved to have intruded 
 upon you at such a time. Forgive me. I hope to hear better 
 news ; but do not you trouble ; I have made arrangements so that 
 I shall know.— J. M." 
 
 And Yolande put that note with the other — for in truth she 
 had carefully preserved every scrap of writing that he had ever 
 sent her; and it was with a wistful kind of satisfaction that at 
 least he had gone away her friend. It was something — nay, it 
 was enough. If all that she wished for in the world could get 
 so near to completion as this, then she would ask for nothing 
 more. 
 
 The doctor did not arrive till nearly three o'clock, and she 
 awaited his verdict with an anxiety amounting to distress. But 
 
YOLANDE. 407 
 
 he would say nothing definite. The fever had increased, cer- 
 tainly ; but tliat was to be expected. She reported to him — as 
 minutely as her agitation allowed — how his directions had been 
 carried out in the interval, and he approved. Then he begged 
 her not to be unduly alarmed, for this fever was the common 
 attendant on the catching of a sudden chill ; and with similar 
 vague words of re-assurance he left. 
 
 But the moment he had gone she sat down and wrote to her 
 father. Fortunately Mr. Winterbourne happened at the mo- 
 ment to be in London, for he had come up to make inquiries 
 about some railway project that his constituents wished him to 
 oppose next session ; and he was at the hotel in Arlington Street 
 that Yolande knew. 
 
 " Dear Papa," she said, — " We did not leave yesterday as 
 I said we should, for the weather was so severe I was afraid to 
 take the risk. And now another thing has occurred: my dear 
 mother has caught a very bad cold, and is feverish with it, so 
 that I have called in the doctor. I hope it will soon go away, 
 and we will be able to make the voyage that was contemplated. 
 Alas ! it is a misfortune that there was any delay. Now, dear 
 papa, you said that you were anxious to be of service to us ; and 
 if your business in town is over, could you spare a few days to 
 come and stay at a hotel in Worthing, merely that I may know 
 you are there, which will re-assure me, for I am nervous and 
 anxious, and probably imagining danger when there is none ? 
 As for your coming here — no, that is not to be thought of ; it 
 would agitate my dear mother beyond expression, and now more 
 than ever we have to secure for her repose and quiet. Will it 
 inconvenience you to come for a few days to a hotel ? Your 
 loving daughter, Yolande Winterbourne." 
 
 Mr. Winterbourne came down next morning — rather guessing 
 that the matter was more serious than the girl had represented 
 — and went straight to the house. He sent for Jane, and got 
 it arranged that, while she took Yolande's place in the sick- 
 room for a few minutes, Yolande should come down-stairs and 
 sec him in the ground-floor parlor, which was unoccupied. It is 
 to be remembered that he had not seen his daughter since she 
 left the Highlands. 
 
 W^hcn Yolande came into the room his eyes lighted up with 
 gladness ; but the next minute they were dimmed with tears — 
 and the hands that took hers were trembling — and he could 
 hardly speak. 
 
408 YOLANDE, 
 
 " Child, child," said he, in a second or so, " how you are 
 changed 1 You are not well, Yolande : have you been ill?" 
 
 " Oh no, papa, I am perfectly well." 
 
 The strange seriousness of her face ! — where was tiie light- 
 hearted child whose laugh used to be like a ray of sunlight? 
 She led him to the window; and she spoke in a low voice, so 
 that no sound should carry : 
 
 " Papa, I want you to- call on the doctor, and get his real 
 opinion. It tortures me to think that he may be concealing 
 something ; I sit and imagine it ; sometimes I think he has not 
 told me all the truth. I want to know the truth, papa. Will 
 you ask him ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, child — I will do whatever you want," said he, still 
 holding her hand, and regarding her with all the old affection 
 and admiration. " Ah, your face is changed a little, Yolande, 
 but not much, not much — oh no, not much ; but your voice 
 hasn't changed a bit. I have been wondering this many a day 
 when I should hear you talking to me again." 
 
 " Never mind about me, papa," said she, quickly. " I will 
 give you the doctor's address. Which hotel are you staying 
 at?" 
 
 He told her as she was writing the doctor's address for him 
 on a card; and then, with a hurried kiss, she was away again 
 to the sick-room, and sending Jane down to open the door for 
 him. 
 
 As Yolande had desired, he went and saw the doctor, who 
 spoke more plainly to him than he had done to the girl of the 
 possible danger of such an attack, but also said that nothing 
 could be definitely predicted as yet. It was a question of the 
 strength of the constitution. Mr. Winterbourne told him frank- 
 ly who he was, what his position was, and the whole sad story ; 
 and the doctor perfectly agreed with Yolande that it was most 
 unadvisable to risk the agitation likely to be produced if the 
 poor woman were to be confronted with her husband. Any 
 messages he might wish to send (in the event of her becoming 
 worse) could be taken to her ; they might give her some mental 
 rest and solace ; but for the present the knowledge of his being 
 in Worthing was to be kept from her. And to this Mr. Win- 
 terbourne agreed, though he would fain have seen a little more 
 of Yolande. Many a time — indeed, every day — he walked up 
 and down the promenade, despite the coldness of the weather, 
 and always with the hope that he might catch some glint of her 
 at the window, should she come for a moment to look at the 
 outer world and the wide sea. Once or twice lie did so catch 
 
YOLANDE. 409 
 
 sight of her, and the day was brighter after that. It was like a 
 lover. 
 
 As the days passed the fever seemed to abate somewhat, but 
 an alarming prostration supervene! At length the doctor said, 
 on one occasion when Mr. Winterbourne had called on him for 
 news, 
 
 " I think, Mr. Winterbourne, if you have no objection, I should 
 like to have a consultation on this case. I am afraid there is 
 some complication." 
 
 " I hope you will have the best skill that London can afford," 
 said Mr. Winterbourne, anxiously; for although the doctor 
 rather avoided looking him in the face, the sound of this phrase 
 was ominous. 
 
 " Shall I ask Sir to come down ?" he said, naming one of 
 
 the most famous London physicians. 
 
 " By all means ! And, whatever you do, don't alarm my 
 daughter ! — try to keep her mind at rest — say it is a technical 
 point — say anything — but don't frighten herP 
 
 " I will do my best," the doctor promised ; and he added, " I 
 will say this for the young lady, that she has shown a devotion 
 and a fortitude that I have never seen equalled in any sick-room, 
 and I have been in practice now for two-and-thirty years." 
 
 But all the skill in London or anywhere else could not have 
 saved this poor victim from the fatal consequences of a few 
 moments' thoughtlessness. The wasted and enfeebled constitu- 
 tion had succumbed. But her brain remained clear ; and as long 
 as she could hold Yolande's hand, or even see the girl walkhig 
 about the room or seated in a chair, she was content. 
 
 " I don't mind dying now," she said, or rather whispered, on 
 one occasion. "I have seen you, and known you; you have 
 been with me for a while. It was like an angel that you came 
 to me ; it was an angel who sent you to me. I am ready to go 
 now." 
 
 " Mother, you must not talk like that !" the girl exclaimed. 
 " Why, the nonsense of it ! How long, then, do you expect me 
 to be kept waiting for you, before we can start for Bordighera 
 together ?" 
 
 " We shall never be at Bordighera together," the mother said, 
 absently — " never ! never ! But you may be, Yolandc ; and I 
 hope you will be happy there, and always ; for you deserve to be. 
 Ah yes, you will be happy — surely it can not be otherwise — you, 
 so beautiful and so noble-hcartcd." 
 
 And at last Yolande grew to fear the worst. One evening 
 
410 YOLANDE. 
 
 she had sent for her f atlier ; and she went down-stah-s and found 
 him in the sitting-room. 
 
 " Yolande, you are as white as a ghost." 
 
 " Papa," she said, keeping a tight guard over herself, " I want 
 you to come up-stairs with me. 1 have told my mother you 
 were coming. She will see you; she is grateful to you for the 
 kind messages I have taken to her. I — I have not asked the' 
 doctors — but — I wish you to come with me. Do not speak to 
 her — it is only to see you that she wants." 
 
 He followed her up the stairs; hut he entered first into the 
 room, and he went over to the bedside and took his wife's hand, ; 
 without a word. The memories of a lifetime were before him 
 as he regarded the emaciated cheek and the strangely large and 
 brilliant eyes ; but all the bitterness was over and gone now. 
 
 "George," said she, " I wished to make sure you had forgiven 
 me, and to say good-by. You have been mother as well as 
 father to Yolande — she loves you — You — you will take care 
 of her." 
 
 She closed her eyes, as if the effort to speak had overcome 
 hev; but he still held his wife's hand in his; and perhaps lie was 
 thinking of what had been, and of what — far otherwise — uiight 
 have been. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 ROME. 
 
 It was in the month of January following, when the white 
 thoroughfares of Rome were all shining clear in the morning 
 sunlight, that Yolande Winterbourne stood in the spacious vesti- 
 bule of the Hotel du Quirinal, waiting while her father read a 
 letter that had just been given Iiim. She was dressed in 
 deep mourning ; and perhaps that only heightened the contrast 
 between the clearness and brightness of her English-looking com- 
 plexion and ruddy golden hair and the sallow, foreign-looking 
 faces around. And if the ordeal through which she had passed 
 had altered her expression somewhat — if it had robbed her for- 
 ever of the light laughter and the carelessness of her girlhood — 
 it had left in their stead a sweet seriousness of womanhood that 
 some people found lovable enough. It was not her father only 
 who saw and was charmed by this grave gentleness of look, as 
 
YOLANDE. 41J 
 
 an odd incident in this very hotel proved. At the time of the 
 Winterbournas' arrival in Rome there happened to be there — 
 and also staying at the Quirinal Hotel — a famous French 
 painter. Of coarse every one in the hotel knew who he was, and 
 every one pretended not to know, for he seemed to wish to be 
 alone ; and he was so hard at work, that when he came in for 
 his mid-day meal — which was of the most frugal kind — he 
 rarely spent more than ten or twelve minutes over it, and theu 
 he was off again, only pausing to light a cigarette in the corridor. 
 Well, one day the Winterbournes went as usual into the win- 
 ter-garden saloon of the hotel to have a bit of lunch, for they 
 were going for a drive somewhere in the afternoon, and they 
 were just about to sit down at their accustomed table, when the 
 famous artist rose from his table and approached them. He 
 was a little man, with a boyish face, but with careworn eyes ; 
 his manner was grave, and yet pleasant. 
 
 " Pardon me, sir, the liberty ; but may I present myself to 
 you?" said he, in the queerest of pronunciations — and he held a 
 card between his finger and thumb.- 
 
 "You do me a great honor, monsieur," said Mr. Winter- 
 bourne, with a low bow, and addressing him in his owp tongue ; 
 
 and he managed dexterously to hint that Monsieur had no 
 
 need of a visiting-card with which to introduce himself. 
 
 Mea. while Yolandc had turned aside, under pretence of tak- 
 mg off her bonnet; and the great artist, without any circumlo- 
 cution, told her father what was the object of his thus desiring 
 to make their acquaintance. He was painting a religious sub- 
 ject, he said, which had great difficulties for him. He had ob- 
 served mademoiselle from time to time. She had so noble an 
 air, an expression so tender, so Madonna-like! All that he 
 wanted, if the father would grant the request, was to be permit- 
 ted to sit at their table for a few minutes — to observe more 
 closely, to find out what was the peculiar charm of expression. 
 Would monsieur forgive a painter, who could only plead that it 
 was in the interest of his art that he made so bold a request ? 
 
 Mr. Winterbourne not only gladly assented, but was greatly 
 flattered to hear such praise of Yolande from so distinguished 
 a man; and so she v/as immediately summoned, and introduced, 
 and they all three sat down to the little table, and had their 
 lunch together. Yolande was in happy ignorance that she was 
 being studied or examined in any way whatever; and he took 
 good care not to let her know. This little, sad-eyed man 
 ])rovcd H cheerful enough companion. He talked about any- 
 thing and ovoi ythiiig; and on one occasion Yolande had the 
 
412 YOLANDE. 
 
 happiness of being able to add to bis knowledge. He was say- 
 ing bow tbe realistic decorations on tbe walls of this saloon — 
 the blue skies, the crystal globes filled with swimming fish and 
 suspended in mid-air, tbe painted balconies, and shrubs, and 
 what not — would shock the severe theorists who maintain that 
 in decoration natural objects should be represented only in a 
 conventional manner ; and he was saying that nevertheless this 
 literal copying of things for the purposes of decoration had a 
 respectable antiquity — as doubtless mademoiselle had observed 
 in the houses of Pompeii, where all kinds of tricks in perspec- 
 tive appeared on flat surfaces — and that it had a respectable 
 authority — as doubtless mademoiselle had observed in the Log- 
 gie, where Raphael had painted birds, beasts, or fishes, anything 
 that came ready to his hand or his head, as faithfully and 
 minutely as drawing and color could reproduce them. 
 
 " I saw another thing than that at Pompeii," said she, witli a 
 slight smile. 
 
 "Yes?" he said; and she did not know that all the time he 
 was regarding the beautiful curve of the short upper lip, and 
 observing how easily the slight pensive droop of it could be 
 modulated into a more cheerful expression. 
 
 "I had always imagined," said she, "that veneering and 
 wickedness like that were quite modern inventions. Don't they 
 say so? Don't they say that it is modern depravity that paints 
 common wood to make it like oak, and paints plaster to re- 
 semble marble ? But in Pompeii you will also find that wicked- 
 ness — yes, I assure you, I found in more than one house beau- 
 tiful black marble with yellow or white veins — so like real 
 marble that one would not suspect — but if you examined it 
 where it was broken you would find it was only plaster, or a 
 soft gray stone, painted over." 
 
 " Indeed, mademoiselle," said he, laughing, " they were a 
 wicked people who lived in Pompeii ; but I did not know they 
 did anything so dreadful as that." 
 
 This was the beginning of an acquaintanceship that lasted 
 during their stay in Rome, but was limited to this brief chat in 
 the middle of the day; for the famous Frenchman was the 
 most devoted of workers. And then, when he heard that the 
 Winterbournes were likely to leave Rome, he besought the 
 father to allow Yolande to give two or three sittings to a young 
 American artist, a friend of his, who w^as clever at pastels, and 
 had a happy knack in catching a likeness. As it turned out 
 that Monsieur did not wish merely to procure a commis- 
 sion for his brother- artist, but wanted to have the sketch of 
 
YOLANDE. 413 
 
 tlic beautiful young English lady for himself, Mr. Winterbourne 
 hesitated, but Yolande volunteered at once, and cheerfully; for 
 thev had already visited the young American's studio, and been 
 alloVed to hunt through his very considerable collection of 
 hric-a-hrac — Eastern costumes, old armor, musical instruments, 
 Moorish tiles, and the like. It was an amusement added to the 
 occupations of the day. Besides, there was one of the most 
 picturesque views in Rome from the windows of that lofty gar- 
 ret. And so Yolande sat contentedly, trying the strings of thi3 
 or that fifteenth-century lute, while the young American was 
 working away with his colored chalks; and Mr. Winterbourne, 
 having by accident discovered the existence, hitherto unsuspect- 
 ed, of a curious stiletto in the hollow handle of a Persian war- 
 axe, now found an additional interest in rummaging among 
 the old weapons which lay or hung everywhere about the 
 studio. 
 
 And so we come back to the morning on which Yolande was 
 standing at the entrance to the hotel, waiting for her father to 
 read his letter. When he had ended he came along briskly to 
 her, and put his arm within hers. 
 
 "Now, Yolande," said he, "do you think Mr. Meteyard 
 could get that portrait of you finished off to-day ? Bless my 
 soul, it wasn't to have been a portrait at all ! — it was only to 
 have been a sketch. And he has kept on niggling and nig- 
 gling away at it — why ? Well, I don't know why — unless — " 
 
 But he did not utter the suspicion that had crossed his mind 
 once or twice. It was to the effect that Mr. Meteyard did not 
 particularly want to finish the sketch, but would rather have the 
 young English lady continue her visits to his studio — where he 
 always had a little nosegay of the choicest flowers awaiting 
 her. 
 
 "What is the hurry, papa?" she said, lightly. 
 
 " Well, here is a letter from Shortlands. He has just started 
 for Venice. If we are to meet him there we should start to- 
 morrow for Florence. There isn't much time left now before 
 the opening of Parliament." 
 
 " Then let us start to-morrow morning," said she, promptly, 
 " even if I have to sit the whole day to Mr. Meteyard. But I 
 think this is the only time we have ever been in Rome without 
 having driven out to the Baths of Caracalla." 
 
 " I have no doubt," said he, " that the Baths of Caracalla 
 will last until our next visit. So come awa}'-, Yolande, and let's 
 hurry up Mr. Meteyard — ' yank him along,' I believe, is the 
 proper phrase." 
 
414 YOLANDE. 
 
 So they went out together into the clear white sunlight. 
 
 " And here," said he, discontentedly, as they were going 
 along the street of the Quattro Fontane, "is Shortlands ap- 
 pointing to meet us in Venice at the Hotel. I'm not go- 
 ing to the Hotel ; not a bit of it !" 
 
 " Why, papa, you know that is where Desdemona was buried !" 
 she exclaimed. 
 
 "Don't I know!" said he, with a gloomy sarcasm. "Can 
 you be three minutes in the place without being perfectly con- 
 vinced of the fact ? Oh yes, she was buried there, no doubt. 
 But there was a little too much of the lady the last time avc 
 were there." 
 
 " Papa, how can you say that !" she remonstrated. " It is no 
 worse than the other ones. And the parapet along the Canal 
 is so nice." 
 
 " I am going to Danieli's,'' he said, doggedly. 
 
 " I hope we shall get the same rooms we used to have, with 
 the balcony," said she ; " and then we shall see whether the 
 pigeons have forgotten all I taught them. Do you remember 
 how cunning they became in opening the paper-bags — and in 
 searching for them all about the room? Then I shouhln't 
 wonder if we were to see Mr. Leslie at Venice. In the last note 
 I had from him he said they were going there ; but he seemed 
 dissatisfied with his companion, and I do not know whether 
 they are still together." 
 
 " Wouki you like to meet the Master at Venice ?" said he, 
 regarding her. 
 
 A trifle of color appeared in her cheeks, but she answered, 
 cheerfully, 
 
 "Oh yes, very much. It would be like a party of old times 
 — Mr. Shortlands, and he, and ourselves, all together." 
 
 " Shortlands has some wonderful project on hand — so ho 
 hints — but he does not say what it is. But w*e must not ?A' 
 tempt too much. I am afraid you and I are very lazy and idle 
 travellers, Yolande." 
 
 " I am afraid so, papa." 
 
 " At all events," said he, as they were going down the steps 
 of the Piazza di Spagna — which are no longer, alas ! adoD.ed 
 by picturesque groups of artists' models — " at all events, I must 
 be back at the beginning of the session. They say the Qticen 
 is going to open Parliament in person this year. Now, tlierc 
 would be a sight for you ! That is a spectacle worth going to 
 see." 
 
 " Ah I" she said, with a quick interest, " am I to be allowed 
 
YOLANDE. 415 
 
 to go to the House of Commons after all ? Shall I hear you 
 make a speech? Shall I be in the grill — is it the grill they call 
 
 itr 
 
 " No, no, you don't understand, Yolande !" &aid he. " It is the 
 ceremony of opening Parliament. It is in the House of Lords ; 
 and the Queen is in her robes ; and everybody you ever heard 
 of ill England is there — all in grand state. I should get you a 
 ticket, by hook or by crook, if I failed at the ballot ; I heard 
 that one was sold for £40 the last time — but maybe that was 
 
 romance. But I remember this for fact, that when Lord 
 
 returned from abroad, and found every available ticket disposed 
 of, and couldn't get one anyhow, he was in a desperate state be- 
 cause his wife insisted on seeing the show ; and when he went 
 
 to an official, and said that, no matter how, Lady must 
 
 and should be admitted, that blunt-spoken person told him that 
 he might as well try to get her ladyship into the kingdom of 
 Heaven. But we'll manage it for you, Yolande. We'll take 
 it in time. And if wc can't secure it any other way, we'll get 
 you into the Reporters' Gallery, as the representative of a ladies' 
 newspaper." 
 
 When they had climbed up to the altitudes of th,e young 
 artist's studio, which was situated in one of the narrowest 
 streets between the Piazza di Spagna and the Corso, they found 
 Mr. Meteyard rather dismayed at the prospect of their leaving 
 Rome so soon. It was not entirely a question of finishing the 
 portrait. Oh yes, he said, he could get the sketch finished well 
 enough — that is, as well as he was likely to be able to do it. 
 But he had no idea that Mr. and Miss Winterbourne were going 
 away so soon. Would they dine with him at his hotel that 
 evening? He was coming to England soon; might he call and 
 see them ? And would Mr. Winterbourne take with him that 
 Persian axe in the handle of which he had discovered the 
 stiletto? And would Miss Winterbourne allow him to paint for 
 her a replica of a study of a Roman girl's head that she seemed 
 rather to like, and he would have it forwarded to England, and 
 be very proud if she would accept it ? 
 
 Alas ! alas ! this youth had been dreaming dreams ; and no 
 doubt that was the reason of his having dawdled so long over a 
 mere sketch in crayons. But he was not wounded unto death. 
 It is true, he covered himself with reproaches over the insuffi- 
 ciency of the portrait — although it was very cleverly done and 
 an incontcbtably good likeness ; and he gave them at his 
 hotel that evening a banquet considerably beyond what a young 
 painter is ordinarily supposed to be able to atiord; and the 
 
416 YOLANDE. 
 
 next morning, although the train for Florence leaves early, there 
 he was, with such a beautiful bouquet for the young lady ! 
 And he had brought her eau-de-Cologne, too, for the journey, 
 and fruit, and sweets (all this was ostensibly because he was 
 grateful to her for having allowed him to make a sketch of her 
 for his friend the famous French painter) ; and when at last the 
 train went away out of the station he looked after it sadly 
 enough. But he was not inconsolable, as events proved; for 
 within three months of this sad parting he had married a rather 
 middle-aged contessa, who had estates near Terracina, and a 
 family of four daughters by a former husband ; and when the 
 Winterbournes next saw him he was travelling en gar^on through 
 the Southern English counties, along with two Scotch artists, 
 who also — in order that nothing should interfere with their im- 
 passioned study of Nature — had left their wives behind them. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 John Shortlands, however, was delayed by some business 
 in Paris, and the Winterbournes arrived in Venice first. They 
 went to Danieli's, and secured the rooms which were familiar to 
 them in former days. But Yolande found that the pigeons had 
 forgotten all she had ever taught them ; and she had to begin 
 again at the beginning — coaxing them first by sprinkling maize 
 on the balustrade of the balcony ; then inveigling them down 
 into the balcony itself ; then leaving the large windows open, 
 and enticing them into the room ; and, finally, educating them 
 so that they would peck at any half-folded packet they found 
 on the stone floor, and get at the grain inside. The weather 
 happened to be fine, and father and daughter contentedly set 
 about their water-pilgrimages through the wonderful and strange 
 city that never seems to lose its interest and charm for even 
 those who know it most familiarly, while it is the one thing in 
 the world that is safe never to disappoint the new-comer, if he 
 has an imagination superior to that of a hedgehog. There were 
 several of Mr. Winterbourne's parliamentary fiicnds in Venice 
 at this time, and Yolande was very eager to make their 
 acquaintance; for now, with the prospect before her of being 
 allowed to go down occasionally and listen to the debates, 
 
YOLANDE. 417 
 
 she wished to become as familiar as was possible with the 
 personnel of the House. She could not honestly say that 
 these legislators impressed her as being persons of extraordinary 
 intellectual force, but they were pleasant enough companions. 
 Some of them had a vein of facetiousness, while all of them 
 showed a deep interest — and even sometimes a hot-headed 
 partisanship — when the subject of cookery and the various 
 tables d'hdte happened to come forward. 
 
 Then, one night when they had, as usual after dinner, gone 
 round in their gondola to the hotel where Mr. Shortlands was 
 expected, they found that that bulky North-countryman had 
 arrived, and was now in the saloon, quite by himself, and 
 engaged in attacking a substantial supper. A solid beefsteak 
 and a large bottle of Bass did not seem quite in consonance 
 with a moonlight night in Venice; but John Shortlands held 
 to the "coelum, non animum" theory: and when he could get 
 Dalescroft fare, in Venice or anywhere else, he preferred that 
 to any other. He received the Winterbournes with great cor- 
 diality; and instantly they began a discussion of their plans 
 for filling in the time before the opening of Parliament. 
 
 " But what is the great project you were so mysterious about ?" 
 Mr. Winterbourne asked. 
 
 "Ay, there's something, now," said he, pouring out another 
 tumblerful of the clear amber fluid. " There's something worth 
 talking about. I've taken a moor in Scotland for this next 
 season ; and Yolando and you are to be my guests. Tit for 
 tat's fair play. I got it settled just before I left London." 
 
 " Whereabouts is it?" Mr. Winterbourne asked again. 
 
 " Well, when it's at home they call it Allt-nam-ba." 
 
 "You don't mean to say you've taken Allt-nam-ba for this 
 year?" 
 
 " But indeed I have. Tit for tat's fair play; and, althoufili 
 the house won't be as well managed as it was last year — for wo 
 can't expect everything — still, I hope we'll have as pleasant a 
 time of it. Ay, my lass," said he, regarding Yolande, "you 
 look as if a breath of mountain air would do ye some good — 
 better than wandering about foreign towns, I'll be bound." 
 
 Yolande c d not answer ; nor did she express any gratitude 
 for so kind n invitation ; nor any gladness at the thought of 
 returning to ihat home in the far mountain wilderness. She 
 sat silent — p^.haps also a trifle paler than usual — while the two 
 men discussed the prospects of the coming seas©n. 
 
 " I'll have to send Edwards and some ©f them up from 
 Dalescroft; t.ough where they are to i^et beds for theniselver. 
 
418 YOLANDE, 
 
 T can't imagine," John Shortlands said. " Won't my fine 
 gentleman turn up his nose if he has to take a room in the 
 botliy! By-the-way, my neighbor Walkley — you remember 
 him, Winterbourne, don't ye ? — has one o' those portable zinc 
 houses that he bought some two or three years ago" wlien lie 
 leased a salmon-river in Sutlierlandshire. I know he hasn't 
 used it since, and I dare say he'd lend it to me. It could easily 
 be put up behind the lodge at Allt-nam-ba; and then they'd 
 have no excuse for grumbling and growling." 
 
 "But why should you send up a lot of English servants, who 
 don't know what roughing it in a small shooting-box is like ?'' 
 said Mr. Winterbourne. "Why should you bother? We did 
 very well last year, didn't we? Why shouldn't you have exactly 
 the same people — and here is Yolande, who can set the machine 
 going again — " 
 
 "There youVe exactly hit it," said Shortlands. "For that is 
 precisely what Yolande is not going to do, and not going to bo 
 allowed to do. It's all very well for an i'^'^- ther to let 
 
 his daughter slave away at grocers' accounts. ' is going 
 
 to be my guest, and must have a clear, full > \. well as 
 any of us. I don't say that she didn't do it . -for I 
 
 never saw a house better managed — everything pi -^ery- 
 
 thing well done — no breaking down — just whai ted 
 
 always to your hand; but I say that, this year, sh e 
 
 her holiday like the rest. Perhaps she needs it mo. 
 of us," he added, almost to himself. 
 
 It was strange that Yolande made no offer — howeve. 
 — of her services, and did not even thank him for his con 
 tion. No; she sat mute, her eyes averted; she let thest 
 discuss the matter between themselves. 
 
 "I am paying an additional £80," said Shortlands, "to ha c 
 the sheep kept off, so that we may have a better chance at tin 
 deer. Fancy all that stretch of land only able to provide £80 
 of grazing! I wonder what some of tlie fellows on your sid(! 
 of the House, Winterbourne, would say to that 2 Gad, I'll tell 
 you, now, what I'd like to see: I'd like to see the six hundred 
 and sixty-six members of the House of Commons put on to Allt- 
 nam-ba, and compelled to get their living off it for five years." 
 
 " They wouldn't try," said his friend, contemptuously. 
 " They'd only talk. One honorable member would make a 
 speech three columns long to prove that it was the duty of the 
 right honorable gentleman opposite to begin rolling off a few 
 granite bowlders; and the right honorable gentleman opposite 
 would make a speech six columns long to show that there was 
 
YOLANDE. 419 
 
 no parliamentary precedent for such a motion ; and an Irishman 
 would get up to show that any labor at all expended on a Scotch 
 moor was an injury done to the Irish fisheries, and another rea- 
 son why the Irish revenues should be managed by a committee 
 of his countryman meeting in Dublin. They'd talk the heather 
 bare before they'd grow an ear of corn." 
 
 " By-the-way," said John Shortlands, who had now finished his 
 supper and was ready to go outside and smoke a pipe in the 
 balcony overlooking the Grand Canal, " I wonder if I shall be 
 able to curry favor with that excellent person, Mrs. Bell ?" 
 
 ''But why?" said Yolande, speaking for the first time since 
 this Allt-nam-ba project was mentioned. 
 
 " Oh, that she might perhaps give Edwards and them a few 
 directions when they go to get the place ready for us. I dare 
 say they will find it awkward at first." 
 
 " I am sure Mrs. Bell will be very glad to do that," Yolande 
 said at once. " If you like I will write to her when the time 
 comes." 
 
 " She would do it for your sake, anyway," \\^ said. " Well, 
 it would be odd if we should have just the same party in the 
 evenings that we used to have last year. They Avcre very snug, 
 those evenings — I suppose because we knew we were so far out 
 of the world, and a small community by ourselves. I hope Jack 
 Melville will still be there — my heart warmed to that fellow ; 
 he's got the right stuff in him, as we say in the North. And 
 the Master — we must give the Master a turn on the hill — I have 
 never seen his smart shooting that you talked so much about, 
 Winterbourne. Wonder if he ever takes a walk up to the lodge ? 
 Should think it must be pretty cold up there just now ; and 
 cold enough at Lynn, for the matter of that." 
 
 "But Mr. Leslie isn't at Lynn, is he?" said Yolande, sud- 
 denly. 
 
 " Where is he, then ?" 
 
 " lie had started on a yachting cruise Avlicn T last heard from 
 hini," Yolande said. " Why, we had half hoped to find him in 
 Venice ; and then it would have been strange — the Allt-nam-ba 
 party all together again in Venice. But perhaps he is still at 
 Naples — he spoke of going to Naples." 
 
 "I don't know about Naples," said Shortlands, "but he was 
 in Inverness last week." 
 
 " In Inverness 1 No; it is impossible !" 
 
 " Oh, biit it is certain. He wrote tome from Inverness about 
 the irilvitiij,- of the shooting." 
 
 " Not from Lynn V said Yolande, rather wonderingly. 
 
420 YOLANDE. 
 
 " No. He said in his letter that he had happened to call in 
 at Macpherson's office — that is their agent, you know — and had 
 seen the correspondence about the shooting ; and it was then 
 that he suggested the advisability of keeping the sheep off Allt- 
 nam-ba." 
 
 " It is strange," Yolande said, thoughtfully. " But he was 
 not well satisfied with his companion — no — not at all comfort- 
 able in the yacht — and perhaps he went back suddenly." And 
 then she added — for she was obviously puzzled about this mat- 
 ter — " Was he staying in Inverness ?" 
 
 " Indeed I don't know," was the answer. 
 
 " Did he write from the Station Hotel ?" she asked again, 
 glancing at him. 
 
 " No ; he wrote from Macpherson's office, I think. You know 
 he used often to go up to Inverness, to look after affairs." 
 
 " Yes," said Yolande, absently : she was wondering whether 
 it was possible that he still kept up that aimless feud with his 
 relatives — aimless, now that the occasion of it was forever re- 
 moved. 
 
 And then they went out on to the wide balcony, where the peo- 
 ple were sitting at little tables, smoking cigarettes and sipping 
 their coffee ; and all around was a cluster of gondolas that had 
 been stopped by their occupants in going by, for in one of the 
 gondolas, moored to the front of the balcony, was a party of 
 three minstrels, and the clear, penetrating, fine-toned voice of a 
 woman rose above the sounds of the violins, and the guitar, with 
 the old familiar 
 
 " Mare si placido, 
 Vento si caro 
 Scordar fa i triboli 
 Al marina ro" 
 
 — and beyond this dense cluster of boats — out on the pale wa- 
 ters of the Canal — here and there a gondola glided noiselessly 
 along, the golden star of its lamp moving swiftly ; and on the 
 other side of the Canal the Church of Santa Maria del la Salute 
 thrust its heavy masses of shadow out into the white moonlight. 
 They were well acquainted with this scene ; and yet the wonder 
 and charm of it never seemed to fade. There are certain things 
 that repetition and familiarity do not affect — the strangeness of 
 the dawn, for example, or the appearance of the first primrose 
 in the woods ; and the sight of Venice in moonlight is another 
 of these things^'>-for it is the most mysterious and the most 
 beautiful picture that the world can show. 
 
t) 
 
 YOLANDE, 421 
 
 By-and-by the music ceased ; there was a little collection of 
 money for the performers ; and then the golden stars of the 
 gondola stole away in their several directions over the placid 
 waters. Mr. Winterbourne and Yolande summoned theirs also, 
 for it was getting late ; and presently they were gliding swiftly 
 and silently through the still moonlight night. 
 
 " Papa," said Yolande, gently, " I hope you Avill go with Mr. 
 Shortlands in the autumn, for it is very kind of him to ask you ; 
 but I would rather not go. Indeed, you must not ask me to go. 
 But it will not matter to you ; I shall not weary until you come 
 back ; I will stay in London, or wherever you like." 
 
 " Why don't you wish to go to Allt-nam-ba, Yolande ?" said 
 he. 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 " I thought you were very happy up there," he said, regarding 
 her. 
 
 But, though the moonlight touched her face, her eyes were 
 cast down, and he could not make out what she was thinking — 
 perhaps even if her lips were tremulous he might have failed to 
 notice. 
 
 " Yes," said she, at length, and in a rather low voice, " perhaps 
 I was. But I do not wish to go again. You will be kind and 
 not ask me to go again, papa ?" 
 
 " My dear child," said he, " I know more than you think — 
 a great deal more than you think. Now I am going to ask you 
 a question : if John Melville were to ask you to be his wife, 
 would you then have any objection to going to Allt-nam-ba?" 
 
 She started back, and looked at him for a second, with an 
 alarmed expression in her face ; but the next moment she had 
 dropped her eyes. 
 
 " You know you can not expect me to answer such a question 
 as that," she said, not without some touch of wounded pride. 
 
 "But he has asked you, Yolande," her father said, quietly. 
 " There is a letter for you at the hotel. It is in my writing-case ; 
 it has been there for a month or six weeks ; it was to be given 
 you whenever — well, whenever I thought it most expedient to 
 give it to you. And I don't see why you shouldn't have it now 
 — as soon as we go back to the hotel. And if you don't want 
 to go to the Highlands, for fear of meeting Jack Melville, as I 
 iirfagine, here is a proposal that may put matters straight. Will 
 it?" 
 
 Her head was still held down, and she said, in almost an in- 
 audible voice, 
 
 " Would you approve, papa?" 
 
422 YOLANDE. 
 
 " Nay, I'm not goinnrto interfere again !" said he, with a laugh. 
 
 " Choose for yourself. I know more now than I did. I have 
 had some matters explained to me, and I have guessed at others; 
 and I have a letter, too, from the Master — a very frank and 
 honest letter, and saying all sorts of nice things ahout you, 
 too, Yolande — yes, and about Melville, too, for the matter of 
 that. I am glad there will be no ill-feeling, whatever happens. 
 So you must choose for yourself, child, without let or hinderance 
 — whatever you think is most for your happiness — what you 
 most wish for yourself — that is what I approve of — " 
 
 " But would you not rather that I remained with you, papa ?" 
 she said, though she had not yet courage to raise her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, I have had enough of you, you baggage !" he said, 
 good-naturedly. " Do you expect me always to keep dragging 
 you with me about Europe ? Haven't we discussed all that 
 before ? Nay, but, Yolande," he added, in another manner, *' fol- 
 low what your own heart tells you to do. That will be your 
 safest guide." 
 
 They reached the hotel, and when they ascended to their suite 
 of rooms he brought her the letter. She read it — carefully and 
 yet eagerly, and with a flushed forehead and a beating heart — 
 while he lit a cigarette and went to the window, to look over at 
 the moonlit walls and massive shadows of San Giorgio. There 
 was a kind of joy in her face ; but she did not look up. She 
 read the letter again — and again ; studying the phrases of it ; 
 and always with a warmth at her heart — of pride, and gratitude, 
 and a desire to sa}^ something to some one who was far rway. 
 
 " Well ?" her father said, coming back from the window, and 
 appearing to take matters very coolly. 
 
 She went to him, and kissed him, and hid her face in his 
 breast. 
 
 " I think, papa," said she, " I — I think I will go with you to 
 AUt-nam-ba." 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Now, it is not possible to wind up this history in the ap- 
 proved fashion, because the events chronicled in it are of some- 
 what. recent occurrence — indeed, at the present writing the Win- 
 terbournes and John Shorthmds are still lookino- forward to their 
 
YOLANDE. 423 
 
 flight to Allt-nam-ba, when Parliament has ceased talking foif 
 the year. But at least the story may be brought as far as possi-- 
 ble " up to date." And first, as regards the Master of Lynn. 
 When, on that evening in Venice, Yolande had imagined that ho 
 was in Naples, and John Shortlands had affirmed that he was in 
 Inverness, he was neither in one nor the other. He was in a 
 hotel in Princes Street, Edinburgh, in a sitting-room on the first 
 floor, lying extended on a sofa, and smoking a big cigar, while ;■. 
 cup of coffee that had been brought him by affectionate hand-; 
 stood on a small table just beside him. And Shena Van, having iii 
 vain cudgelled her brains for fitting terms of explanation and 
 apology, which she wished to send to her brother, the Professor, 
 had risen from the writing-desk and gone to the window ; and 
 was now standing there contemplating the wonderful panorama 
 without — the Scott monument, touched with the moonlight, the 
 deep shadows in the valky, the ranges of red windows in the 
 tall houses beyond, and the giant bulk of the Castle Hill reach- 
 ing away up into the clear skies. 
 
 " Shena," says he, " what o'clock is it ?" 
 
 " A quarter past nine," she answers, dutifully, with a glance 
 at the clock on the chimney-piece. 
 
 " Capital !" he says, with a kind of sardonic laugh. " Excel- 
 lent ! A quarter past nine. Don't you feel a slight vibration, 
 Shena, as if the earth were going to blow up ? 1 wonder you 
 don't tremble to think of the explosion !" 
 
 " Oh yes, there will be plenty of noise," says Shena Van, con- 
 tentedly. 
 
 " And what a stroke of luck to have the Grahams at Lynn ! 
 Bagging the whole covey with one carriage ! It will soon be 
 twenty past. I can see the whole thing. They haven't left the 
 dining-room yet; his lordship must always open the newspapers 
 himself ; and the women-folk keep on, to hear whether Queen 
 Anne has come alive or not. Twenty past, isn't it? ' Ilang 
 that fellow, Lammer!' his lordship growls. 'He's always lare. ' 
 Drinking whiskey at Whitebridge, I suppose. I'll send him 
 about his business — that's what it'll come to.' Then his lord- 
 ship has another half-glass of port-wine; and Polly thinks she'll 
 run up-stairs for a minute to see that the blessed baby is all 
 right; and we'll say she's at the door when they hear wheels 
 outside, and so she stands and waits for the letters and papers. 
 All right ; don't be in a hurry, Polly ; you'll get something to 
 talk about presently." 
 
 He raised himself and sat up on the sofa, so as to get a 
 glimpse of the clock opposite ; and Shena Van — whose proper 
 
424 YO LANDS. 
 
 title by this time was Janet Leslie — came and stood by him, and 
 put her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " Will they be very angry, Archie ?" she says. 
 
 He had his eye fixed on the clock. 
 
 " By Jove," he says, " I wish I was one of those fellows who 
 write for the stage; I would tell you what's happening at this 
 very minute, Shena ! I can see the whole thing — Polly gets the 
 letters and papers, and goes back — ' Papa, here is a letter from 
 Archie — from Edinburgh — what is he doing in Edinburgh ? ' 
 And then his papaship opens the letter — ' My dear father, — I 
 have the honor to inform you — ' ' What ! ' he roars, like a stag 
 lost in the mist. Why, don't you hear them, Shena ? — they're 
 »11 at it now — their tongues going like wild-fire — Aunty Tab 
 swearing she knew it would come to this — I was never under 
 proper government, and all the rest — Polly rather inclined to say 
 it serves them right, but rather afraid — Graham suggesting that 
 they'd better make the best of it, now it couldn't be helped — " 
 
 " Oh, do you think he'll say that, Archie ?" said she, anx- 
 iously. "Do you think he'll be on our side?" 
 
 " My dear girl," said he, " I don't care the fifteenth pai-t of a 
 brass farthing which of them, or whether any one of them, is 
 on our side. Not a bit. It's done. Indeed, I hope they'll 
 howl and squawk to their hearts' content. I should be sorry if 
 they didn't." 
 
 " But you know, Archie," said Shena Van — who had her 
 own little share of worldly wisdom — "if you don't get recon- 
 ciled to your friends, people will say that you only got married 
 out of spite." 
 
 "Well, let them," said he, cheerfully. "You and I know 
 better, Shena — what matters it what they say ? I know what 
 Jack Melville will say. They won't get much comfort out of 
 him. ' No one has got two lives ; why shouldn't he make the 
 most of the one he's got ; why shouldn't he marry the girl he's 
 fond of ? ' — that's about all they'll get out of him. Polly needn't 
 try to throw the Corrievreak fly over him. W'cll, now, Shena, 
 when one thinks of it, what strange creatures people are ! 
 There's Corrievreak; it's a substantial thing; it's worth a heap 
 of solid money, and it might be made worth more ; and there it 
 was, offered to our family, you may say, to keep in our posses- 
 sion porhaps for centuries. And what interfered? W^hy, an 
 impalpable thing like politics ! Opinions — things you couldn't 
 touch with your ten fingers if you tried a month — a mere pre- 
 judice on the part of my father — and these solid advantiiges are 
 thrust away. 
 
YOLANDE. 425 
 
 The abstract question had no interest for Shena Van. 
 
 " I hope you do not regret it," she said, rather proudly. 
 
 " Do I speak as if I regretted it ? No ; not much ! It was 
 that trip to Carlisle that did it, Shena — that showed me what 
 was the right thing to do. And after you left wasn't I wild 
 that I had not had more courage ! And then Owley became 
 more and more intolerable — but I dare say you were the cause 
 of it, you know, in part — and then I said to myself, ' Well, I 
 am off to Aberdeen ; and if Shena has any kind of recollection 
 of the old days in her heart, why, I'll ask her to settle the 
 thing at once.' " 
 
 " Yes, but why wouldn't you let me tell ray brother ?" Shena 
 Van pleaded. 
 
 "Telling one would have been telling everybody," said he, 
 promptly, " and they would have been at their old games. Now, 
 you see, it isn't of the least consequence what they do or say — 
 if they tear their hair out it'll only hurt their own heads. And 
 I don't see why you should worry about that letter. Why 
 should you make apologies ? Why should you pretend to be 
 sorry — ^when you're not ? If it bothers you to write the letter, 
 send a copy of this morning's Scotsman ; that's quite enough. 
 Send them all this morning's Scotsman ; and you needn't mark 
 it; it will be all the pleasanter surprise for them. When they've 
 finished with the leading articles, and the news, and the criti- 
 cisms of the picture-exhibitions, and when they've looked to see 
 liow many more ministers of the Gospel have been writing letters 
 and quarrelling like Kilkenny cats, then they'll stray on to a 
 nice little paragraph — ' What ! — aS^^ Giles's Church — Archibald 
 Leslie to Janet Stewart ! ' — oh, snakes !" 
 
 " But you wrote to your people, Archie," Shena Van said, 
 looking wistfully at the sheet of note-paper that she had in vain 
 endeavored to fill with apologies and appeals for pardon. 
 
 " Well, yes, I did," the Master of Lynn admitted, with a pecu- 
 liar smile. "I could not resist the temptation. But you mis- 
 take altogether, Shena, if you imagine that it was to make 
 apology that I wrote. Oh no ; it was not that ; it was only to 
 convey information. It was my filial duty that prompted me to 
 write. Besides, I wished the joyful tidings to reach Aunty Tabby 
 as soon as possible — oh, don't you make any mistake, Shena — 
 she's worth a little consideration — she has a little money of her 
 own — oh yes, she may do something for us yet !" 
 
 " I don't like to hear you talk of your relations in that way, 
 Archie," said Shena Van, rather sadly, " for if you think of 
 
426 YOLANDE. 
 
 tliem Jiketliat, how are you ever to be reconciled to them? And 
 you told me it would be all right." 
 
 "And so it will, my dear girl," said he, good-naturedly. " And 
 this is the only way to put it all right. AVlien they see that the 
 thing is done, then they'll come to their senses. Polly will be 
 the first. She always mahes the best of matters — sfie's a liood 
 little soul. And his lordship won't do anything desperate ; he 
 won't be such a fool as to drive me to raise money on my exj.cc 
 tations; and he'll soon be glad enough to have me back at Lynn 
 — the people there want some looking after, as he knows. Be- 
 sides, he ought to be in a good-humor just now — both the forest 
 and Allt-nam-ba let already, and Ardengreanan as good as taken." 
 
 "But I must write — I must write," said Shena, regarding the 
 paper again. 
 
 " Well, it's quite simple," said he. " Tell your brother that, 
 when you left Aberdeen, instead of going either to Inverness or 
 to Strathaylort, you came here to Edinburgh, and were married, 
 as per enclosed cutting from the Scotsman. The cause ? — ur- 
 gent family reasons, which will be explained. Then you ask 
 him to be good enough to communicate this news to your sister, 
 and also to send a message to the Manse; but as for apologizing, 
 or anything of that kind, I'd see them hanged first. Besides, 
 it isn't good policy. It isn't wise to treat your relatives like 
 that, and lead them to think they have a right to remonstrate 
 with you. It's your business ; not theirs. You have quite ar- 
 rived at years of discretion, my darling Shena; and if you don't 
 want people to be forever jumping on you — that is, metaphori- 
 cally, I mean — stop it at the beginning, and with decision. 
 Here," said he, suddenly getting up and going over to the writ- 
 ing-table, " I'll write the letter for you !" 
 
 " Oh no, Archie 1" she cried, interposing. " You will only 
 make them angry." 
 
 "My dear child," said he, pushing her away, "honey and mo- 
 lasses are a fool to what I can write when I want to be civil ; 
 and at the present moment I should like to shake hands with the 
 whole human race." 
 
 So he wrote the letter, and wrote it very civilly, too, and to 
 Shena's complete satisfaction; and then ho said, as he finished 
 his coffee, 
 
 " r don't think we shall stay long in Paris, Shena. I don't 
 like Paris. You won't find it half as fine a town to look at as 
 this is now. And if you go the threatre, it's all spectacle and 
 ballet; or else it's the story of a married woman running away 
 with a lover; and that isn't the kind of thing you ought to seo 
 
YOLANDE. 427 
 
 ■->\\ \y:^ \v;"{| (ling- trip, is it? There's no saying how far the 
 i■•:•:-^ uf example might go; and you see you began your wedded 
 life by running away." 
 
 "it was none of my doing, Archie," said Shcna Van, 
 quickly. 
 
 " No," said he. " I think we'll come back to London soon ; 
 for everybady will be there at the opening of the session, and I 
 want to introduce you to some friends of mine. Jack Melville 
 says he is going up, and he pretends it's about his electric light- 
 ing performance; but I suspect it's more to meet the Winter- 
 bournes, when they come back from abroad, than to see the 
 directors of the company. If they do adopt his system, I 
 hope he'll make them fork out, for he is not overburdened with 
 the gear of this wicked world any more than myself. Faith, I 
 wish my Right Honorable papa would hand along the cost of 
 that special license, for it was all his doing. But iiever mind, 
 Shena; we'll tide along somehow; and when we come back 
 from our trip, if they are still showing their teeth, like a badger 
 in a hole, I know what I'll do — we'll go over to the West of 
 Ireland for the salmon-fishing, and we can live cheaply enough 
 in one of the hotels there, either on the Shannon or out in Con- 
 nemara. How would you like that?" 
 
 "Oh, I should be delighted !" said Shena Van, with the dark, 
 wonderful blue eyes lil! • I with pleasure. "For I'm afraid to go 
 back to Inverness, and tiiat's the truth, Archie." 
 
 " Oh, but we shall iiave to go back to Inverness, all in good 
 time," said he, " and it won't do to be afraid of anything. And 
 I think you'll hold your own, Shena," he added, approvingly. 
 " I think you'll hold your own."- 
 
 And so at this point we may bid good-by to these adventurers 
 (who seemed pleased enougli with such fortune as had befallen 
 them), and come along to another couple who, a few weeks 
 later, were walking one evening on the terrace of the House of 
 Commons. It was a dusky and misty night, though it was mild 
 for that time of the year; the heavens were overclouded; tlie 
 hghts on Westminster Bridge and on the Embankment did little 
 to dispel the pervading gloom, though the quivering golden re- 
 flections on the black river looked picturesque enough; and in 
 this dense obscurity feuch Members and their friends as ha^ 
 come out from the heated atmosphere of the House to have a 
 chat or a cigar on the terrace were only indistinguishable figures 
 who could not easily be recognized. They, for the most part, 
 were seated on one or other of the benches standing about, or 
 idly leaning against the parapet; but these two kept walking 
 
428 YOLANDE, 
 
 up and down in front of the vast and shadowy building and tho 
 gloomy windows, and they were arm-in-arm. 
 
 " A generation hence," said one of them, looking at the murky 
 scene all around them, " Londoners won't believe that their city 
 could ever have been as black a pit as this is." 
 
 ''But this generation will see the change, will it not?" said his 
 couipanion, whose voice had just a trace of a foreign accent in 
 it. "You are going to make the transformation, are you not?" 
 
 " I ?" said he, laughing. " I don't know how many are all 
 trying at it ; and whoever succeeds in getting what is really 
 wanted will be a wonder-worker, I can tell you. What's more, 
 he will be a very rich man. You don't seem to think about 
 that, Yolande." 
 
 " About what, then ?" 
 
 " Why, that you are going to marry a very poor man." 
 
 " No, I do not care at all," she said, or rather what she did 
 say was, " I do not care aytall " — despite the tuition of her 
 father. 
 
 " That is because you don't understand what it means," said 
 he, in a kindly way. " You have had no possibility of knowing. 
 You can't have any knowledge of what it is to have a limited 
 income — to have to watch small economies, and the like." 
 
 " Ah, indeed, then !" said she. " And my papa always angry 
 with me for my economies, and the care and the thrift that the 
 ladies at the Chateau exercised always ! ' Miser,' he says to me 
 — ' miser that you are ! ' Oh, I am not afraid of being poor — 
 not aytall F' 
 
 " I have a chance," he said, absently. " So far, indeed, I have 
 been lucky. And the public are hanging back just now ; they 
 have seen so many bad experiments that they won't rush at any 
 one system without examining the others; it's the best one that 
 will win in the end. But it's only a chance, after all. Yolande," 
 said he, " I wonder if I was born to be your evil genius? It was 
 I who sent you away from your own home — where you were 
 happy enough ; and you must have suffered a terrible anxiety all 
 that time — I can see the change in you." 
 
 " Oh, but I will not have you speak like that," said she, putting 
 her other hand on his arm. " How can you speak like that to 
 Tjie when it is night and day that I can not tell you how grateful 
 \ am to you ? Yes ; it was you who sent me ; if I had not loved 
 /ou before* i. should love you for that now — with —, hole 
 iieart. If you had known — if you had seen — wh; was 
 
 to m.y poor mother that I was with her for that tii we 
 
 were together — and she happy and cheerful for the for 
 
v^ 
 
 ^■1^; 
 
 YOLANDE. \ W ^ 429 
 
 many, many sad years — if you had seen the gladness in her face 
 every morning when she saw me — then perhaps^y«tfc-Y^uM have 
 understood. And if I had not gone to her — if I had never 
 known her — if she had never had that Uttle happiness — would 
 that not have been a sad thing ? That she might have died 
 among strangers — and I, her own daughter, amusing myself with 
 friends and idleness and pleasure somewhere — it is too terrible 
 to think of ! And who prevented that ? It is not my gratitude 
 only, it is hers also that I give you, that I offer you. You made 
 her happy for a time, when she had need of some kindness ; and 
 you can not expect that I shall forget it." 
 
 " You are too generous," he said. " It is a small matter to 
 offer advice. / sacrificed nothing; the burden of it fell on 
 you. But I will be honest with you. I guessed that you 
 would have anxiety and trouble ; but I knew you would be brave 
 enough to face it; and I knew, too, that you would not after- 
 ward regret whatever you might have come through, and I 
 know that you don't regret it now. I know you well enough 
 for that." 
 
 " x\nd some day," she said, " or perhaps through many and 
 many years, I will try to show you what value 1 put on your 
 opinion of me ; and if I do not always deserve that you think 
 well of me, at least I shall try to deserve it — can I promise 
 more ?" 
 
 At this moment John Shortlands made his appearance ; he 
 had come out from the smoking-room, with a cigar in his mouth. 
 
 "Look here, Yolande," he said. "I suppose you don't want 
 to hear any more of the debate ?" 
 
 " No, no," she said, quickly. " It is stupid — stupid. Why do 
 they not say what they mean at once — not stumbling here, stum- 
 bling there, and all the others talking among themselves, and as 
 if everybody were going asleep?" 
 
 " It's lively enough sometimes, I can assure you," he said. 
 " However, your father thinks it's no use your waiting any 
 longer. He's determined to wait until the division is taken ; and 
 no one knows now when it will be. He says you'd better go 
 l)ac\ to your hotel — I suppose Mr. Melville will see you so 
 far. Well," said he, addressing Jack Melville, " what do you 
 think of the dinner Wintcrbourne got for you ?" 
 
 " I wasn't thinking of it much," Jack Melville said. " I was 
 more interested in the Members. I haven't been near the House 
 of Commons since I used to come up from Oxford for the boat- 
 race." 
 
 " How's the company goino: ?" 
 
430 YOLANDE. ' 
 
 " Pretty well, I think ; but of course I've nothing to do witi 
 that. I have no capital to invest." 
 
 "Except brains; and sometimes that's as good as bank-notes. 
 Well," said Shortlands, probably remembering an adage about the 
 proper number for company, "I'll bid ye good-night — for Tn. 
 going back to the mangle — I may take a turn at it myself." 
 
 So Jack Melville and Yolande together set out to find their 
 v/ ay through the corridors of the House out into the niglil- 
 woild of London; and when they were in Palace-yard Yo 
 lande said she would just as soon walk up to the hotel whore 
 her father and herself were staying, for it was no farther away 
 than Albemarle Street. 
 
 "Did you hear what Mr. Shortlands said?" she asked, 
 brighly. " Perhaps, after all, then, there is to be no romance ? 
 I am not to be like the heroine of a book, who is approved 
 because she marries a poor man ? I am not to make any such 
 nol)le sacrifice ?" 
 
 " Don't be too sure, Yolande," said he, good-naturedly. 
 " Companies are kittle cattle to deal with ; and an inventor's 
 business is still more uncertain. There is a chance, as I say ; 
 but it is only a chance. However, if that fails, there will be 
 something else. I am not afraid." 
 
 " And I — am I afraid ?" she said, lightly " No ! Because I 
 know more than you — oh, yes, a great deal more than you. 
 And perhaps I should not speak ; for it is a secret — no, no, it is 
 not a secret, for you have guessed it — do you not know that 
 you have Monaglen ?" 
 
 He glanced at her to see whether she was merely making fun ; 
 but he saw in her eyes that she was making an actual — if 
 amused — inquiry. 
 
 " Well, Yolande," said he, " of course I know of Mrs. Bell's 
 fantasy; but I don't choose to build my calculations for the 
 future on a fantasy." 
 
 " But," said Yolande, rather shyly, " if you were told it was 
 done? If Monaglen were already yours ? If the lawyers had 
 done — oh, everything — all settled — what then ?" 
 
 " ' What then ? ' I would refuse to take it. But it is absurd. 
 Mrs. Bell can not be such a madwoman. I know she is a very 
 kind woman ; and there is in her nature a sort of romantic at- 
 tachment to my father's family — which I rather imagine she 
 has cultivated by the reading of those old songs. Still she can 
 not have done anything so wild as that." 
 
 " She has bought Monaglen," Yolande said, without looking 
 up. 
 
YOLANDE. 43t 
 
 " Very well. I thought she would do that — if she heard it 
 
 ^' was in the market. Very well. Why shouldn't she go there 
 
 — and send for her relatives, if she has any — and be a grand 
 
 lady there ? I have met more than one grand lady who hadn't 
 
 half her natural grace of manner, nor half her kindliness of 
 
 ^"heart." 
 
 " It is very sad, then," said Yolande (who was afraid to drive 
 hini into a more decided and definitive opposition). " Here is 
 ' a poor woman who has the one noble ideal — the dream of her 
 ' life — it has been her hope and her pleasure for many and many 
 a year ; and when it comes near to completion — no — there is 
 an obstacle — and the last obstacle that one could have imagined! 
 Ah, the ingratitude of it ! It has been her romance ; it has 
 been the charm of her life. She has no husband, no children. 
 She has, I think, not any relation left. And because you are 
 proud, you do not care that you disappoint her of the one hope 
 of her life — that you break her heart ?" 
 
 " Ah, Yolande," said he, with a smile, " Mrs. Bell has got hold 
 of you with her old Scotch songs — she has been walking you 
 through fairyland, and your reason has got perverted. What 
 do you think people would say if I were to take away ^this poor 
 woman's money from her relatives — or from her friends and ac- 
 quaintances, if she has no relatives ? It is too al'surd. If I were 
 the promoter of a swindling company, now, I could sliarpit out 
 of her that way ; that would be all right, and I should remain an 
 honored member of society ; but this won't do — this won't do at 
 all. You may be as dishonest as you like, and so long as you 
 don't give the law a grip on you, and so long as you keep rich 
 enough, you can have plenty of public respect; but you can't 
 afford to become ridiculous. No, no, Yolande; if Mrs. Bell has 
 bought Monaglen, let her keep it. I hope she will install herself 
 tliere, and play Lady Bountiful — she can do that naturally 
 enough; and when she has had her will of it, then, if she likes 
 to leave it to me at her death, I shall be her obliged and humble 
 servant. But in the mean time, my dearest Yolande, as you and 
 I have got to face the world together, I think we'd better have 
 as little fantasy around us as possible — except the fantasy of 
 affection, and the more of that we have the better." . 
 
 When they got to the hotel they paused outside the glass 
 door to say good-by. 
 
 " Good-night, dearest Yolande." 
 
 " Good-night, dear Jack." 
 
 And then she looked up at this broad-shouldered, pale, dark 
 
432 YOLANDE. 
 
 man, and there was a curious smile in her beautiful, sweet, and 
 serious face. 
 
 " Is it true," she asked, " that a woman always has her own 
 way?" 
 
 " They say so, at all events," was the answer. 
 
 " And if two women have the sam.e wish and the same hope 
 and only one man to say no, then it is still more likely he will 
 be defeated ?" 
 
 "I shouldn't say he had much chance myself," Jack Melville 
 said. " But what's your conundrum, now, sweetheart ?" 
 
 " Then I foresee something," she said. *' Yes, I see that we 
 shall have to ask Mr. Leslie to be very kind, and to lend us 
 Duncan Macdonald for an evening. Oh, not so very far away 
 — not so far away as you imagine ; because, you know, when we 
 have all gone up to Monaglen House, and we are all inside, going 
 over the rooms — and looking here and there with a great curios- 
 ity and interest — or perhaps we are all seated in the dining-room, 
 having a little chat together — then what will you say if all at 
 once you heard the pipes outside, and what do you think Dun- 
 can will play, on such an evening as that, if not Melville's Wel- 
 come Home .^" 
 
 THK END. 
 
 
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