^^■^■r^V.tV^^^l 2 vr 1 5^ — K^ g ^''7130NVS01^ %J13 \ s^LOS-ANC BilVV 2^^ -^ '^ "^^^^r ^3 c?^ ^T ^ ^r7i]ONV-S01^' %a3AiN: /t 4 y«" ■ IV THE ROSE AND THE KEY. 3 J. SHERIDAN LE FANU, ALTllOlt 01' ■• I'liECKMATE,'' "UNCLE SILAS," "(iUY UEVERELL," &C. IN TIIUKE VOLUMES. VOL. 1. LONDON : CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 1871. LONDON: PltlNTED BY C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, DUKE STllEKT, LINCOLN'S-INN-FIKLDS. isn't TO V. ( THOMAS E. BEATTY, EISQ., M.i)., F.R.C.S.I., A NAME CELEBRATED IN HIS LEARNED AND BRILLIANT PROFESSION ; A GUILELESS AND GENIAL NATURE, AND A DELIGHTFUL COMPANION, BULOVED, ADMIRED, AND HONOURED BY MANY FRIENDS, AND BY NONE MORE THAN BY THE AUTHOR, THESE PAGES ARE INSCRIBED WITH MUCH AFFECTION. 13135G-1 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CHAPTER 1. PAGE Unoculus 1 CHAPTER II. A Guide 10 CHAPTER III. Plas Ylwd 17 CHAPTER IV. How They All Got On 24 CHAPTER V A Spectre 35 CHAPTER VI. TlIEY MEET A FrIEND 47 CHAPTER VII. Flight 5S CHAPTER VIII. Wybourne Chukchyard 68 CHAPTER IX. The Young Lady Speaks 7'J CHAPTER X. Farewell 91 CHAPTER XI. ROYDON 102 CHAPTER XII. Barbara Vernon 109 CHAPTER XIII. Mother AND Daughter 119 , CHAPTER XIV. Guests and Neighbours 12.5 IV CONTENTS. CHAPTER XV. PAGE DiNNEU ......... 133 CHAPTER XVI. A Skirmish 142 CHAPTER XVII. In THE Drawing-room 151 CHAPTER XVIII. Dressing-gowns and Slippers 159 CHAPTER XIX. Breakfast 172 CHAPTER XX. Lady Vernon's Excursions 181 CHAPTER XXI. ■ The Conference 187 CHAPTER XXII. In Roydon Chukch ' . 195 CHAPTER XXIII. The Party at Roydon Hall 204 CHAPTER XXIV. A Gentleman in Black . . . • . . . 215 CHAPTER XXV. The County Paper 223 CHAPTER XXVI. Colloquy 231 CHAPTER XXVII. The Nun's Well 248 CHAPTER XXVIII. Inquiry . 261 CHAPTER XXIX. Captain Vivian 268 CHAPTER XXX. A Visit 281 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. CHAPTER I. UNOCULUS. The level liirlit of a summer sunset, over a broad heath, is brightening its brown undulations with a melanchol}' flush, and turning all the stalks of heather in the fore2;round into twisted sticks of gold. Insect wings sparkle dimly in the ah' ; the lagging bee drones homeward, and a wide (bift of crows, cawing high and faint, show like shadows against the sea-green sky, flecked with faint crimson, as they sail away to the distant dormi- tories of Westwold Forest. Toward the sunset end of this savage heath stand four gigantic fir-trees, casting long shadows. VOL. I. ' B 2 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. One, indeed, is little more than a rotten stump, some twelve feet high ; all bend eastwards, shorn of their boughs nearly to the top, and stretching the arms that remain, some yellow and stripped of their bark, in the same direction, as if signalling together to the same distant point. These slanting fir-trees look like the masts of a mighty wreck sub- merged; and antiquaries say that they are the monumental relics of a forest that lies l)uried under the peat. A young lady, her dress of dark serge, Avitli a small black straw-hat, a little scarlet feather in it, and wearing a pair of boots, such as a country artist might produce, made of good strong leather, with thick soles, but, in spite of coarse work and clumsy material, showing a wonderfully pretty little foot, is leaning lightly against one of these great firs. Her companion, an elderly lady, slight and meny, sits on a hillock of turf at her feet. The dress of the elder lady corresponds with that of the younger. It is that of a person inured to the practice of a strict but not uncomfortable economy. The young lady has dropped a japanned colour- box and a block-book at her feet. Is she an artist ? Possibly a governess ? At all events, she is one of the loveliest creatures eyes ever lighted on. Is there any light more becoming than that UNOCULUS. low and richly tinted, that comes subdued through the mists of sunset ? With a pleased look — the listening look which such spiritual delight assumes — with parted lips, the light touching the edge of her little teeth, with eyes a-glow with rapture, drinking in the splendour and beauty of the transitory hour and scene, as if she could look on in silence and beatitude for ever, the girl leans her little shoulder to the ancient tree. With a long sigh, she says at last : " I was going to ask your forgiveness, dear old cousin Max." "For whatf asked the old lady, turning up a face pleasantly illuminated with the golden light which catches the tip of her nose and chin, and the edge of her good-natured old cheek. " For maldng you take so long a walk. I'm a little tired myself. But I don't beg your pardon, because I think this more than makes amends. Let us look for a minute more, before all fades." The old lady stood up, with a little shrug and screw of her shoulders. " So I am — f(uite stiff — my old bones do com- plain ; Ijut oh, really, it is quite beautiful ! I sec it so much better standing here ; that bank was in my way. How splendid — gorgeous !" The scene was indeed worth a detour in their B2 4 THE KOSE AND THE KEY. homeward route. Two grand and distant ranges of mountain, approaching from riglit and left, stop short in precipitous terminations that resemble the confronting castles of two gigantic lines of fortifi- cation, leaving an undulating plane between, with the sunset sky, and piles of flaming cloud, for a horizon; and, in the comparatively near fore- ground, rises between these points an abrupt knoll crowned by the ruined castle of Cardyllion, and, with the village studded with grand old trees, looking like a town on fire. In nearer foregromid, in the hollow, in solemn purple shadow, are masses of forest ; and against the faint green and yellow sky are spread streaks of pui-ple vapour, and the fading crimson and scarlet fires of sunset. " This should reconcile us to very humble ways ; and more, I feel that through marble pillars, through great silk curtains, among mirrors, bronzes, china, and all the rest, looking out from a velvet sofa, I could not see, much less enjoy all this, as I do." Cousin Max lauo;liccl. " Very wise ! very philosophical ! very romantic!" exclaimed she. " But it is enough to be content with one's station in life, and not to grow too fond of any. To be content is, simply, not to wish for UXOCULUS. b change. My poor father used to say that those; who wished for change were like those who wished! for deatli. They longed for a state of which theyj had no experience, and for which they might not be so fit as they fancied, for eveiy situation has its\ liabilities as well as its privileges. That is what he used to say." "Dear Max, I withdraw it, if I said anything sensible, for whenever I do you grow so wise that you bore me to death." She kissed her. " Do let us be foolish, darling, while we are together, and we shall understand one another perfectly. See how quickly the scene changes. It is very beauti- ful, but not quite so glorious now." At tliis moment the sound of steps, close behind them upon the soft peat, made them both turn their heads. A sleek, lean man, lantern-jawed, in a shabby, semi-clerical costume, passed tliom by in front, from right to left, in an oblique line. He was fol- lowing a path, and was twirling a stick slowly in his hand by its crooked handle, and gazing up at the sky with one eye — the other was blind — with a smile that was meant to be sahitly. In spite of his meek smile, and liis seedy and mean exterior, the two ladies had come to connect ideas of the sinister and the dangerous with this man. 6 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. "Gracious me!" said the elder lady, after a pause, " I do believe — I'm almost sure — that is the very man." " I am perfectly certain," said the young lady, who had followed him with her eyes until he was hidden from view by a screen of furze and haw- thorns, a Httle way to the left. " I can't imagine what that odious, ill-looking man can possibly mean by following us about as he does." "Perhaps, after all, he is asking himself a question very like that about us?" said the old lady, with a laugh. " Not he. He is following us." "I saw him at Penmaen Mawr, but nowhere else," said Miss Max. " But I saw him at Chester, and there could be no mistake about his watching us there. I saw him look at our luggage, and look for our names there, and I saw him stand on the step of his car- riao-e at Conway, until he saw us get out with the evident intention of staying there; and then he got down with that little leather bag, that seems to be all that he possesses, and he came to our hotel, simply, I am certain, to watch us. You must recol- lect, when we returned from our walk, that I told you I saw him sitting in the room near the stairs, don't you recollect, writing — don't you remember?" " Yes, I remember your saying there was a man UNOCULIJS. i blind of an eye, the same we had observed at Pen- maen Mawr, who had followed us, and was in the same place. But the people at the inn said he was a travelling secretary to some religious society, collectino; monev." " Did not you say," persisted the young lady, "when you first saw him, that he was a very ill- looking man"?" "Yes; so I did. So he is. He looks sancti- monious and roguish, and that white eye makes his face — I hope it is not very uncharitable to say so — almost villanous. I think him a verv ill-looking man, and if I thought he was following us, I should speak to the police, and then set out for my humble home without losing an hour." " And you don't think he is following us ?" said the young lady. " If he is travelling to collect subscriptions he may very well have come here about his business, and to Penmaen Mawr, and to Chester. I don't see why he must necessarily be following us. And Conway, too, h^ would have stopped at naturally. It does not follow at all that he is in pursuit of us because he happens to come to the same places. The kini; himself has followed her When .she has gone before. Vic are not worth robbing, my dear, and we look it. You must not be so easily frightened." 8 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. " Frightenedi I'm not the least friglitcned," said the young ladv, spiritedly. " I'm not what is termed a nervous young lady. You have no right to think that. But I don't believe he has any other business but tracking us from place to place. What other business on earth could he have had — getting out at Abber, for instance? I forgot to mention Abber. It is very odd, you must allow. Let us walk on." She had picked up her colom- box and her block. " Very odd that he should get out of the train wherever we stop, always about business, we are to suppose, that has no connexion with us ; that he should follow us, by the same odd accident, where there is no rail, and where we can only get by a fly ; that he should get always into the same quiet little inns, though, of course, he would like much bettor to be in noisier places, where he would meet people like himself; and that he should turn up, this evening, so near our poor little lodgings, and go by that path which brings him there. What on earth can he want in that direction ?" " Yes, I do think it's odd, my dear ; and, I say, I i;hink he does look very villanous," said the old lady. " I don't pretend to account for it," said the, girl, as they trudged on side by side; "but it is just possible that he may be a detective, who mis- UKOCULUS. 9 takes lis for some people he is in pursuit of. I only know that he is spoiling my poor little holi- day, and I do wish 1 were a man, that I might give him a good fright." The old lady laughed, for the girl spoke threat- eningly, with a flash from her splendid eyes, and for a moment clenched tlie tiniest little fist you can fancy. " And you thiidv he's gone before us to Pritch- ard's farm-house ?" said the old lady, glancing over her shoulder in that direction, above which a mass of thundrous cloud was risino;. " Dear me ! how like thunder that is." " Awfully !" said the young lady. " Stop a moment — I thought I heard distant thunder. Listen !" They both paused, looking toward those ominous piles of cloud, black against the now fast-fading skv. 10 CHAPTER II. A GUIDE. " Hush !" suid the young lady, laying her fingers on her companion's arm. They listened for a minute or more. " Tliere it is !" exclaimed the girl, as a faint rumble spread slowly along, and among the moun- tains. They remained silent for a minute after it had passed away. " Yes, that certainly was thunder," said the elder lady ; " and It is growing so dark ; it would not do to be caught in the storm, and to meet our one- eyed persecutor, perhaps, and we have fully a mile to go still. Come, we must walk a little faster." " I hope it will be a good thunder-storm," said A GUIDE. 11 tlie young lady watcliing the sky, as tlicy liurrled on. " It frightens me more than it Joes you, ])ut I think I like it better." " You may easily do that, dear ; and like our farm-house better than I do, also." " We are frightfully uncomfortable, I agree. Let us leave it to-morrow," said the young lady. "And where shall we go next?" inquired her companion. "To Llanberris, if I'm to decide," said the girl. " But first we must look over the castle at Car- dyllion, and there arc one or two old houses I should like to sketch — oiily roughly." " You are making too great a labour of your holida}^ : you sketch too much." " Well, we leave to-morrow, and the day after is Sunday, and then — on Monday — my holiday ends, and my slavery begins," said the young lady, impetuously. " You certainly do use strong language," said the elder lady, a little testily. "Why don't you try to be content? Dear me ! How iinicli nearer the thunder is !" " It will soon be darker, and then \ve shall sec the lightning splendidly," said the young lady. " Don't stop, darling, let us get on. I was going to say, you must study to be content — remember your catechisnj. The Queen, I dare say, has 12 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. tilings to complain of; and Farmer PritcliarcVs daughter, who has, as you fancy, a life of so much libert}', will tell you she is something of a slave, and can't do, by any means, quite as she likes. I only hope, dear Maud, we have money enough to bring us home." " We can eke it out with my drawings. "We shan't starve. AVe can have the ruins of Car- narvon Castle for breakfast, and eat Snowdon for dinner, and turn the J\Ienai into tea. It is a comfort to know I can live by my handiwork. I don't think, cousin, I have a shilling I can call my own. If I could earn enough by my drawing to live on, I think I should prefer it to any other way of living I can imagine." " You used to think a farmer's life the happiest on earth," said the old lady, trudging along. "There's Kichard Pritchard, why not many him?" " I might do worse ; but there are half a dozen conclusive reasons against it'. In the first place, I don't think Richard Pritchard would maiTy me ; and, next, I know I wouldn't marry Richard Prit- chard ; and, thirdly, and seriously, I shall never marry at all, never, and for the reasons I have tokl you often ; and those reasons can never chancre." "We shall see," said her companion, with a A GUIDE. 13 laufTli and a little shake of her head. " Good Heavens !" exclaimed the old lady, as nearer thunder resounded over the landscape. " Hush !" whisjiered the girl, as they both paused and listened, and when it had died away, " What a noble peal that was !'' she exclaimed. And as they resumed their march she continued : " I shall never marry: and my resolution depends on my circumstances, and they, as you know, are never likely to alter — humanly speaking, they never can alter — and I have not courao;e enough to make myself happy ; and, coward as I am, I shall break my own heart rather than break my chains. Where are we now ?" As she said this she came to a sudden halt at the edge of a deep channelled stream, whose banks just there stand steep and rugged as those of a ravine, crowned with strarjo;ling masses of thorn and briars. She gazed across and up and down the stream, which was swollen just then by moun- tain rains of the nii2;ht before. " Can we have missed our wav ?" said the elder lady. "AYhat on earth has become of the wooden bridge?" exclaimed the younger one. There was still quite light enough to discern objects ; and ^liss Max, catching her young com- panion by the hand, whispered: 14 THE KOSE AND THE KEY. " Good gracious, Maud, is that the man f " What man ?" she asked, startled. " The bhud man — the person who has been fol- lowinij us." Miss INIaud — for such was the young lady's name — said nothing in reply. The two ladies stood irresolute, side by side. Maud had seen the person who was approaching, once only in her life. It was two days before, as she and her cousin were getting out of their fly at the Verney Arms, in the pretty little town of Cardyllion. She was a proud young lady ; it would have taken a good deal to make her avow, even to herself, the slightest inte- rest in any such person. Nevertheless, she recog- nised him a good many seconds before INIiss Max had discovered her mistake. She was standing beside that elderly lady. They were both looking across the stream ; the young lady furthest from the stranger had turned a little away. There is quite light enough to see faces still, but it will not last long. The young man is very handsome, and also tall. He has been fishing, and has on a pair of those gigantic jack-boots in which fishermen delight to walk the rivers. He wears a broad-leafed hat, round which are wound his flies. A boy with his rod, net, and basket trudges behind. A GUIDE. 15 The old lady speaks to him as he passes. He stops, lowers his cigar, and inclines to listen. " I beg pardon," she says. " Can you tell me ? Tliere was — -Fam sure it was on this very spot — a bridge of plank across this stream, and I can't find itl" " Oh ! They were taking that away to-day, as I passed l)y. It had grown unsafe, and the — the Oh, yes ; the new one is to be put up in the morning." The odd little hesitation I have recorded was caused by his seeing the young lady, on a sudden, in the midst of his sentence, and for the moment forgetting everything else. And well he might, for he had been dreaming of her for the last two days. He dropped his cigar, became, all at once, much more deferential, and with his hat in his hand, said : " Do you wish to cross the brook ? Because if you do, I can show you to some stepping-stones about a quarter of a mile higher up, where you can get across very nicely." "Thanks. I should 1)e so very mucli obliixed" said the old lad}'. - The gentleman was only too happy, and havinfi- sent the boy on to the Verney Arms, talked veiy agreeably as he accompanied and directed their march. He had come down there for a little fish- 16 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. ing ; lie knew tlie Verneys a little, and old Lord Vcrney Avas such a very odd man ! He told them stories of him, and very amusing some of them were, and his eye always glanced to see the effect of his anecdotes upon Miss Maud. Two or three times he ventured to speak to her. The young lady did not either encourage or discourage these little experiments, and answered very easily and carelessly, and, I am bound to say, very briefly too. In the mean time, the thunder grew nearer and more frequent, and the wild reflection of the lifrhtninir flickered on trees and fields about them. And now they had reached the thick clump of osiers, beneath which the stepping-stones, of Avhich they were in search, studded the stream. Only the summits of these stones were now above the water, and the light was nearly gone. 17 CHAPTER III. PLAS YLWD. "I HAVE not courage for this," said tlie old lady, aghast, eyeing the swift ciuTcnt and the uncertain footing to Avliicli, in the most deceptive possible twilight, she was invited to commit her- self. "But yon know, darling, we must get across somehow," urged the girl, cruelly. " It is quite easy ; don't fancy anything else." And she stepped lightly over. "It is all very fine with your young feet and eyes," she replied ; " but for an old woman like me it is little better than the tight rope ; and it would be death to me to take a roll in that river. What on earth is to he done ?" VOL. I. c 18 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. " It is really a great deal easier than you sup- pose," said the oblighig young gentleman, not sorry to find an opportunity of agreeing with Miss Maud, " and I think I can make it perfectly easy if you will just take my hand as you get across. I'll walk in the stream beside you. It is quite shallow here, and these things make me absolutely impervious to the water. Pray, try. I undertake to get you across perfectly safely." So, supporting her across with his left hand, and walking beside her, with his right ready to assist her more effectually in case of a slip or stumble, he conducted her quite safely over. When the lady had thanked him very earnestly, and he had laughingly disclaimed all right to her acknowledgments, another difficulty suddenly struck her. " And now, how are we to find our farm-house ? I know the way to it perfectly from the wooden bridge ; but from this, I really haven't an idea." " I'll make it out," said the young lady, before their guide had time to speak. " I like exploring ; and it can't be far — a little in this direction. Thank you very much." The last words were to the young man, whose huge boots were pouring down rivulets on the dry dust of the little pathway on which they were standing. PL AS YLWD. 19 "If I am not too disagreeable a guide, in tliis fisherman's pliglit," lie said, glancing, with a laugh, at his boots, "■ nothing would please me so much as being allowed to point out the way to you. I happen to know it perfectly, and it is by no means so easy as you may suppose, particularly by this light — one can hardly tell distances, ever so near." " Pray, don't take all that trouble," said the girl, " I can make it out quite easily." "Nonsense, my dear Maud. You could never make it out ; and besides," she added, in an under tone, " how can you tell where that blind man may turn up, that follows us, as you say ? We are very much obliged to you," she said, turning to him, " and you are doing us really a great Idndness. I only hope it won't be bringing you too far out of your way ?" Very pleasantly, therefore, they went on. It became darker, rapidly, and though the thunder gi'ew louder and more frequent, and the hghtning gleamed more vi\ddly across the landscape, the storm was still distant enough to enable Maud to enjoy its sights and sounds, wdthout a sense of danger. The thunder-clouds are stealthily but swiftly ascending. These battlements of pandemonium, " like an exhalation," screen the sky and stars with black, and from their field of darkness leaps now C 2 20 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. unci tlien the throbbing bhie, that leaves the eye dazzled, and lights rock and forest, hill and ruin, for a moment in its pale glare. Then she listens for the rumble that swells into long and loud- echoing reverberations. He stays his narrative, and all stop and listen. He smiles, as from under his long lashes he covertly watches the ecstasy of the beautiful girl. And then they set out again ; the old lady vowing that she can't think why she's such a fool as to stop at such an hour, and tired to death as she is, to listen to thunder. Farmer Pritchard, happily for wandering Tintos in that part of the world, is not one of those scientific agriculturists who cut down their hedge- rows and square their fields. Our little party has now reached the stile which, under the shadow of some grand old elms, admits the rustics, who fre- (juent Richard Pritchard, to his farm-yard. It is an old and a melancholy remark, that the picturesque and the comfortable are hardly com- patible. Here, however, these antagonistic prin- ciples are as nearly as possible reconciled. The farm-yard is fenced round with hawthorns and lime-trees, and the farm-house is a composite build- ing, of which the quarter in which the ladies were lodged had formed a bit of the old Tudor manor- house of Plas Ylwd, whicli gave its name to the place. PL AS YLWD, 21 A tliatcliecl porch, with Avorn stono pillars and steps, fronts the hatch ; and from beside this, through a wide window of small panes, a cheerful light was scattered along the rough pavement, and more faintly on the hanging foliage of the tree opposite. " What a pretty old house !*' the young fisher- man exclaimed, looking up at the gables, and the lattices, and the chimneys, that rose from the deep thatch of the cobbled building. " It may be pi'etticr in this light, or rather dark- ness, than at noon," said the old lady, with a shrug, and a little laugh. " But it really is, in any light, an extremely pretty old house," said the girl, taking up the cudgels for their habitation, " and everything is so beautifully neat. I think them such nice people."' A few heavy rain-drops had fallen sullenly as they came, and now with the suddenness of such visitations, the thunder shower, all at once, began to descend. " Come in, come in," said the old lady, im- periously. Very willingly the young gentleman stepped under the porch. They all three stood there for a moment, looking oat towards the point from which, hitherto, the lightning had been chiefly visible. 22 THE KOSE AND THE KEY. " Oh ! But you must come in and take some tea," said the old hidy, suddenly recollecting. '.' You mvst come in, really." Their walk and chat, and the climbing of stiles, and the rural simplicities that surrounded, had made her feel quite intimate. He glanced covertly at the young lady, but in her face he saw neither invitation nor prohibition ; so he felt at liberty to choose, and he stepped, very gladly, into the house. As you enter the old house you find yourself in a square vestibule, if I can call by so classic a name anything so rude. Straight before you yawns an arch that spans it from wall to wall, giving admission to the large kitchen of the farm- house : at your right, under a corresponding moulded archj, opens the wide oak staircase of the manor-house, Avith a broad banister, on the first huge stem of which, as on a vestal altar, is placed a burnished candlestick of brass, in Avhich burns a candle to welcome the return of old Miss Max and young Miss ]\Iaud Guendoline. The young lady steps in with the air, though she knows it not, of a princess into her palace. As they enter, her ear is struck by an accent, not Welsh, and a voice the tones of which have something of a cold, nasal, bleating falsetto, which is intensely disagi'eeable, and looking quickly PL AS YLWD. 23 tlirougli tlio arched entrance to the hitclien, she sees there, taking his case in an arm-chair by the fire2)hice, the long-visaged man with the white eye. lie is hokling forth agreeahlj, with a smile on his skinny lips. He gesticulates with a long hand, the nails of which are black as ebony. The steam of the saintly man's punch makes a halo round his head; and his hard cheeks are flushed with the pink that tells of inward comfort. Ilis one effec- tive eye addresses itself, although he is haranguing Richard Pritchard's wife, to Richard Pritchard's daughter, -who is very i)retty, and leans, listeniiig to the ugly stranger, with her bare arms rolled in her apron, on the high back of one of the old- fashioned oak chairs. 24 CHAPTER IV. now THEY ALL GOT ON. Just for a moment the appearance of this Codes, domesticated under the same roof, spy, thief, whatever he might be, made the young lady wmce. Her impulse was to walk straight into the kitchen, cross-examine the visitor, and call on Eichard Pritchard to tm'n him out forthwith. But that was only for one moment ; the next, she was chatting just as usual. ISIi's. Pritchard, with her pretty Welsh accent, another candle, and her smile of welcome, had run out to accompany the ladies up-stairs to know their wishes, and to make any little adjustments in the room they might require. " I lighted a bit o' fire, please 'm, the evenin' was gone rather cold, I thought." HOW THEY ALL GOT ON. 25 " You did quite right, Mrs. Pritcliard ; you take such good care of us; it looks so comfortable," said the old lady. " I'm very glad 'm, thank you, ma'am, ^Yill you please to have tea 'm f " " Yes, as quickly as possible, thanks." And Mrs. Pritcliard vanished noiselessly. The old lady's guest was delighted with everything he saw. It is not a large room ; square, with blackest oak panels, burnished so that they actually flash in the flicker of the fire, that burns under the capacious arch of the fireplace. All the f urnitiu'c, chairs, tables, and joint stools, arc of the same black oak, waxed and polished, till it gleams and sparkles again. These clumsy pieces of ancient cabinet-making have probably descended, with this wing of the old house, to its present occupiers. The floor is also of polished oak, with a piece of thick old carpet laid down in the miildle, and the window is covered Avitli a rude curtain of baize. There are two sets of shelves aijainst the wall, on which stand thick the brightly coloured delft figures, cups, and candlesticks, interspersed with mutilated specimens of ohl china — a kind of ornament in which the AVelsh delight, and whicli makes their rooms very bright and clieerful. Tlic rcom is a picture of neatness. For a king's Van- 2G THE EOSE AKD THE KEY. soni you could not find dust enough in it to cover a silver penny. The young guest looks round delighted. Margaret's homely room did not seem to Faust more interesting, or more instinct with the sph'it of neatness. " Well, now you are in our farm-house, Mr. " The old lady had got thus far, when she found herself at fault, a little awkwardly. " My name is ]\Iarston," he said, smiling a little, but "very pleasantly. " And I think, for my part, I have seen much more uncomfortable drawing-rooms," she resumed. " I think it is a place one might grow fond of. Marston," she murmured in a reverie, and then she said to him, " I once met a J\lr. JSIarston at " But here a covert glance from Maud pulled her up again. " I certainly did meet a ^Ir. Marston somewhere ; but it is a long time ago," she said. " We are to be found in three different counties," he said, laughing ; " it is hard to say where we are at home." " Aren't you afraid of those great wet boots ?" the officious old lady began. "Oh, dear! not the least," said he, "if you don't object to them in your drawing-room." He glanced at the young lady, so as to include her. " But the little walk up here has shaken off all the now TIIEY ALL GOT OX. 27 wTft, and as for mysclfj tlicy are a sort of (livino-- Iklls in which one can go anywhere and be as dry as on terra firma ; it is the only use of them." He turned to the young lady. " Very tempting scenery about here. 1 dare say }-ou have taken a Ibng walk to-day. Some lady friends of mine, last year, over-did it very much, and were quite knocked lap for some time after they left this." "I'm a very good walker — better tlian my cousin," said the young lady ; " and a good long- walk is one of the most delio-htful thincrs on earth. To see, as I have done, often, distant blue hills grow near, and reveal all their picturesque details, and a new landscape open before you, and finally to see the same hills fall into the rear, and arow as dim and blue as they were before, and to owe the transformation to your own feet, is there anything that gives one such a sense of indei)endence ? Those fine ladies who go everywhere in their carriages enjoy nothuig of this, and yet, I think, it is half the pleasure of beautiful scenery. My cousin !Max to-day was lecturing nie on the duty of feeing content— I don't thhdv tluit is the speech of a discontented person." ■" It is a very wise speech, and perfectly true ; 1 Save experienced the same thing a thousand times myself," said JNIr. ]\larston. Miss Max would have had a word to say, but she 28 THE KOSE AND THE KEY. was busy hammering upon the floor with a cudgel provided for the pui'pose of signalhng thus for attendance from below. Mrs. Pritchard enters with the tea. Is there a cosier spectacle? If people are disposed to be happy, is there not an influence in the cups and saucers, and all the rest, that makes them cheery, and garrulous, and prone to intimacy? It is an odd little adventure. Outside — The speedy gleams the darkness swallows, Loud, long, and deep, the thunder bellows. The pretty girl has drawn the curtain halfway back, and opened a lattice in the stone-shafted window, the air being motionless, to see the light- ning better. The rain is still rushing down perpendicularly, and whacking the pavement below all over. Inside, the candles glinnner on oaken walls three hundred years old, and a little party of three, so oddly matlc acquainted, are sitting over their homely tea, and talking as if they had known one another as long as they could remember. Handsome INIi-. Marston is chatting in the happiest excitement he has ever known. The girl can't deny, in foro conscientia3, that his brown features and large dark eyes, and thick soft hair, and a certain delicacy of outline almost feminine, accompanied with his manly and athletic figure, present an ensemble singularly handsome. now TIIEY ALL GOT ON. • 29 " His face is intelligent, there is fire in his face, he looks like a hero," she admitted to herself. ^•But what do I know of him? Ho talks good- naturedly. His manners are gentle ; but mamma says that young faces arc all deceptive, and that character does not write itself there, or tone the voice, or impress the manner, until beauty begins to wear itself out. I know nothing about him. lie seems to know some great people, but he won't talk of them to us. That is good-breeding, but notliing more. He seems to enjoy himself here in this homely place, and drinks his tea very hap])ily from these odd delft cups. He brings the kettle, or hammers on the floor with that cudgel, as my cousin orders him. I'ut what is it all ? A masquerading adventure — the interest or fun of which consists in its incongruity with the spirit of his life, and its shock to his tastes. He may be cruel, selfish, disobliging, insolent, luxurious." In this alternative she wrono-ed him. This Charles Marston, whose letters came to him addressed tlu^ " Honourable Charles Marston," was, despite his cleverness, something of a dreamer, very much of an enthusiast, and as capable of immensurable folly, in an allair of the grand ])assion, as any schoolboy, in the holidays, witli his first novel under his pillow. " He can't suppose, seeing us here," thought the 30 THE EOSE AXD THE KEY. girl, " that we arc people such as he is accustomed to meet. Of course he despises us. Very good, sir. An eye for an eye," and she turned her splendid dark eye for a moment covertly upon him, " and a tooth for a tooth. If you despise us, 1 despise you. We shall see. I shall be very direct I shall Jbring that to the test, just now. Wo shal see." Charles Marston stole beside her, and looked out, iwit^her, at the lightning. This is an occupation that helps to make young people acquainted. A pity it does not oftener occur in our climate. The little interjections. The " oh, oh, ohs ! " and "listens," the "hushes," and "wasn't that glorious!" " you're not afraid "? " and fifty little useless but rather tender attentions, arise naturally from the situation. TJius an acquaintance, founded m thunder and lightning, may, like that of Macbetk and the Avitches, endure to the end of the gentle- man's adventures. Not much attended to, I admit, good ^Miss Mas. talked on, about fifty things, and, now and thei*, threw in an interjection, when an unusually loud peal shook the walls of the old farm-house, and was followed for a minute by a heavier cataract of rain. But soon, to the secret grief of ^vlr. INIarston, the thunder began perceptibly to grow more dis- now TIIEY ALL GOT ON. 31 tant, and the Ilglitning less vivid, and, still more terriLle, the rain to abate. The interest in the storm subsided, and Miss Maud Guendoline closed the lattice, and returned to the tea-table. Had he ever seen in living face, in picture, in dream, anything so lovely? Sucli silken brown hair, such large eyes and long lashes, and beauti- fully red lips ! Her dimples look so pretty in the oblique light and shadow, as her animated ;,talk makes a pleasant music in his ears. Ho is- growing more foolish than he supposes. Miss Max, who knows nothing of him, who can't tell whether he is a rioblcman or a strollinc: player, -vvhether he is worth ten thousand a year, or only the clothes on his back and his enormous pair of boots, marks the symptoms oLhis weakness, and approves and assists with all the wise decision of a romantic old woman. She makes an excuse of cold feet to turn about and place liers upon the fender. It is a lie, palpably, and ?kHss ^laud is angry, and insists on talking to her, and keeping the retiring chaperon, much against her will, still in evidence. The young man is not the least suspicious, has not an idea that good Miss Max is Avittingly befriending him, Ijut earnestly Avishcs that she may fall into a deep sleep in her chair. 32 THE ROSE AXD TEE KEY. The cruel girl, however, insists on her talking. " I saw you talking to those American people who came into the carriage at Chester, didn't you ?" said the girl. " Yes, dear," said Miss ]\Iax, dryly ; " notliing could be more uninteresting." " I was in the waiting-room at Chester with that very party, I'm certain," said Mr. JNlarston. "There were two ladies, weren't there, and the man had a kind of varnished waterproof coat, and a white hat, and was very thin, and had a par- ticularly long nose, a little crooked 1" " Yes, that is my friend," answered Maud. " That gentleman was good enough to take a great interest in me and my cousin. I ]iad to inform him that my christian name is INIaud and my surname GuendoHne ; that a friend had made me a present of my first-class ticket ; that my papa has been dead for many years ; and tliat mannna's business allows her hardly an hour to look after me ; that I have not a shilling I can call my own ; that I thouo;ht I could do somethino; to earn a subsistence for myself; that I can draw a little — I can teach " " Where have you ever taught, dear ?" threw in Miss Max, apparently in great vexation at her companion's unseasonable frankness. " I don't say I have yet taught for money, but I HOW THEY ALL GOT ON. 3? I have learned sometliing of it at tlie Sunday- school, and I don't see why I shouldn't do it as- well as mamma. Then there's my music — that ouixht to be worth somethino;." " You must be tired, I think," interrupted the old lady, a little sharply ; " you have had a very long walk to-day. I think you had better go tO' your room." " I have stayed, I'm afraid, a great deal too late," said Mr. Marston, who could not mistake the purport of the old lady's sj^eech. " I'm afraid you are tired, JMiss Guendoline. I'm afraid you have both been doing too much, and you'll allow me, won't you, just to call in the morning to inquire how you are ?" " It is very inhospitable," said Miss ^lax, re- lenting a little ; " but we are very early people in this part of the world, and I shall be very liappy to see you to-morrow, if we should happen to be at home." He had taken his leave ; he was gone. A beautiful moonlight was silvering the quaint old building and the graceful trees that surround it. The mists of night hung on the landscape, and the stars, the fabled arbiters of men's fortunes, burned brilliantly in the clear sky. He crossed the stile, he walked along the white path, as if in a trance. He paused under a great VOL. I. D 34 THE EOS E AND THE KEY. asli-tree, snake-bound in twisted iv}'', and leaned against its trunk, lookino; towards the thatched gable of the old stone building, " Was there ever so beautiful a creature V he said. " What dignity, what refinement, what prettiness, and what a sweet voice; what anima- tion ! Governess, farmer's daughter, artist, be she what she may, she is the loveliest being that ever trod this earth !" In this rapture — in which mingled that pain of doubt and yearning of separation which constitutes the ano;uish of such violent " fancies" — he walked slowly to the stepping-stones, and conning over every word she had spoken, and every look in lier changing features, he arrived at last, rather late, at his inn, the Verney Arms, in Cardyllion. 35 CHAPTER V. A SPECTRE. The two ladies sat silent for some time after their guest had departed. Miss i\Iax spoke first. " I don't think it is quite honest — you make me ashamed of you." • " I'm ashamed of myself. It's true ; he'll think too Avell of me," said the girl, impetuously. " He thinks very oddly of us both, I'm afraid," said Miss Max. " I'm not afraid — I don't care — I dai'e say he i does. I think you hinted that he should carry you across the stream on his back. I got out of hearing before you had done. You all but asked D 2 36 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. him for his name, and finally turned him out in the thunder at a moment's notice." " It does not matter what an old woman says or does, but a girl is quite different," replied Miss Max. " You need not have said one word about our ways and means." " I shall say the same to every one that cares to hear, where I am not under constraint ; and you shall keep your promise. Do let me enjoy my liberty while I may," answered the gu*l. " Are you a gipsy? You are such a mixture of audacity and imposture !" said Miss Max. " Gipsy ? Yes. We are something like gipsies, you and I — our long marches and wandering lives. Imposture and audacity? I should not mind pleading guilty to that, although, when I think it over, I don't remember that I said a word that was not literally true, except my surname. I was not bound to tell that, and he would have been, I dare say, no wiser if I had. I Avas not bound to tell him anything. I think I have been very ffood." " I dare say he is Lord Somebody," said Miss Max. " Do you like him better for that ?" asked the gu-1. " You are such a radical, Maud ! Well, I don't say I do. But it just guarantees that if the A SPECTRE. 37 man lias any nice tastes, lie has leisure and money to cultivate tliem ; and if lie lias kind feelings he can indulge them, and is liberated fi'om all those miserable limitations that accompany poverty." " I have made a very frank confession with one reserve. On that point I have a right to be secret, and you have promised secrecy. Am I under the miserable obligation to tell my real con- dition to every one who pleases to be curious ?" "You blush, Maud." " I dare say I do. It is because you look at me so steadily. I told him all I choose to tell. He shan't think me an adventuress ; no one shall. I said enough to show I was, at least, willing to earn an honest livelihood. I said the same to that vulgar American, and you did not object. And why not to him ? I don't care one farthing about him in particular. lie will not pay us a visit to-morrow, you'll find. He has dropped us, being such as I suppose him, and we shall never see him more. I am glad of it. Let us cease to think of him. There's a more interesting man dtnvn- stairs." In her slender liand she took the stick that she called the cudgel, and hammered on the floor. Up came pretty Anne Pritchard, looking sleepy, her cheeks a little pale, her large eyes a little drowsy. 38 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. " Can I see your father, Mr. Pritchard f asked Maud. " He's gone to liis bed, please, ma'am, an hour ago." " Is he asleep, can you tell ?" "He goes to sleep at once, if you please, miss." " How provoking ! What shall we do ?" She turned to Miss Max, and then to the girl. She said : " I saw a man, a stranger — a man with a blind eye, here, when we came in. Is he here still?" " Yes 'm, please." *' He has a bed here, has ho, and stays to- night ?" asked the old lady. " Yes 'm, please," said the girl, with a curtsy. " What do you think ? Shall we turn him out ?" said Maud, turning to Miss Max. "Oh! no, dear, don't trouble your head about him. He'll go in the morning. He's not in our way, at all," answered Miss Max. " Well, I suppose it is not wortli making a fuss about. There is another advantage of the visit of our friend in the boots this evening. I could not find an opportunity to tell Mr. Pritchard to turn that person out of the house," said Miss Maud, with vexation. A SPECTRE. 3& "Please'm, Mr. Lizard?" "Say it again, child, Mr. Who?" asked Miss Max. ''Mr. Lizard, please 'm. Elilm Lizard is wrote in his Bible, and he expounded this evening before he went to his bed. He's a very good man." " Was he ever here before ?" asked Miss IMaud. " No, please 'm." " And what is he ?" demanded the young lady. '•'I don't know, miss. Oh, yes, please 'm, L forgot ; he said he was gettin' money, please 'm, for the good of the Gospel, and he had papers and cards, 'm." "The same story, you see," she said, turning with a little nod, and a faint smile, to her com- panion. " Do let the man rest in his bed, my dear, and let us go to ours ; you forget how late it is grow- ing," said Miss ]\Iax, and yawned, and lighted her candle. "That will do, thanks," said Maud, thought- fully, "and will you toll ]\Ir. Pritchard, your father, in the morning, that we wish very much to see him before we go out?" " And let us have breakfast a little before nine, please," added jNIiss INIax, lool>ing at her watch, and then holding it tn her ear. "^'^Come, darling," 40 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. she sakl, finding it was going, " it really is very late, and you have a good deal, you know, to do to-morrow." " It is the most unpleasant thing in the world," said the pretty young lady, looking thoughtfully at her companion. "There can be no question he is following us, or one of us, you or me. Who on earth can have sent him ? Who can it be ? That odious creature ! Did you ever see a more villanous face? He is watching us, picking up information about all our doings. What can he want? It is certainly for no good. Who can it be?" "We can't find out to-night, and there is no good in losing your sleep. Perhaps we may make out something from old Pritchard in the morning," said ^liss IMax. "Yes, yes, perhaps so. All I know is, it is making me quite miserable," said the girl, and she kissed the old lady, and went to her room. And Miss ^lax, having seen that the fire was nearly out, retired also to hers. As neat and as quaint as their drawing-room, was Miss Max's bedroom. But though everything in^-ited to rest, and Miss Max rather stiff from her long walk, and a little drowsy and yawning, she was one of those fidgety old ladies who take a prodigious time to get into bed. A SrECTKE. 41 Nearly an liour liaJ passed, during wliicli she had stuck armies of pins in lier pincushion, and slmt and opened every drawer in her room, and walked from one table to another oftener, and made more small dispositions about her room and her bed, than I could possibly reckon, and, being now arrayed in slippers and dressing-gown, she bethought of something to be adjusted in the sitting-room, which might just as well have Avaited till the morning, and so she took her candle and descended the old oak stairs. On the solid plank of that flooring, the slippered footfall of the thin old lady made no sound. The moon was high, and her cold blue hght fell slantino- through the window upon the floor of the little lobby. Within and without reigned utter silence ; and if Miss Max had been a shost-seeinir old maid, no scene could have been better suited for the visitation of a phantom than this dissociated wing of a house more than throe hundred years old. ]\Iiss INIax was now at the drawing-room door, which she opened softly and ste])ped in. It was neither without a tenant nor a liglit. At the far corner of the table, with a candle in his hand, which he instantly blew out, she saw the slim figure and sly lean face of Elihu Lizard, his white eyeball turned towards her, and Iiis other 42 TEE ROSE AND THE KEY. eye squinting with the scowl of alarm, fiercely across his nose, at her. Mr. Lizard was, witli the exception of his shoes and his coat, in full costume. His stockings and his shirt-sleeves gave him a burglarious air, which rather heightened the shock of his ugly leer, thus unexpectedly encountered. He stepped back into a recess beside the chimney almost as she entered. For a moment she was not quite sure whether her frequent discussions with Maud respecting this repulsive person had not excited her fears and fancies, so as to call up an ugly vision. Mr. Lizard, however, seeing that the extinction of his candle-light was without effect. Miss ISIax's candle shining full upon him, stepped forward softly, and executed his guileless smile and lowlv reverence. Miss Max had recovered her intrepidity; and she said sharply : " "What do you mean, sir ? what on earth brings you to our private sitting-room ?" "I have took the liberty," he said, in his quavering tones, inclining his long face aside with a plaintive simper, nearly closing his eyelids, and lifting one skinny hand — it was the tone and attitude in which the good Elihu Lizard was wont to expound, the same In which he might stand over a cradle, and pronounce a blessing on the A SPECTRE. 43 little Christian in blankets, with whose purity the guileless heart of the good man sympathised — "being a-thirst and panting, so to speak, as the • hart for the water-brooks, as I lay in my bed, I arose, and finding none where I looked for it, I thought it would not be grudged me even in the chambers of them that go delicately, and therefore am I found here seeking if peradventure I might find any." Elihu Lizard, upon all occasions on whicli worldly men, of his rank in life, would affect the language of ceremony, glided from habit into that with which he had harangued from tables and other elevations at Greenwich Fair and similar assemblies, before he had engaged in his present peculiar occupation. There was something celestial in the suavity of this person that positively exasperated Miss ]\Iax. "That's all very fine. Water, indeed! There you were, over Miss ]\Iaud's and my letters and papers, in our private sitting-room, and you show, sir, that you well knew you were about something nefarious, for I saw you put out your candle — there it is, sir, in your hand. IIow disgusting • How dare you ! And I suspect you, sir, and your impious cant; and I'll find out all about you, or I'll lose my life ! Plow can ]\Ir. Pritchard allow such persons into his house? I'll sec him in the 44 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. morning. I'll speak to the police in Cardylllon about you. Til come to the bottom of all this. I'll consult a lawyer. I'll teach you, sir, be you who you may, you are not to follow people from place to place, and to haunt their drawing-rooms at dead of night. I'll turn the tables upon you ; I'll have you pursued." The good man turned up his effective eye, till nothing but its Avhite was seen, and it would have been as hard to say which of the two had a pupil to it, as under which of his thimbles, if thimble rigger he be, the pea actually lies. He smiled patiently, and bowed lowly, and with his palm raised, uttered the w^ords, " Charity thinketh no evil." The measure of Miss JMax's indignation was full. With her brown silk handkerchief swathed tightly about her head, for she had not yet got on her nightcap; and looking somewhat like a fez, in her red cloth slippers, and white cashmere dressing-gown, that, I must allow, was rather " skimpy," showing a little more of her ankle than was quite dignified, she was a rather striking effigy of indignation. She felt that she could have hurled her candlestick at the saintly man's head, an experiment which it is as well she did not hazard, seeing that she and her adversary would have been reduced to instantaneous darkness, and A SPECTRE. 45 might have, without intending it, encountered in the dark, while endeavouring to make their retreat. Instead, therefore, of proceeding to this extreme measure, with kindhng eyes, and a stamp on the floor, she said : "Leave this room, this moment, sir! How dare you ? I shall call up j\Ir. Pritchard, if you presume to remain here another moment." I dare say that Mr. Lizard had completed what- ever observations he intended to make, and his reconnaissance accomplished, ho did not care to remain a moment longer than was necessary under fire. He withdrew, therefore, with the smiling meekness of a Christian enduring pagan vitupera- tion and violence. Li the morning, when, at their early breakfast, the ladies made inquiry after him, they learned that he liad taken his departure more than an hour before. " More evidence, if it were needed, of a purpose, in tracking us as he docs, which won't bear the light !" exclaimed Miss Max, who was now at least as strong upon the point as the handsome girl who accompanied her. " I don't understand it. It is some object connected with you, most positively. Who on earth can be his employer? I confess, Maud, I'm frightened, at last." "Do you think it can bo old Mr. Tintern?" m 46 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. asked tlie girl, after a silence, looking curiously in the face of her companion. " That old man may ■well wish me dead." " It may interest, possibly, a good many people to watch you very closely," said the elder lady. They both became thoughtful. "You will now believe," said the young lady, with a sigh, " that the conditions of my life are not c|uite usual. I tell you, cousin, I have a presentiment that some misfortune impends. I suppose there Is a crisis in every one's life; the astrologers used to say so. God send me safely through mine !" " Amen, darling, if there be a crisis," said Miss I\Iax, more gravely than she usually spoke. " But we must not croak any more. I have great con- fidence, under Heaven, in energy, my dear, and you were always a spirited girl. What, after all, can bef al you "?" " Many things. But let us think of to-day and Cardylllon and Llanberris, and let to-morrow take care of itself. What a beautiful day !" 47 CHAPTER VI. THEY MEET A FRIEND. " "Won't you wait, and see Mr. ]\Iarston ?" said Miss Max, a little later, when the young lady came down in her walking-dress. " No, I'm going to the castle. I liave planned three drawings there, and two in the town, and then we set out on our drive to Llanberris, where I shall still have daylight, perhaps, to make one or two more." " Very industrious, upon my word ! But don't you think you might afiford a little time to be civil ?" said Miss Max. " I don't know what you mean." " Mr. Marston said most pointedly, I mean, particularly, that he would call this morning, and 48 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. you allowed him to suppose we should be at home.''' "Did I? Well, that's past mending now/' said the girl. "And he'll come and see 710 one," said Miss Max, expanding her hands. "He'll see the Pritchards," said Miss Maud. " I think it extremely rude, going out so much before our usual time, as if it was just to avoid him." "It is to avoid him. Put on your things and come," said the girl. " And what reason on earth can there be ?" insisted Miss ^lax. "Pm not in a Marston mood this morning, that's all. Do, like a darling, put on your things and come ; everything is packed, and the people here know -svhen the fly is coming to take our boxes, and Pll walk slowly on, and you will over- take me." So saying, she ran down-staix's, and took a very friendly leave of the Pritchard family. She was not afraid of meetino; Mr. Marston. For Anne Pritchard had told her that he had inquired at Avhat hour the ladies usually went out to "walk, and that hour was considerably later than it now was. IMiss Max overtook her. THEY MEET A FEIEND. 49 " It's plain, we don't agree," said that lady, as if their talk had not been suspended for a moment. " I like that young man extremely, and I do think that it is rather marked, our leaving so unneces- sarily early. I hate rudeness — wanton rudeness." The girl smiled pleasantly on her companion. " Why do you like him?" she said. " Because I think him so extremely nice. I thought him so polite, and there was so much deference and delicacy." "I'm afraid I've interrupted a very interesting acquaintance," said Miss ]\faud, laughing. " But tell me why you have changed your mind, for you did seem to like him ?" said Miss Max. "Well, don't you think ho appeared a little more assured of his good reception than he Mould liave been if he had thought us persons of his own rank — I mean two creat ladles such as he is in the habit of seeing; such as the people he knows? People like the Marstons — if he is one of them, as you suppose — make acquaintance with persons dressed in sei-ge, like us, merely for amusement. Their affected deference seems to me insulting; it is an amusement I shan't allbrd him. From this point of view we can stud}' limnan nature, because we can feel its meanness." "You are a morbid creature," said ^liss Max, VOL. I. E 50 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. " I am trying to discover truth. I am trying to comprehend character," said the girl. " And making yourself a cynic as fast as you can," said the old lady. "It matters little what I am. We shan't see to-day a person so reckless of*the future, a person with so little hope, a person who sees so little to live for, as I ; or one who is so willing to die." " Look round, my dear, and open your eyes. You know nothing of life or of God's providence," said Miss Max. " I liave no patience with you." ^^You were born free," said the girl, more gently than before, " I, a slave. Yes, don't smile ; I call things by their names. Yoil walk in the light, and I in darkness. The people Avho surround you, be they what they may, are at all events what they seem. When I look round, do I see images of candour ? No ; shadows dark and cold. I can trust no one — assassins in masquerade." "Everyone," said Miss Max, "has to encounter deceit and hypocrisy in this world." " It won't do ; no, it won't do. You know \ cry well tliat the cases are quite different," said the girl. " I have no one to care for me, and many that wish me dead ; and, except you, I can trust no one." " AVell, marry, %ik1 trust your husljand." "I've too often told you I never shall, never. I THEY ]\IEET A FRIEND. 51 need say so no more. How well the castle looks ! I suppose it is from the rain last night ; how beautifully the tints of the stone have come out !" It was a brilliant, sunny morning. The grey walls, with patches of dull red and yellow stones, and cumbrous folds of ivy, looked their best, and tower, and arch, and battlement looked, in the soft summer air, all that the heart of an artist couhl desire. Going to and fro from point to point, sometimes beyond the dry castle moat, sometimes within its grass-grown court, Miss Maud sketched indus- triously for some hours, and from her little tin colour-box threw in licr tints with a bold and delicate brush, while Miss j\Iax, seated beside her, read luer book — for she loved a novel — and, througli her spectacles, with glowing eyes, accompanied the heroine through her flirtations and agonies, to her final meeting with the man of her choice, at the steps of the altar. For a little time, now and tlion, pretty Miss Maud would lower her pencil, and rest her eye and hand, and think, looking vaguely on the ruins, in a saxl reverie. By this time ^Ir. Marston had, it was to be sup- posed, made his visit at the old farm-house, had sustained his disappointment, and perhaps got over it, and was, possibly, consoling himself in his jack- e2 52 THE KOSE AND THE KEY. boots, with his rod, in the channel of some distant trout-stream. I can't say Avhether her thoughts ever wandered to this ]\Ir. Marston, who was so agreeable and good-looking. But I fancy she did not think of him quite so hardly as she spoke. AYhatever her thoughts were, her looks, at least, were sad. " AThose epitaph are you writing, my dear?'' inquired JNIiss j\Iax, who had lowered her book, ■and, glancing over her spectacles, observed the absent and melancholy looks of the girl. " My own," said she, with a little laugh. " But we have talked enough about that — I mean my life — and I suppose a good epitaph should sum that up. What do you think of these?" and she dropped her sketches on her cousin's lap. " If I finish them as well as I have begun, the}' will be worth three shillings each, I dare say." ",Yes; dear me ! It is very good indeed. And this — how very pretty !"' and so on, as she turned them over. "But not one among them will ever be half so i];ood as our dear old farm-house, that Avas so com- fortable and so ?«icomf or table — so nearly intole- rable, and yet so delightful ; such a pleasant adventure to remember. I am veiy glad to have it, for Ave shall never see its face again." At these words, unexpectedly. Miss ^Tax rose. THEY MEET A FKIEND. 53 and showed by lier countenance that she saw some one approaching whom she was glad to greet. Her young companion turned also, and saw ]Mi\ Marston already very near. He was so delighted to see them. He had been to the old house, and was so disappointed ; and the people there could not tell where they had gone. He had hoped they had changed their minds about leaving Cardyllion so soon. He had intended going to Llanberris that day, but some of his people were coming to Cardyllion. He had re- ceived orders from home to cnrraire rooms at the Verney Arms for them, and must stay that day. It was too bad. Of course he was very glad to see them ; but he might just as well have seen them in a week. Were they (]Miss ^Nlax and her com- panion) going to stay anytime at Llanberris? " No. They would leave it in the morning." "And continue their tour i Where ?" " Nowhere," said Miss 'Max. " We go home then." He looked as if ho would have G;iven worlds to ask them where that home was. " My cousin returns to her home, and I to mine," saitl the girl, gravely. " We are very lucky in our last day; it would have been so provoking to lose it." " She has made ever so many drawings to-day," 54 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. said Miss Max ; " and they are really so very good, I must show them to you." " There is not time," said the girl to her cousin. " It is a long drive to Llanberris ; it is time we Avere at the Verney Arms. We must ask after our boxes, and order a carriage. It is later than I fancied," she said, turning to Mr. Marston ; " how time runs away when one is really working." " Or really happy," said the young man. He '(valked Avith them down Castle-street to the Verney Arms, talking with them like an old friend all the way. They all went together into the room to which the waiter showed them. And Miss Max, who had the little portfolio in her charge, said : "Now, Maud, we must show JNIr. INIarston to- day's drawings." And very glad he was of that privilege. Then she showed him the sketch of the old farm-house. " Oh ! How pretty ! What a sweet thing that is ! AVhat a beautiful drawing it makes !" And so he descanted on it in a rapture. " There is a place here where they do photo- graphs ; and I am going to have that old house taken," he said to the young lad}-, as j\Iiss Max Avas giving some orders at the door : " I like it THEY MEET A FKIEND. 55 better than anything else about here. I feel so grateful to it." Miss Max was back again in a moment. " Well, I do think they are very pretty indeed," she said. "AYe'll take the portfolio inside, dear. I'll take charge of it," she said to Maud. " And I hope none of our boxes were forgotten. I must count tliem. Five altoo-ether." And she ran out again ujion tliis errand ; and Mr. Marston resumed ; "I shall never forget that thunder-storm, nor that pretty little room, nor my good fortune in being able to guide you home. I shall never for- get yesterday evening, the most delightful evening I ever passed in my life." He was speaking in a very low tone. Miss Maud looked embarrassed, ahuost vexed, and a beautiful colour flushed her cheeks, and gave a fire to her dark eyes. Mr. Marston felt instinctively that he had been going a little too fast. "Good Heavens!" lie thought, "what a fool I am ! (She looked almost angry. What business had I to talk so ?" There was a little silence. " It is a misfortune, 1 believe, beiiig too honest," he said at lemrth. 56 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. "A great one, but there are others greater," said the girl, witli eyes still vexed and fiery. " What do you mean ?" " I mean being ever so little dZishonest, and ever so little insolent. I hope I'm not that, at least to people I suppose to be my inferiors, though I may plead guilty to the lesser fault ; perhaps I am too honest." Very proud, at least, she looked at that moment, and very completely "floored" looked poor Mr. Marston. " I don't know what he might have said, or how much worse he might have made matters in the passionate effort to extricate himself, if Miss Max had not happened at that moment to return. That he could be suspected of presuming upon her supposed position, to treat her with less de- ference than the greatest lady in the land, was a danger he had never dreamed of ; he, who felt, as he spoke, as if he could hare fallen on his knees before her. How monstrous ! what degradation, what torture ! " Everything is ready, and the carriage at the door, my dear ; and all our boxes quite right," said Miss Max, in a fuss. My. Marston came down to put the ladies into their carriage; and while Miss Max was saying a THEY MEET A FEIEND. 57 word from one carriage window, he leaned for a moment at the other, and said : "I'm so shocked and pained to think I have been so mistaken. I implore of you to believe that I am incapable of a thought that could offend you, and tliat you leave me very miserable." The cheery voice of JNIiss Max, unconscious of her cruelty, interrupted him with a word or two of farewell, and the carriage drove off, leaving him not less melancholy than he had described himself. 58 CHAPTER VII. FLIGHT. The old lady looked from the window as they drove on, watching the changes of the landscape. The girl, on the contrary-, leaned back in her place, and seemed disturbed and thoughtful. After a silence of nearly ten minutes, Miss Max, having had, I suppose, for the time, enougJi of the picturesque, remarked suddenly: "jSIr. Marston is, as I suspected, Lord War- hampton's son. His eldest, I believe his only living son. The people at the Verney Arms told me he had actually ordered horses for Llanberris, intending to go there to-day, when his plans were upset by his father's letter. Of course vrc know- perfectly why he Avished to go there to-day. I FLIGHT. 50 mentioned last nio;ht that we intended visitinir it tliis afternoon, and he really did look so miserable as we took our leave just now." " The fool ! What ri<;-ht has he to follow us to Llanberris ?" asked the irirl. " Why, of course, he has a rl<^lit to go to Llan- berris if he likes it, Avithout asking either vou or me," said Miss ]\Iax. " lie has just the same right, I admit, that Mr. Elihu Lizard has." "Oh! come, you mustn't compare them," said Miss Max. "I should have l)e(,'n A-erv alad to sec Mr. Marston there, and so sliould you ; he is very agreeable, and never could be the least in one's way; he's so good-natured and considerate, and would see in a moment if he was do trop. And it is all very fine talking independence; but every one knows there are fifty things we can't do so well for ourselves, and he might have been very useful in our walks." '' Carrying us over rivers in his jack-boots V "He never did carry mc over any river, if you mean that," said Miss Max, a little testily, "or anywhere else. But it is very well I had his arm to lean upon, over those stepjiing-stones, or I don't think we should have o;ot home last niiiht." "I dare say he thinks his title irresistible, and that the untitled and poor are made for his amuse- 60 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. ment. It is a selfish, cruel world. You ouoht to know it better than I ; you have been longer in it ; and yet, by a kind of sad inspiration, I know it, I'm sure, ever so much better than you do." " Wise-head I" said the old lady with a smile, and a little shake of her bonnet. The young lady looked out, and in a little time took up a volume of Miss Max's nearly finished novel, and I'ead listlessly. She was by no means in those high spirits that had hitherto accompanied every change of scene in their little excursion. Miss Max remarked this subsidence, thought even that she detected the evidence of positive fatigue and melancholy ; but the wary lady made no remark. It was better to let this little cloud dis- sijDate itself. In a lonely part of the road a horse dropped a shoe, and brought them to a walk, till they had reached the next smithy. The delay made their arrival late. The sun was in the Avest Avhen they gained their first view of that beautiful and melan- choly lake lying in the lap of its lonely glen. They drew up near the ruined tower that caught the slanting light from the west, under the purple shadow of the hill. As they stopped the carriage here and got out, they were just in time to see a man descend from the box beside the driver. FLIGHT. Gl Tlioy were both so astounded that neither couM find a word for some seconds. It was Mr. Eliliu Lizard, who had enjoyed all the way a seat on their driver's box, and who now got down, put his bundk^ on the end of his stick, whicli he carried over his shoulder, and with a " Heaven bless you, friend," to the whip on the box, smiled defiantly over his shoulder at the ladies, and marched onward toward the little inn at the right of the glen. " Well !'' exclaimed Miss Max, when she had recovered breath. " Certainly ! Did you ever hear or see anything like that? AYhere did you take up that person, pray V Miss jSIax looked indignantly up at the fat, dull cheeks of the Welshman on the box, and pointed with her parasol at the retreating expounder. That gentleman, glancing back from time to time, was taken with a fit of coughing, or of laughter, it was difficult to say vvhirh at that distance, as he pursued his march, with the intention of refreshing himself with a mug of boor in the picturesque little inn. " Call that man ! You had .m l)usincss takinn; any one upon the carriage we had hired, without our leave," said ]\Iiss Max. "Call liiin — make him coi^e back, or you shall drive us after liiiu. I will speak to him." The driver shouted. !Mr. Lizard waved his hand. G2 THE KOSE Al^^D THE KEY. " I'm certain he is laughing — insolent hypo- crite !" exclaimed Miss ]\Iax, transported with in- dignation. " I'll drive after him, I -vvill overtake him." They got into the carriage, overtook Elihu Lizard, and stepped down about a dozen yards before him. " So, sir, you persist in following us !" exclaimed the old lady. "To me," he replied, in a long-drawn, bleating falsetto, as he stood in his accustomed pose, with his hand a little raised, his eyes nearly closed, and a celestial simj)er playing upon his conceited nnd sinister features, " ta me it would appear, neverthe- less, honourable lady, that it is you, asking your parding, that is a-following of me ; I am following, not you, nor any other poor, w^eak, sinful, erring mortal, but my humble calling, which I hope it is not sich as will bo disdained from the hand of a poor w^eak, miserable creature, nor yet that I shall be esteemed altogether an unprofitable servant." " I don't want to hear your cant, sir ; if you had the least regard for truth, you would admit frankly that you have been following me and my friend the whole of the way from Chester, stopping wdierever we stopped, and pursuing wherever we went. I have seen you cverpvhere, and if there was a policeman here, I should have you arrested ; FLIGHT. 03 rely on it, I shall meet you somewhere, where I can have your conduct inquired into, and your cowardly persecution punished." " 1 liave come to this land of Wales, honourable lady, and even to this place, which it is called Llanhcrris, holding myself subject and obedient unto the powers that be, and fearing no one, inso- much as I am upon my lawful business, with your parding for so saying, not with a concealed character, nor yet with a forged name, nor in any- wise under false pretences ; but walking in my own humble way, and being that, and only that, which humbly and simply I pretend to be." The good man, with eyes nearly closed, between the lids of which a glitter Avas just perceptible, betraying his vigilance, delivered these words in his accustomed singsong, but with an impertinent significance that called a beautiful rush of crimson to the younger lady's cheeks. " Your name is nothing to us, sir. We are not likely to know it," said the young lady, supporting Mss Max with a little effort. " We shall find that out in good time, perhaps. We shall make it out when we want it." "You shall have it when you please, honourable lady ; the humble and erring sinner who speaks to you is one who walks in the light, which he seeks not, as too many do, and have dviiQ, ay, and are G4 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. doing at this present time, to Avalk as it Avere in a lie, and give themselves out for that Avhicli thcv are not. No, he is not one of those avIio loveth a lie, nor yet Avho is filled with guile, and he is not ashamed, neither afraid, to tell his name Avhithcr- soever he goeth, neither is he the heaviness of his motlier ; no, nor yet forsaketh he the law of his mother." The same brilliant Llush tinned the girl's cheeks : she looked hard and angrily at the man, and lils simper waxed more than ever provoking as he saw these signs of confusion. " I believe I did wrong to speak to you lien^, where there are no police," said Miss Max. " I ought to have known that it could only supply new opportunity to your impertinence. I shall find out, however, when I meet you next, as I have told you, whether we are longer to be exposed to this kind of cowardly annoyance." Miss Max and her young companion turned aAvay. The one-eyed Christian, apostle, detective, whatever he was, indulged silently in that meanest of all laughs, the laugh which, in cold blood, chuckles over insult, as Avith a little hitch of his shoulder, on which rested his stick and bundle, he got under Avay again toward tlie little inn, a couple of hundred 3'ards on. FLIGHT. 65 The driver took his Iiorses up to the inn. "Well," said Miss Max, a little disconcerted, "I could have told you that before. I thought him a very impertinent person, and just the kind of man who would be as insolent as he pleased to two ladies, alone as we are ; but very civil if a gentleman were by with a stick in his hand." " I don't mean to make any drawings here,. I've changed my mind," said Maud. " I'm long- ing to be at Wybourne again. Suppose, instead of staying here, we go to-night ? " "Very good, dear. To say truth, I'm not com- fortable with the idea of that man's being here to watch us. Come, Maud, you must not look so sad. Wc have all to-morrow at Wybourne, before we part, and let us enjoy, as you say, our holiday." " Yes, on Monday we part. Don't mention it again. It is bad enough when it comes. Then the scene changes. I'll think of it no more to-day. I'll forget it. Let us Avalk a little further up the glen, and see all we can, in an hour." So with altered plans the hour was passed ; and at the approach of sunset they met the train at Bangor. A fog was spreading up tlic Meiiai as the train started. To the girl it seemed prophetic of her own future of gloom and uncertainty. VOL. I. F QQ THE ROSE AND THE KEY. Other people had changed their plans that even- ino;. A letter had reached Mr. Marston, unluckiest of mortals, only two hours after the ladies had left Cardyllion for Llanberris, countermanding all his arrangements for his father, Lord Warhampton. Instantly that impetuous young man had got horses, and pursued to Llanberris, but only to find that those whom he had followed had taken wing. As he looked from the uplands along the long level sweep that follows the base of the noble range of mountains, by which the line of rails stretches away until it rounds the foot of a mighty headland at the right, he saw, with distraction, the train gliding away along the level, submerging itself, at last, in the fog that flooded the valley like a golden lake. His only clue was one of the papers, condemned as illegil)le, which Miss ]\Iax had hastily written for their boxes. " Miss M. Guendoline," was written on it, with the name of some place, it was to be supposed — but, oh, torture ! — the clumsy hoof of the driver, thick with mud, had stamped this inestimable record into utter illegibility. Via Chester was still traceable, also England in the corner. The rest was undecipherable. The wretch seemed to have jumped upon it. The very paper was demolished. FLIGHT. 67 The gravel from the Vandal's heel was punched through it. In the little inn where lie had heard tidings of two ladies, with a carriage such as he described, he liad picked up this precious, but torturing bit of paper. f2 68 CHAPTER VIII. WYBOURNE CHURCHYARD. In a golden mist he lost her ; but he does not despair. Mr. Marston pursues. Has he any very clear idea why? If he had overtaken the ladies, as he expected, at Llanberris, would he have ventured, of his own mere motion, to accompany them on their after- journey? Certainly not. What, then, is the meaning of this pursuit ? What does he mean to do or say ? He has no plan. He has no set speech or clear idea to deliver. He is in a state of utter con- fusion. He only knows that see her once more hg must — that he can't endure the thought of letting WTBOUBNE CHURCHYARD. 69 her go, thus, for ever from liis sight ; slie is never for a moment out of his head. I don't know what his grave and experienced servant thought of their mysterious whirl to Chester by the night mail. He did not refer it, I dare say, to anything very wise or good. But the relation of man and master is, happily, military, and the servant's conscience is acquitted when he has obeyed his orders. The fog has melted into clearest air, and the beautiful moon is shining. What a world of romance, and love, and beauty he thinks it, as he looks out of the open window on the trees and mountains that sail by in that fairy light. Tlie distance is sliorteninfj. Evervthinir near and far is good of its kind. Everything is inte- resting. It is like the ecstasy of the opium-eater. Never were sucli stars, and hedges, and ditches. What an exquisite little church, and tombstones ! Requiescat in pace ! What a beautiful ash-tree ! Heaven bless it! How picturesque that horse's head, poking out through the hole in the Avail with the ivy over it ! And tliose pigs, lying flat on the manure-heap, jolly, odd creatures ! How delight- fully funny they are ! And even when he draws his head in, and leans back for a moment in his place, he thinks there is something so kindly and 70 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. jolly about that fat old fellow with the travelUng- cap and the rugs, who snores with his chin on his chest — a stock-broker, perhaps. What heads and ledgers ! — wonderful fellows ! The valves and channels through which flows into its myriad receptacles the incredible and restless wealth of Britain. Or, perhaps, a merchant, princely, bene- volent. Well that we have such a body, the glory of England ! The fat gentleman utters a snort, wakes up, looks at his watch, and produces a tin sandwich- box. That thin elderly lady in black, that sits at the left of the fat gentleman, who is champing his sandwiches, does not see things, with her sunken eyes, as Mr. Marston sees them. She is gliding on. to her only darling at school, who lies in the sick-house in scarlatina. They are now but half an hour from Chester. Mr. Marston is again looking out of the window as they draw near. " Maud Guendoline," he is repeating again. " Guendoline — an odd surname, but so beautiful. Foreiiin, is it ? I never heard it before. When we get into Chester I'll have the Army List, and the London Directory, and every list of names they can make me out. It may help me. Who knows ■?" WYBOUr.XE CIIURCHYAED. 71 They are in Chester. Oh, that it were not so big a place ! His servant is looking after his luggage. He is in the ticket-office, making futile inquiries after " an old lady, Miss ]\Iax, who left Bangor for Chester that very evening, and forgot something of ira25ortance, and I would gladly pay any one a reward who could give me a clue to find her by. I am sure only that she was to go via Chester. No; they could tell him nothing. But if it was via Chester, she was going on by one of the branches. The clerk who miolit have A\Titten tlie new labels for her lufraaffe was not on dutv till to-morrow afternoon, havino- leave till two. " He's very sharp; if 'twas he did it — Max is a queer name — he'll be like to remember it ; that is, he may." Hero was hope, but hope deferred. The people at Llanberris had told him that the label which he had picked np was the only one on wliicli the name of the place was written, on which account it was removed, and all the rest were addressed simply "Chester." He has nothing for it but patience. There is a pretty little town called Wybourne, not very far fyom a hundred miles away. Next evening, the church-bell, ringing the rustics to evening service, has sounded its sweet note over 72 TUE EOSE AND THE KEY. the chimneys of the town, through hedge-rows and bosky hollows, over slope and level sward, and Mr. Marston, with the gritty dust of the railway still on his hat, has tapped in the High-street at the post-office wooden window-pane, and converses with grave and plaintive Mrs. Fisher. " Can you tell me if a lady named Miss Guen- doline lives anywhere near this ?" he inquires. " Guendoline ? No, sir. But there's Mr. and Mrs. Gwyn, please, that lives down the street near the Good Woman." " No, thanks ; that's not it. ^Miss Maud Guen- doline." Mrs. Fisher put an unheard question to an invisible interlocutor in the interior, and made answer : " No, sir ; please there's no such per- son." " I beg pardon ; but just one Avord more. Docs a lady named Max — a Miss Max — live anywhere near this place ?" " Miss Max ? I think not, sir." " You're not quite sure, I think ?" says ho, brishteninn;, as he leans on the little shelf outside the window ; and if his head would have fitted through the open pane, he would, I think, in his eagerness, have popped it into ISIrs. Fisher's front parlour. WYBOUKNE CnURCHYAKD. 73 Again Mrs. Fisher consulted the inaudible oracle. " No, sir ; we don't receive no letters here for no person of that name," she replied. The disappointment in the young man's hand- some face touched Mrs. Fisher's gentle heart. " I'm ver}'" sorry, indeed, sir. I wish very much we could a' gave you any information," she says, through the official aperture. " Thank you . very much," he answers, deso- lately. " Is there any other post-office near ? Do the people send a good way to you — about what distance round ?" " Well, the furthest, I think, will be Mr. Wyke's, of Wykhampton, about four miles." "Is there any name at all like JSIax, Miss jSIax, an old lady? I should be so extremely — I can't tell you — so very grateful." He pleads, in his extremity, "Do, do, pray ask." She turned and consulted the unknown once more. "There is no one — that is, no surname — here, sir, at all like ^Inx. There's an old lad}^ lives near here, but it can't be her. She's Miss IMaximilhi Medwyn." " Maximilla ? Is she an old lady ?" " Yes sir." 74 THE ROSE AT^D THE KEY. " Thin ?" " She is, sir." And Mrs. Fisher begins to wonder at the ardour of his inquiries, and to look at him very curiously. " Has she been from home lately ?" "I think she was." (Here she again consults her unseen adviser.) " Yes, sir ; she returned only last night." " And where does she live, pray? In the town iiere — near this?" he pursues. " In the Hermitage, please, sir ; any one you meet will show it you. It is just at the end of tlie town. But she'll be in church at })resent." " And how soon do you think it will be over — how soon will the people be coming out ?" " In about half an hour, sir." And so, with many acknowledgments on his part, and no little surprise and conjecture on that of sedate Mrs. Fisher, who wondered what could have fired this young gcntleniau so about old Miss Medwyn, the conference ends, and in ten minutes more, in a somewhat less dusty state, he presents himself at the open gate of the church- yard, and reconnoitres. Over the graves in faint gusts peals the swell of the organ, and the sound of voices, sweetly and sadly, like psalmody from another world. He looks up to the gilded hand of the clock in the WYBOURNE CHURCnTAED. 75 ivied tower, and conjectures tliat tliis must be tlie holy song that precedes the sermon. Devoutly he wishes the pulpit orator a quick deliverance. He, on the whole, wisely resolves against going into the church, and, being provided with a seat, perhaps in some corner of difficult egress, whence, if he should see the objects of his pursuit, he might not be able to make his way out in time without a fuss. At length, ^villl a flutter at his heart, he sees the hats and bonnets Ijegin to emerge from the porch. Taking his stand beside the gate, he watches. Not a single Christian in female garb escapes him. He sees the whole congregation pour itself out, and waits till the very dregs and sediment drop forth. Those who pray, in forma patiperis, and draw a weekly dividend out of the poors' box : old Mrs. Milders, with the enormous black straw boinict, and the shaking head and hand ; Bill Hopkins, lame of a leg, who skips slowly down on a crutch ; and Tom Buzzard, blind of both eyes, a pock- marked object of benevolence, with his chin high in the air, and a long cudgel in his hand, with which he taps the curbstone, and now and then the leg of a passenger who walks the street forgetful of the blind.. The clerk comes forth denuuvly with a black bag, such as lawyers carry their briefs in. There 76 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. is no good, Mr. Marston thinks, in waiting for the sexton. He joins the clerk, compliments him on his church and organ, asks whether Miss Maximilla Medwyn was in church — (yes, she was) — and where the house called the Hermitage is to be found. " You may go by the road, sir," said the clerk, *' or by the path, which you'll find it shorter. Take the first stile to your right, when you turn the corner." Alas ! what is the meaning of this walk to the Hermitage ? Miss ^ledwyn was in church ; and could he not swear that, in the review just ended, he had seen distinctly every female face and figure in the congregation as it "marched past^' His Miss Max was assuredly not among them ; and she and Miss Medwyn, therefore, were utterly distinct old women — ah, well-a-day ! He crosses the stile. The ])ath traverses a narrow strip of meadow, the air is odorous with little dishevelled cocks of hay, mown only the day before ; tlie spot cloistered in by very old and high hawthorn hedires, is silent with a monastic melan- choly. He sighs more pleasantly as he enters this fra- grant solitude ; beyond the stile at the other side, is WYBOURNE CHUECIIYAED. 77 the gloom of tall old trees. He is leaving the world behind him. Butterflies are hovering up and down, along the hedge, at the sunny side of the field. A bee booms by as he stands on the second stile ; it is the only sound he hears except the faint chirp of the grass- hopper. He descends upon that pleasant dark- green grass that grows in shade. Here is another field, long and narrow, silent and more gloomy than the first. Up the steep, a giant double roAV of lime-trees stretches, markino- the line of the avenue, now carpeted over with thick grass, of the old manor-house of Wybourne, some walls and stone-shafted windows of Avhich, laden with ivy, and canopied by ancient trees, crown the summit. The western sun throws long: dim shadows down the slope. A thick underwood straggles among the trunks of the lordly timber, and here and there a gaji leaves space, in Avhich these patriarchal trees shake their branches free, and spread a wider shadow. In this conventual obscurity, scarcely fifty stops up the gentle slope, he sees Miss Maud, Maud Guendolinc, or whatever else her name may be, standing in her homely dress. She is looking toward him, no doubt recomiiscs him, althonr.h she makes no sign. His heart thumps wildly once or 78 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. twice. He is all right again in a moment. He quickens his pace. He is near enough to see her features distinctly. She looks a little OTave, he thinks, as he raises his hat. Here is a tall fellow, great in a town-and-gown row, full of pluck, cool as marble in danger, very mucli unnerved at this moment, and awfully afraid of this beautiful and slender girl. 79 CHAPTER IX. THE YOUNG LADY SPEAKS. " I'm so glad, I'm so cliarmed — how extremely lucky I am! I had not the least hope of this. And you have made yom- jom-ney quite safely?" As he makes this little confession and inquiry. Ills brown handsome face and large eyes are radiant ■vvitli happiness. " Safely ! oli, yes, my cousin and I are old travellers, and we never lose our way or our luggage. I am waiting here foi- her ; she is pay- ing a visit to — I really forget his name, farmer something or other, an old friend of hers, down there ; you can see the smoke of his chimney over the hedge," said the young lady, indicating the direction. 80 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. *' And you're not fatigued ?" " Oh, no ! thanks." " And Miss Max quite well, I hope ?" he adds, recollecting her right to an inquiry. " Miss Max is very well, thanks," said the young lady. Had she blushed when she saw him ? Was there not a o-entle subsidence in the brilliant tint with which she met him? He thought her looking more beautiful than ever. "I dare say you are glad to find yourself at home again f says he, not knowing what exactly to say next. She glanced at him as if she suspected a purpose in his question. " Some people have no place they can call a home, and some who have are not ijlad to find themselves there. I'm not at home, and I'm not sorry," she said, ever so little bitterly. " There is a great deal of melancholy In that," he said, in a lower tone, as if he would have been very glad to be permitted to sympathise. " Away from home, and yet no wish to return. Isn't it a little cruel, too?" "Melancholy or cruel, it happily concerns no one but myself," she said, a little haughtily. "Everything that can possibly concern your THE YOUNG LADY SPEAKS. 81 happiness concerns me," said the younrf man, audaciously. She looked for a moment offended and even angry, but " a change came o'er the spirit of her dream," and she smiled as if a little amused. " You seem, Mr. ISIarston, to give away your sympathy on very easy terms — you must have mis- taken Avhat I said. It was no confidence. It w^as spoken, as people in masks tell their secrets, and farther because I don't care if all the world knew it. How can you tell that I either desire or deserve pity ; yours, or any other person's ? You know absolutely nothing of me." "I'm too impetuous; it is one of my many faults. Other fellows, wiser men, get on a thou- sand times better, and I have laid myself open to your reproof, and — and — disdain, by my presump- tion, by my daring to speak exactly as I feel. It is partly this, that the last three days — they say that happy days seem very short — I don't know how it is, I su])pose I'm different from every one else ; but that day, yesterday, and to-day, seem to me like three weeks ; I feel as if I had known } on ever so lonij " "And yet you know nothing about me, not even my name," said the young lady, smiling on the grass near her pretty foot, and poking at a daisy VOL. I. G 82 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. with the tip of her parasol, aiul making its little head nod this way and that. " I do know your name — I beg pardon, Lut 1 do ; I heard Miss Max call you Maud, and I learned quite accidentally your second name yesterday." Miss Maud looks at him from under her dark lashes suddenly. Her smile has vanished now; she looks down again ; and now it returns darkly. "I do upon my honour, I learned it at Llan- berris yesterday," he repeated. " Oh ! then you did go to Llanberris ; and you did not disdain to cross-examine the ])eo})le about us, and to try to make out that which you supposed we did not wish to disclose ?" " You are very severe," he began, a good deal abashed. "I'm very mercifVd, on the contrary,'' she said, bitterly ; " if I were not — but no matter I think I can conjecture who was your informant. You made the acquaintance of a person blind of one eye, who is a detective, or a spy, or a villain of some sort, and you pumped him. Somehow, I did not think before that a gentleman was quite capable of that sort of thing." " But, I give you my honour, I did nothing of the kind." He pleads earnestly. " I saw no such person, I do assure you." THE YOUNG LADY SrEAKS. 83 "You shall answer my questions, then," slie said, as imperiously as a spoiled child ; " and, first, will you speak candidly? Will you be upon honour, in no one particular, wilfully to deceive mer " You are the last person on earth 1 should deceive, upon any subject, jNliss Guendoline — I hope you believe me." " Well, why did you go to Llanberris V "I had hopes,*' he answered with a little em- barrassment, " of overtaking you and Miss Max — and I — I lioped, also, that perhaps you would permit me to join in your walk — that Avas my only reason." " Now, tell me my name ?" said the young lady, suddenly changing her line of examination. "Your name is, I believe — I think, you are, ^ Miss Maud Guendoline," he answered. She smiled again darkly at the daisy she was busy tapping on the head. "Miss Maud Guendoline," she repeated, very low ; and she laughed a little to herself. " Maud and Guendoline are two christian names," she said. "Do you reallv believe that I have no surname; or perhaps you believe that either of these is my surname ? 1 need not have told you, but I do, tliat neither of these is the G 2 84 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. least like it. And now, why have you come here? Have you any real business here ?" " You are a very cruel inquisitor," he says, with a very real wince. " Is there any pliice where an idle man may not find himself, without well know- ing why? Is your question quite fair?" " Is your answer quite frank ? Do you quite remember your promise? If we are not to part this moment, you must answer without eva- sion. This young lady, in serge, spoke as haughtily as if she were a princess in a fairy-tale. "Well, as you command me, I will, I will, indeed. I — I believe I came here, very much — entirely, indeed, from the same motive that led me to Llanberris. I could not help it, I couldn't, upon my honour ! I ho])e you are not very angry." It is not usual to be constrained to speak, in matters of this kind, the literal truth ; and I ques- tion if the young man was ever so much em- barrassed in all his days. " Mr. !Marston," she said, very quietly, he fancied a little sadly, "you are, I happen to know, a person of some rank, and likely to succeed to estates, and a title — don't answer; I know this to be so, and I mention it only by way of preface. THE YOUNG LxiDY SPEAKS. 85 Now, suppose I pull off my glove, and show you a seamstress's finger, dotted all over with the needle's point ; suppose I fill in what I call my holiday by hard work with my pencil and colour- box; suppose, beside all this, I have troubles enough to break the spirits of the three merriest people you knov/ ; and suppose that I have reasons for preventing any one, but Miss INIax, from knoA\'ing where I am, or suspecting who I am, don't you think there is enough in my case to make you a little ashamed of having pried and followed as you are doing ?" " You wrong me — oh, indeed, you wrong me ! You won't say that ; I did, perhaps, wrong. I may have been impertinent ; but the meanness of prying, you icon't think it ! All 1 wanted was to learn where you had gone : mv crime is in follow- ing you. I did not intend that you should think I had followed. I hopcil it might appear like accident. If you knew how I dread your con- tempt, and how I respect you, and how your rejH'oof pains me, I am sure you would think differentlv, and forgive me." I don't think there could have been more tleferencc in his face and tones if he had been ,.f^ pleading before an empress. The young hid\-'s tlark eyes for a moment 86 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. looked full at him, and again down upon the little daisy at her foot ; and she drew some odd little circles round it as she looked, and I think there was ever so slight a briv at once, as it is mentioned often in the sequel — to an old ladv sittino; in tlie carria-To. Old Miss Wyvel, the dean's sister, as usual, with her feet on a pan of hot water, sits in the carriage reading her novel, and nursing her rlieumatism, while her brother, the dean, makes his visit, witli an apology from her for not coming in. " We'll not mind Miss Wyvel this time. Slie'U be all the happier that I don't disturb her, and so shall I." Another tall footman, seeing wlio is in the fly, descends tlie broad steps cjuickly, and o[)ens the door. "The Dean of Chartry is here?*' iuquires the young lady. " How long has he been lierc ?" " About ten minutes, please, miss." "Any other visitor?" "No one, miss, at [)resent, please." "Where is her ladyship?" " In the library, })lease, miss." "Will you tell somebody, please, to tell my maid that I want her in my room?" said the young lady. And she ran up the steps lightly, and entered the great hall. It rniis back into space, almost into darkness, with oak panelled walls and tall 108 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. pictures. Slie tiu'iied to tlie riglit, where the broad oak staircase ascends. Up she runs. There are more portraits in this house, one must suppose, than the owners well know what to do with, for you can liardly turn a corner without meeting a gentleman with rosettes in his shoes, a ruff round his neck, and a rapier by his side, or a lady in the toilet of Queen Elizabeth. All ages, indeed, of English costume, from the court of Harry the Eighth down to George the Second, are represented here ; and, I suspect, there is now not a soul on earth who could tell you the names of all these magnificos and high dames, who are fain to lurk behind corners, or stand in their frames, with their backs against the walls of galleries, passed, back and forward, by gabbling moderns, who don't care twopence about them or their finery. Oif one of these galleries the young lady enters her own room — stately, comfortable, luxurious — looks around with a good-natured recognition, and has hardly begun to take off her dusty things, and prepare to make her toilet, when her maid passes in through the dressing-room door, smiling. 100 CHAPTER XII. BARBARA VERNON. By no incMiis old is this maid. Some six-and- tliirty years, perhaps. Slic has carried ISIaud in her arms wlien she was a little thiiio;, and dressed her ; sat by her bed and told her fairy-tales in the nursery. " Welcome homo, Miss Maud," smiles Jones. " And how have you been ?" says the young lady, taking her by the hand, and kissing her affectionately on one cheek and the other. "As for me, I've been flourishing. I almost think, old Jones, if I had only had you with me, I should never have come back again." " La, miss,' how you talk !" " I've been leading a wild, free life. Did you 110 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. ever see so much dust, Jones, on any human being?" "Indeed, you are in a pickle, miss. Charles said you came in a fly with one horse. I wonder her ladyship did not send a carriage to Wybourne to meet you." " Mamma has other things and people to think about," said the young lady, a little bitterly. " But I dare say if I had asked I should have had it ; though, indeed, I shouldn't have liked it." "Your hand's all sunburnt, miss." " I've been sketching ; and I never could sketch "with a glove on." " Well, dear me, it roas a fancy going in these queer things ! Why, I would not be seen in such things myself, miss, much less you. You'd best bundle off that dress, miss, as quick as you can. La ! it is thick Avith dust. Pliiew ! " " Help me, Jones, help me " And as she con- tinued her toilet she asked : "Is mamma yet talking of making her usual journey ? " "Not a word, miss, of any one stirring yet. Norris would know. She has not heard nothino;." " The Tinterns' carriage was here to-day — I passed it at the gate. Do you know who called? " "Mr. Tintern and Mrs. They was here nifjh half an hour. Leave them alone for 'avinf^ their eyes about 'em, miss. There ain't a tack druv in BARBARA VERNON. Ill the house, or a slate loose, but its known clown at the Grano;e before it's noticed here." " I thirik, Jones, they reckon upon — don't pull njy hair." By this time she was sittino- in her di-essing-gown before the glass, with her dark, golden-brown hair hanging over her shoulders in such profusion, that it seemed incredible how such masses could find growing room in one little head. Jones was brushing out its folds. " I'm not pulling it, indeed, miss," she protested. " Yes, you were, Jones. Don't ever contradict me. Has either of my special horrors — Mr. Smelt — he's the clergyman or dissenter, something in black, the sleek fat man that comes so often — has he been here since ? " '' He may 'ave, miss ; but '' • " IJut you don't know. Well, the other — Doctor Malkin ? " "Oh, dear yes, miss. He was here, please, on Fj-iday last.'" " You're sure '{ " " Yes, miss, please. Her ladyshi]) sent for me to the shield room. She only asked whether I could remember for certain, miss, what day you were to return 'ome to Wybournc with Miss Jiledwyn." "Well?" ' " Well, miss, she luul it down in a book, and 112 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. read it to me, and I said 'twas right. You said early — the seventeenth." " And did she say anything more ? " " No, })lease, miss, nothing more. Only she saiil, ' Tliat's all, you need not wait.' " " And what about Doctor Malkin ? " "He was showed in, miss, please, just as I was going out. And I heard her order Edward not to let any visitor in ; and that was all, please." " Do you know the name of this place, parish, and county, Jones ? " says the young lady, care- lessly. "Well, I ought to by this time, miss," laughs Jones. " I don't think you do. The name of this place is Bocotia, and it is famous for its dulness, and Doctor Malkin is one of the six inhabitants who can think and talk a little. lie is an agreeable man, and — put a ])in there — an unpleasant-looking man. I like talking to him ; but I think, on the whole, I should not be sorry if he were laid in tlie Red Sea, as poor nurse Ores well used to say. What do you think of him ? " " That is a gentleman, Heaven forgive me, I can't abide, miss," answered Jones. "■ I hate his face. I always feel in low spirits after I see it." " Well, anything more ? " continues Miss Maud. BAEBAKA VEBNON. 113 " When are the people coimng to hear grandpapa's will read ?" "To-morrow, I believe, miss. But, as yet, Mr. Eccles has not got no orders about it. He said so after dinnei* in the 'ouse-keeper's room yesterday." " And is there anything going to be — a tea and plum-cake for the school-children, or a meeting of missionaries, or anything of any kind? " "Nothing, miss, please, as I 'ave heard of, but '' " You'll knock down that china, Jones." " What, miss ? " . "My ring-stand — my Dresden dancers." " Oh ! The little man and woman with one arm akimbo and the other up. I saw them all the time." "Well, take great care. I'm sure I shall kill you if you break them. You were going to tell me there is nothing going to be, except something — what is it ? " " Oh ! I know ; yes, miss, the conseckcration of the monument in the church. That will be to- morrow evening, miss." " Oh ! Really ? Well, that was a whim ! Give me those ear-rings. No, not those — Ihc others; not those either. Don't you see the little ones. Thanks. Yes. I must run down and see mannna, VOL. I. I 114 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. I suppose, though I'm very sure she doesn't care if sliG did not see my face for a year, or — for ever." " La, miss ! you must not talk like that. Your mamma's a very religious lady — the most so, as every one knows, in the county — I might say in all England — and it's just her way ; the same with every one, a little bit high and distant like ; but it ain't fit, miss, you should say that." "No, Jones, we can't agree, mamma and I. Give me that small enamel brooch — the little one with the lady's head set in gold. Thanks. She does not like me " — the young lady was standing before the glass, and I dare say was well pleased, for she looked splendidly handsome — " and the reason is just this, every one else flatters her. You and all the other sneaks. I never do, although I am sometimes a little afraid of her like the rest. I'm nervous, I don't know why ; but it's not cowardice. I never flatter her." " No, miss, it ain't that ; it's only 30U don't try her. You won't go the right way about it." "There's no use, Jones — you only vex me. I've often felt that I Avould ffive the world to throw my arms abovit her neck and kiss her; but some- how I can't ; she won't let me. Perhaps she tries ; but she can't love me ; and so it always was, as far back as I can remember, and so it will always be, and I've made up my mind to it ; it can't be helped." BAEBAEA VEEXON. 115 So Miss Maud Vernon walked along the gallery, and went down the broad stairs, passing many ancestors who stood by, at the right and the left, against the wall, as she did so, and singing low to herself as she went, with a clear and rich voice, an Italian air quite new to the solemn people in the picture-frames, at whom she looked listlessly, thinkino; neither of them nor of her sonc; as she passed by. Mr. Tarpey, the groom of the chambers, was fussing with the decorations of the hall as she passed. " Can you tell me where her ladyship is ? " she inquired. " Her ladyship, I think, is still in the library. Please, shall I see, miss ? " '• Don't mind. I'll try myself. Is her ladyship alone?" " I think so, miss." He crossed the hall, and opened the second door from the great entrance, which stood wide open, in this sultry weather, by Lady Vernon's command, the two tall footmen, in their blue and gold liveries, keeping guard there. Maud glanced through the open hall-door as she crossed the hall ; she would have been rather pleased to see a carriage approaching; she did not I 2 116 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. care for a very long interview with her motlier ; but there was no sitvn of a visitor in sixrht. " Thanks, Til go alone," she said, dispensing with the escort of Mr. Tarpey; and ]iassing through two spacious rooms, she reached the door of the library. Lady Vernon treated that apartment as her private cabinet, and from her childhood Maud had been accustomed to respect it. Maud has no liking for the coming interview. She would, now, have liked to put it off, and as she crosses the Turkey carpet that muffles her tread, her step slackens. She stops at the door and raises her hand to knock, but she doesn't knock ; she hesitates ; she has a great mind to turn back, and wait till her mother sends for her. But, perhaps, that would not do. She has been at home nearly an hour, and it is time she should ask Lady Vernon how she does. She knocks at the door, and hears a clear voice call " Come in." She turns the handle accordingly, and steps into a spacious room, hung with gilded leather ; the blinds are down, the sun bv this time shininor on this side of the house, and a mellow, cathedral-like dimness prevails. There are three or four antique bookcases, carved in ponderous relief, through the leaves and scrolls of which are grinning grotesque and ugly faces, rich with a cynical Gothic fancy. BAKBAKA VERNON. 117 and overliun*:^ by fantastic cornices, crowned Avitli the heraldic shield and snpporters of the Vernons. They are stored with gikled volumes ; portraits hang here, as in other parts of this rich old house, and cold marble busts gleam on pedestals from the corners. Sitting at a table in the middle of this room is a very handsome woman of forty years or upwards, with skin smooth as ivory, and jet-black hair, divided in the middle, and brought doAvn over her white temples and small pretty ears smoothly in the simple classic fashion, now out of date. Her finely pencilled black eyebrows, and her features with a classic elegance of outline, carry an expres- sion of cold hauteur. Pier slio;ht embonnoint becomes her grave but rich dress, which is that of a woman of rank and wealth, by no means indif- ferent to the impression produced by externals. This lady, with one handsome foot upon a stool, and a desk before her, is in a leisurely way writing a letter, over which she beiuls just the least thing in the world. Iler pose is decidedly elegant. The lady glances slightly toward the door, llcr large grey eyes, under their long lashes, rest for a moment on her daughter. She does not smile ; the pen is still in her fingers. She sa3's, simply, in her clear and rather sweet tones, " Oh, INIaud ? I will speak to you in a few minutes, when I have 118 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. put this into its envelope. Won't you sit down V* And so she continues to write. The young lady flashes back a rather fiery glance in return for this cool welcome, and does not sit down, but walks instead, with a quick step, to the window, pulls the blind aside, and looks out perseveringly. 119 CHAPTER XIII. MOTHER AND DAUGPITER. Lady Veenon having enclosed and addressed lier letter, added it to the little pack of about six others at her left. Then looking np, she said : " So, you are quite well, Maud, and you arrived at a quarter past tliree?" "Quite well, mamma, thanks. I suppose it was about that time ; and 1 hope you are very well." "I am well, thanks; and I wished to mention that when you, as you told nu;, fixed the seven- teenth for your retnrn to the Hermitage with Maximilla Medwyn, I was under a mistake, and did not see, till too late, that the seventeenth would be Sunday; and 1 should not have given 120 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. my sanction to your travelling for pleasure on Sunday. I wished to mention that particularly. I told Maximilla I should be happy to receive iier any day this Aveek. Is she coming, do you know?" "She would have come with me this morning, but she had so much to say to her servants, and so many things to arrange, that she could not leave home till after dinner at soonest, so she hopes to be here at ten to-night ; and if anything should happen to prevent her, you are to have a note, by post, in the morning." " She Avill be in time, at all events, for the bisliop's sermon to-morrow," says Lady Vernon. " The monument will be uncovered at five o'clock. The bishop arrives at six. He has to consecrate the new church at Eastover, before he comes here, and then he goes on, after his sermon, to Ward- lake, for the evenino- meeting; of the church missions." Miss Vernon is hardly so nmch interested in all this as her mother is, although even she recites the programme a little dryly. But chy as is her recital, it is not often that she volunteers so much information to her daughter. " And what can the bishop have to say about the monument, to lead liim so much out of his way, poor old man?" MOTHER AND DAUGHTEE. 121 " The bishop seems to think that his having been the dearest friend that Mr. Howard had on earth, constitutes some little claim upon him," says Lady Vernon, haughtily, in a cold tone, and with her fine grey eyes fixed on her daughter. " Oh ! I did not know," says Maud, a little apologetically. "No, of course you did not; you seldom do know, or care to know, anything that interests me," says the elder lady, with her fine brows a little higher, - Maud coloured suddenly, with an impatient movement of her head. She was not sitting down, only standing near the table, drumming on it with her finger-tops, and she felt for a moment as if she could have stamped. She answered, however, witlidut any show of excitement except in her brilliant colour and eyes. " I did not know, mamma, that this monument to Mr. Howard interested you particularly." "No, not })articularly," said handsome Lady Vernon, sternly, for she was one of those persons who don't brook contradiction, and who interpret discussion as a contradiction. " Mr. Howard was the best vicar we ever had here, or ever shall have ; and, in his way, a benefactor to this ]iarish. The bishop, who admired and loved him, as much as one man could another, suiin-ested that for such a 122 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. man, in the field of his labours, having lain in his grave more than a score of years unrecorded by a single line, it was time that a monument should be raised. He wished a beautiful one, and so I believe it is. His name is first in the list of subscribers, and it is his idea, and it is he who has taken a lead in it ; and, therefore, though inte- rested, I am not particularly interested in the personal degree Avhich your emphasis would imply." '' Well, all 1 can say Is, I'm very unlucky, mamma." " I think you are unlucky," replied her mother, coldly, turning her head slowly away, and looking at the pendule over the chimney. " Have you anything to ask me, Maud ?" in- quired Lady Vernon, after a little interval. "Nothing, thanks, mamma," said Maud, with her head a little liioh. " I'm afraid I have bored you coming in when you were busy. But having been away ten days, I thought it would have been wrong, or at least odd, if I had not come to see you to ask you how you were." " So it would," said Lady Vernon. " Will you touch the bell ?" She did so. " Well, mamma, I suppose there's nothing more?" MOTHER AND DAUGHTEE. 123 '• Nothing, Maud." Maud's heart swelled with bitterness as slic left the room, and shut the door gently. "No father, no mother, no near relation !" she thought, impetuously. " I love cousin Max better than fifty such mammas. There are girls who would hate her. But I can't. Why am I cursed with this cruel yearning for her love? And she can't love me — she won't have my love. I thiidc she wishes me to hate her." When Maud was a little tliinn;, as far back as she could remember, her idea of a "mamma" was an embodiment of power, and something to be afraid of. Seldom seen except A^■hen the spirited little girl became unmanageable ; then there would be a rustling of silk and a flutter of lace in the nursery, and the handsome figure, the proud still face and large grey eyes were before her. This phantom instantly awed her. It always looked severe, and never smikMl, and its sweet cold tones were dreadful. The child's instinct could see dislike, hidden from maturei* observers, in those fine eyes, and never heard a tender note in that harmonious voice. Miss Maud jinsscd dut tlivough the suite of rooms, and encountered J^ady Vernon's footman going in to take her letters. In the hall, serious Mr. Eccles, the gentleman- 124 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. like butler, Avas passing upon his business with the quiet importance and gravity of office. The young lady had a word to say. " Is any one expected to dinner to-day ?" " Yes, miss — five ; the vicar and Mrs. Foljambe ; his curate, the Reverend Mr. Doody ; and Mr. Puntles and Doctor Malkin. There was an invi- tation for Captain Bamme ; but he is absent on militia business, and it is thought not probable, miss, he will return in time." Anything was better than a tete-a-tete with Lady Vernon ; a situation which Ijady Vernon herself seemed to deprecate as strongly as her daughter, for it did not occur usually six times in a year. 125 CHAPTER XIV. GUESTS AND NEIGIIBOUKS. When, that evening, Miss Maud entered the vast drawing-room, it was some minutes past eight. The outer world was in twihglit, but hunps glowed faintly here, iij)ou tlic thick silken curtains, and lofty ndrrors, and pictures, and treasures of china, and upon figures of people assembled for dinner. The little party was almost lost in the great void, as Miss Maud made her journey, o\ er a comparatively gloomy desert of thick carpet, to the group illuminated by the soft light of the lamps. Tall old 'Mr. Foljamlje, the vicar, was enter- taining Lady Vernon with his bland and dignified 12G THE KOSE AND THE KEY. conversation. Doctor Malkin uould luive liked that post, but the vicar came first, and seized it. The vicar is a well-connected old gentleman, related, in some remote cousinship, to the late Sir Amyrald Vernon, and knows very well what he is about, lias not Lady Vernon, the relict of that lamented kinsman, two extremely desirable livings in her gift, besides smaller thino;s ? And, old as the Reverend Mr. Foljambe is, are not the incumbents of these fat fields of usefulness older still? Is not the lieverend Mr. Cripry seventy-nine ? And is not the venerable Doctor Shanks eighty-two, by the records of Ti'inity College, Cambridge ? Com- pared with these mature ornaments of the Church, the vicar justly feels himself a stripling; and being a young fellow, not yet in his ssvcnty-first year, he may well complain of a selfish longevitv which is sacrificing the interests of two important parishes which require a vigorous ministration. The vicar's shrewd old eye, from its wrinkled corners, observes Doctor Malkiii's wistful look, and knows from experience that he likes to take possession of Lady Vernon's ear, and has suffered more than once from the tenacity with which he keeps it, when he can, to himself. "Nothing of the kind shall happen to-night," thinks the vicar, who, having a handsome bit of money in consols, has sold out a hundred pounds GUESTS AND NEIGHBOUES. 127 to invest in a subscription to the monument of his predecessor, the Reverend Mr. Howard — a i^ood work in whicli Lady Vernon takes a Avarm interest, as she always does in any tiling she takes up. The vicar has her fast upon this, and the doctor thinks he can read sly triumph in his eye, as, once or twice, it glides over to him, and their glances meet for a moment. "Well, doctor, and how's all wid you?" inquires the Reverend Michael Doody, with a grin that shows his fine white fangs, and a trifling clap of his enormous hand on the doctors shoulder. " Elegant, I suppose f The doctor's slight frame quivers under the caress of the cleric, but he smiles politely; for who knows what influence this new importation may grow to in this part of the Avorld? "I'm very well, thanks — as well as a iellow, so much knocked about as a doctor, can be in tliis hot weather." The doctor is a little bald, with a high pale nose, a long upper lip, a receding chin, veiy blue, and a pair of fine dark eyes, set too close together, and with a slight obliquity which spoils them a great deal, and does not improve his countenance ; his shirt-front is beautified with needlework, and his rather tall choker, for his neck 128 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. is lon^, is made up by his exemplary laundress with a snowy smoothness worthy of the neatness and decision with which the doctor ties it. " My governor, the vicar, has Lady Vernon fast by the button," continued Mr. Doody, with some- thing like a wink. " She must be a very con- scientious woman, to listen so Avell to her clergy. He was talking about Vicar Howard's monument when I Avas near them, just now." The doctor laughed and shrugged, and ]Mr. Doody thought for a moment he squinted a little more than usual. "Our good vicar has but one subject at present," says the doctor, Avho gives Mr. Doody, as a stranger, credit for a good deal of waggish penetration. "You have heard of the clarionet- man who had but ojie tune, and played it always through the key-hole, till it answered its purpose, and extracted a gi*atuity ; and he made it pay very well, I believe." " And rayther hard, doctor, that you can't get your turn at the key-hole, eh, my boy ?" And the reverend gentleman utters a stentorian giggle, and pokes his finger on the doctor's ribs. "I don't (juite see, Mr. Doody," says Doctor Malkin, with a very creditable smile, all things considered. "Boo, docthor, my darlin' fellow, don't be • GUESTS AND NEIGHBOUKS. 129 comiii' the simpleton over lis. Don't we both know that every man in your profession likes to stand well with the women ? And here you are, and if it was to make a man of ye, not a word can ye edge in. It's too hard, docthor, that the man of death should be blocked out by a tombstone. Be the powers, it ain't fair ! He's takin' her all over the monument ; up on the pedestal, over the cornice, down in the vault ! It's an unfair ad- vantage. But, never mind, my boy, ye'll be even with him yet ; ye'll attind him in his next indis- position." This pleasant banter was accompanied by a running explosion of giggles ; and while the tall and rather handsome Irislmian is enjoying his little bit of farce, with intense relish, the vicar and Lady Vernon are discoursing thus : "I thought, Lady Vernon, you woukl like, of course, in the most private way in the world, to collect opinion upon the monument ; so, as he draws veiy nicely, my wife says, I allowed my curate, Mr. Doody, just in the strictest privacy, quite to ourselves, you understand, a peep at it, for about five minutes, this morning. lie thinks it very fine indeed — very fine — as, indeed, every one who has seen it docs. There is, I fancy, but one opinion. I wish so much. Lady Vernon. I might venture to invite you to pay my church — VOL. I. K 130 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. yours, indeed, I might more properly call it — a visit to-morrow, to look at what I may term your beautiful gift to the sacred edifice." " No, thanks ; I shall see it time enough." " But, as it owes its existence. Lady Vernon, to your extremely munificent subscription " " I thought it was due, as the bishop said, to a veiy good clergyman," says Lady Vernon, quietly cutting it short; "and I gave what I thought right. That is all. And so your curate draws 1" " I'm nothing of a draughtsman myself, but my wife understands it, and says he draws extremely nicely." " That tall young man, is he ?" " I ought to have presented him, Lady Vernon. It was an omission — an inexcusable omission — a very inexcusable omission." He was trying to catch his curate's eye all this time. " He has been with me only a week, and yesterday he did duty at Loxton. You remember. Lady Vernon, you thought an Irishman would answer best." " The bishop says he has found them extremely energetic, and for very hard work unrivalled." "He's a very rough diamond, I must admit. But he's a convert from Romanism, and a very laborious young man, and a good scholar." He had beckoned ^Ii*. Doody to ajjproach, and accordingly that herculean labourer in the apostolic GUESTS AND NEIGHBOUES. 131 field drew near, a head and shoulders above all the other guests. The tall old vicar alone was sitting. "Allow me, Lad}^ Vernon, to present my curate, Ml-. Doody," says the vicar, rising to do the honours. Mr. Doody is not the least overcome by the honour. His fine eyes have examined the lady, of whom he had heard so much, but of whom he has not had so near a view before, with the grave curiosity with which he would have scrutinised an interesting piece of waxwork. The florid young man, with black whiskers and glossy black head, makes his best bow gravely, and inquires unexpectedly : " How are ye, ma'am ? A good evening. Lady Vernon." A form of salutation with which it is liis wont, as it were, to clench an introduction. Lady Vernon does not mind answerino- or reciprocating these rather oddly placed greetino-s, but talks a few sentences with him, and then turns again to tlic vicar, and the curate, after a little wait, turns on his heel, and seeks employment for his active mind elsewhere. Let me not be imagintMl lo present an average Irish curate. Mr. Doody is almost as great a prodigy at home as anywhere else. His father, with his own hands, in his bare shins, with a k2 132 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. dlmddeen stuck in his caubeen, cuts turf in the bog near the famous battle-field of Aghrim. He is not a bit ashamed of his father or his belongings. He holds him to be as good a gentleman as him- self — being the lineal descendant of the O'Doody of Tyr Doody — and himself as good as the primate. He sends his mother a present every now and then, but the farm is well stocked, and his parents are, according to primitive ideas, wealthy people in their homely way. His lapse into Protestantism was, of course, a sore blow. And when Doctor Pollard's wife mentioned to the priest, with per- haps a little excusable triumph, that Michael Doody had embraced the principles of the Refor- mation, his reverence scratched his tonsure, and said : "I'm not a bit surprised, ma'am, for he was always an impudent chap; but there was some good in the boy, also ; and go where he may at present, so sure as I'm a Catholic, he'll die one." 13a CHAPTER XV. DINNER. Old Mr. Foljambe takes precedence, at dinner, in right of his clotli, connexions, and antiquity, and has taken Lady Vernon into the dining-room, and converses assiduously with that great hidy. Maud finds herself between the curate and Doctor Maikin. Middle -awd and am-eeable Captain Bammc resents an arrangement which isolates him, and eyes the curate with disgust. Captain liammc does not count age by years. He knows better. As long as a fellow looks young, and feels young, he is young. The cajitain smiles more than any other two men in tlie parish. He is short and square, but he skips and swaggers like an officer and a gentleman, ^^'ho can talk to 134 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. a girl like Charley Bamme? Who understands that mixture of gaiety and gallantry — with now and then a dash of tenderness — like this officer. To be sure lie's not a marrying man ; every one knows that. It is out of the question. The cap- tain laughs with a melancholy scorn over his scanty pittance. A fourth son, by Jove ! and put to a poor profession. But is he not the life and soul of a picnic, and the darling of the ladies ? "I've been quartered in Ireland," says little Captain Bamme, under cover of the surrounding buzz, to his more fortunate neighbour. Doctor Malkin ; " I've been in every part of it ; I have talked to Irishmen of every rank and occupation, but such a brogue as that, I give you my honour, I never heard. AVhy, they wouldn't have him to preach to a congregation of carmen in Dublin. 1 never heard anything like it. How did old Fol- jambe light on him ? I really think, Avhen people bring fellows like that to a place like this, where people must know him, and, for anj'^thing you or I can tell, that fellow may spend the rest of his days down here — by Jove ! it's pleasant — they ought to be prepared to give an account of him. I suppose Foljambe can say what he is ? You never met such an insufferable creature. I never spoke to the fellow before in my life ; and he came up to DINNER. 135 me in the hall here making some vulgar personal joke, I give you my honour." "He seems to succeed very well," says the doctor, " notwithstanding. I suppose there's some- thing interesting in it, though you and I can't perceive it." " Upon my soul, I can't." And with this declaration he turns to Mrs. Fol- jambc, who is at his right, determined to make her account for her intolerable curate. Mrs. Foljambe is tall, deaf, and melancholy — a woman very nearly useless, and quite harmless. "I was sa}dng just now to Doctor jNIalkin,'" begins the captain, "that I've been, at different times, quartered in Ireland " A footman here presents at the captain's right hand an entree wliicli lie loves, and on which he pounces. " A daughter in Ireland ?" repeats the drowsy voice of Mr:;. Foljambe, turning her dull and small grey eyes upon him, with a heavy sigli. " No, ha, ha ! not yet ; quartered in Ireland. No. Time enough for that, I hope. I'm not married, iNIrs. Foljambe — thanks, that will do, I say, I have l)een a little puzzled by your curate's accent." He was speaking low, but with measured articulation ; for althoun;h the Reverend Michael 136 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. Doocly's voice is loud and busy at the other side of the table, and the buzz of conversation is general, that odious person's ears, for aught the captain knew, may be preternaturally acute. "And although I know Ireland pretty well — Athlone Limerick, Cork, Dublin, and all that — yet I never heard his accent before in my life." Mrs. Foljarabe bowed her patient grey head, and did not seem aware that any answer was needed. " Can you say what part of the country he comes from?" persists Captain Bamme. " I rather think Ireland," replies Mrs. Foljambc, with an effort and another sio;h. " I rather think so myself," says the captain, in a disgusted aside, over his veal and truffles. " The woman knows no more about him than my hat does of snipe-shooting," he says, in the doctor's ear, and drowns his indignation in a glass of hock, which the butler at that moment charitably proffers. The doctor has now got into talk with IMiss Vernon. The captain lias no wish to steal good Mrs. Foljambe's bothered ear from old Mr. Puntles, who is labouring to entertain her. So Captain Bamme attends to his dinner with great concentration and enerfjv for some time. It was not until he came to the iced-pudding that he DINNER. 137 tliouglit of tlic Reverend Michael Doody again, and his joke npon the captain's stature — " a fellow I had never exchanged six words with before !" — and raising his eyes, he saw, witli a qualm, those of the florid divine, fixed jocosely on him from the other side of the table. " Upon my soul, it is very nearly intolerable !"' the captain protests, mentally, as lie leans back, with a flushed face. He resolves that this fellow must bo snubbed, and laughed at, and sat upon, and taught to know his ]>lace, and held at arm's length. As the captain has, however, nothing clever ready, he prefers not noticing the curate's exj)res- sion ; and tlu'owing into iiis countenance all the dignity which a not very tragic face can carry, he avails himself of ^Ir. Eccles's murmur at his rifjlit elbow, and takes a glass of slierry. " I'll drink a glass of wine widgye, ca])tain," insists the curate, recurring to a happily obsolete usane. ''Get me some white wine." The ca])tain bows and stares, with a ratln-r withering condescension and gra\ i(y, which, how- over, does not in the least tell npon the impervious curate, who, his glass replenished, observes with a hilarious smile, " An agreeable way of makin' acquaintance with my Hock ; better than a dhry domiciliary visit, ca])tain, by a long clialk. I 138 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. pledge you, my gallant parishioner — and here's to our better acquaintance." The captain nods curtly, and gulps down his wine, without half tasting it ; but even on these terms he thinks it is well to have escaped that brute. Miss Vernon is a£!;a,in talkinii; to the curate. How diso-ustino; ! He turns, without thinkin"- what he's doino;, to his right, and his eves meettlie dull and innocent gaze of grey Mrs. Foljambe, who, recalled to the festive scene, makes an effort, and tells him her only story. " We knew two very respectable poor women in tiiis town. Anne Pluggs was one, and her sister, Julia PlufXffs, was the other: there were two. They had both been servants, cooks, and they lived in the small house, last but one on your left, as you go towards the windmill." A deep sigh here. " You'll know it by wall-flowers growing at the door ; at least, there were, about a year or two ago; and they had saved a little money; and ^Ir. Foljambe had a very high opinion of them, and so had I." The captain bows. " And about sixteen years ago they gave up their house here, and went to Coventry ; it is a good way off, you know." The captain knits his brows and calculates rapidly. DINNEE. 139 " About forty-seven miles — by Jove, it is a good way." "And when they arrived tliere, they set up a confectioner's shop, in a small way, of course." " Oh V says the captain, very much interested, " that was very spirited of them." " It had a bow-window that was painted brown, it was at a corner of a street near one of the spires, and tliey did very well, and they are both alive still." Another deep sigh followed. "What a pity !" says the polite captain, who is looking across the table, and thinking, at the moment, of quite another thing. The good lady does not hear his comment, and so its slight incon- gruity is harmless, and the captain inviting the conclusion of the tale, says, " and ?" But the story is over. That is all. And good Mrs. Foljambe, contented with her contribution towards keeping the conversation alive, is looking, in a melancholy reverie, on the table-cloth. As she has dropped off his hands in this gentle way, the captain resigns 1km- witli a good grace, and listens, undisturbed, to other talk. Lady Vernon has now taken the curate into council, and is leading the little cabinet. Mr. Michael Doody is attentive, and seems impressed 140 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. hy wliat I-iady Vernon is saying. She has tlie reputation of being a clever woman, with a special talent for government. IVIr. Puntles is listening, and sipping his wine ; and being a polite old man, now and then plagues Mrs. Foljambe with a question or a remark. Doctor Malkin is in animated conversation with Miss Vernon. He is, perhaps, a little of an esprit fort; but in a rural region, always more phari- saical, as well as more pure than the city, he is very cautious, the more particularly as his great patroness, Lady Vernon, is a sharp and ready Christian, not high-church, not low-church ; people iit both sides of the controversy complain in whispers of ambiguities and inconsistencies ; she is broad -church. Yes, very broad-church. She would throw the church-gates wude — as open as her heart — as open as her hand. She has built plain, sober churches — she has built meeting- houses — she has built florid chapels and churches, gleaming with purple and gold, and with saints and martyrs glowing in brilliant colours from stained windows, such as rejoice the heart of that learned and Gothic Christian, Archdeacon Complines. Her flatterers speak in this vein : and they are legion. The promoters of the projects which she vivifies by her magnificent bounty may hate their equally successful rivals, but they like her money ; DINNEK. 141 and they are extremely careful not to offend her, for she has not the reputation of forgiving easily. Doctor Malkin talks to Miss Vernon on her pet subjects, theories, and vagaries of all sorts, the abuses and corruptions begotten of an artificial system, bold social reforms, daring sentiments on all forms of civil government, treated romantically rather than very learnedly, or, indeed, very wisely. And now Lady Vernon, having established an understanding with old Mrs. Foljambe, rises, and with that dejected lady, and ISIaud, takes her de- parture. Captain Barame, gallantly standing as guard of honour, with the handle of the ojien door in his hand, smiles with supernatural sweetness, sees them off, and returns to complete the little party of five. 142 \ CHAPTER XVI. A SKIRMISH. Plump little Mr. Puntles is a cosey bachelor of two-and-sixtj. Something of an antiquary, something of a herald, he is strong in county lore. He is the only man in Koydon who honestly likes books. He lives in the comfortable square brick house of Charles the First's date, at the northern end of the village. He usually takes a nap of five minutes after his dinner, and then is bright for all the evening after. The Reverend Mr. Foljambe, who considers himself an aristocrat, talks with him upon genea- logies, and such matters, with the condescending attention tliat befits his high descent and con- nexions. A SKIRMISH. 143 "No family has a right to powdered-blue in their liveries, except this branch of the Vernons, one branch of the Lindseys, and two other fami- lies," said Mr. Pnntles, with his eyes closed, and his finger tracing diagrams slowly on the table- cloth. " It is a very distinguished privilege, and I'll tell you how the Vernons came by it." Mr. Foljambe smiles blandly, and also, nearly closing his eyes, inclines his ear ; but a vocifera- tion at another part of the table, where Captain Bamme and the curate were in hot debate, arrested the communication. "Who consolidated your civil power in India?" urges the curate. " I'll tell you, captain. It was Mr. Richard Colley Wellesley of Dangan, in the county of Meath. The Marquis AVelleslcy, as you are good enough to call him. And who com- manded the Indian army, at the same critical period, when something more was wanted than blundering and plundering, a teaste of genius and a teaste for thunderinfr?" Before answering his own question the Reverend Mr. Doody applied his glass to his lips, his disen- gaged hand being extended all the time toward his gallant adversary, with a paddling of the fingers, intended to retain the ear of the company and the right of continuing his speech. " So far as thundering is concerned, Mr. Doody," 144 THE ROSE AXD THE KEY. said the vicar, Avitli stately jocularity, " it seems to me that your countrymen seldom -want a Ju- piter."' The captain, with a rather inflamed visage, for more had passed between the curate and him, smirked angrily, and nodded at the vicar, and leaned back and tossed his head, and rolled a little in his chair, smiling scornfully along the cornice. But the Reverend jNIr. Doody could hear no one but himself, and think of no one but Captain Bamme and the Wellesley family at that moment, and he continued : " Who, I repeat, saved India by his genius for arms, as the other consolidated the same empire by his genius for organisation and rule? Who but that Irishman's Irish brother Arthur Wellesley, Jooke of Wellington ? And I think I remember some triflino; services that same county o' Meath man did you on other ground. But I'm speaking of India just now, and I ask a>tenance does him great wrong," BREAKFAST. 177 answered Miss Max, cheerfully, "that's all I say. It is quite true I don't know him, and I don't desire to know him." And she sipped her tea. "I assure you, Mr. Coke, I speak from' know- ledge ; there is no one of whose good sense and truth I have a higher opinion. I wished you to understand that," said Lady Vernon. " And I have an almost equally high opinion of his skill. For the last fifteen years he has been attending, in every illness, in this house ; and he has been so attentiA'e and so successful, it would be impos- sible not to have the highest opinion of liim as a physician." Perhaps Mr. Coke thought it a little odd that Lady Vernon should make such a j)oint of his believing this country doctor a paragon ; and wondered why the peculiar flush by which she betrayed excitement should glow in her cheeks, and make her broad, cold eyes, fiery. " Country doctors are often the ablest," he remarked, letting the subject drop softly ; " they get to know the idiosyncrasies of their small circle of patients so thoroughly ; and their dispensaries and the rustic population furnish an immense field of observation and experience. Does Ijord Vernoy come to-day ?" VOL. I. N 178 THE ROSE AND THE KEY, " Yes ; I'm sorry he does, he is such Ji bore, poor man ; I shoukl have preferred his staying away," rephed Lady Vernon, with phiintive dis- gust. " Barroden comes, and so does Mr. Hil- derincr." "And each, I think, Lrings his solicitor with him?" asked Mr. Coke. " I wrote to tliem to do so, and I suppose they will," answered Lady Vernon, " Only Sir Harry Strafford doesn't come." "I don't think we are likely to hit upon any- thing very new. I have gone over it so often, and 1 don't tliink anything has escaped us," ruminated Mr, Coke, " Is there a solicitor to represent Miss Maud Vernon?" "No, I did not think it necessary. Does it strike you that this room is lighter than it was when you were last here?" inquired Lady Vernon, a little irrelevantly, "I'll show you how that happens." And breakfast being by this time over, she rose and walked to the great window that looks towards the east. Mr, Coke, a little thoughtful, followed her mechanically, "Two great lime-trees stood just there, where you see the grass a little yellow, and they were so shaken by the storm last year, that they were pro-^ BREAKFAST. 179 nounced unsafe, and had to come down ; they Avere beautiful trees, but the room is a _£>'reat deal lighter." " Yes," said Mr. Coke. " It is rather compli- cated, you see, and there might he a conflict of interests, and as the meeting is a little formal, it would have relieved me of a responsibility; Ijut I'll do my best." "I don't see that any conflict can arise, j\Ir. Coke," said Lady Vernon, cold!}'. "At all events, if she wishes to ascertain her rights and oppor- tunities, or whatever they are, separately, there is nothing to prevent her. What we do to-day can't fetter her in any way, and I thought you were quite competent to protect us both. It would be rather early to anticipate her litigating with her mother. I should hope there won't be an o])por- tnnity." " No," acquiesced Mr. Coke ; " I should have preferred that arrangement ; but I'll do my best. At what hour do you expect the trustees, Lady Vernon ?" "They w^ill all be hero by three o'clock, if they keep their appointments. I think Mr. Ilildering will come at one ; he said so." Mr. Coke was thoughtful; and when Lady Vernon was gone, he looked over his note-l)ook n2 180 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. for a time, and raising his eyes a little after, he saw the slight figure of Miss Maximilla Medwyn walking up and down the long terrace before the house. He went out and joined her. 181 CHAPTER XX. LADY VEKNON's EXCUESIONS. When he overtook that cheerful sentr}^, he said : " Can you tell me where I should be likely to find Miss Vernon ? I have a word to say to her." " Lady Vernon sent for her a few minutes ago, but she said she would not keep her long/' said Miss Max; "I told her I should walk up and down here till she came." !Mr. Coke walked beside her without saying a word, till they had completed a walk to the end, and back again. " Lady Vernon is as handsome as ever," he re- marked, on a sudden. " Since I last saw her there is really no change that I can see." 182 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. " But that is scarcely a year ago," answered Miss Max. " More than four," replied Mr. Coke, smiling. " You mean to say you have not seen Barbara for four years!" exclaimed Miss Max, stopping short and turning towards him. " I come wdienever I'm sent for," said Mr. Coke, with a laugh. " But though I don't see lier very often, I very often hear from her, and very clear and clever letters she writes upon business, I can tell you." " But didn't you know she is in town for some time, every year of her life ?" " I had not an idea. We hear from her gene- rally about once a fortnight. But I should very often have liked a few minutes' talk Avith her. Those little points of viva voce explanation are very useful in a long correspondence. And so she is every year at Grosvenor-square f "I think you had better not say a word about it to Lady Vernon," said ISIiss Max. " Oh ! of course not. I leave that to her. But I think it is a mistake, not giving us half an hour when she comes." Thus said Mr. Coke, swinging his stick a little, and looking over the top of the terrace balustrades, across the court, and ponds, and peacocks, and swans, and the close-shorn SAvard stained with the solemn shadows of the LADY veknon's excuksions. 183 trees, down the perspective of foliage, to the mighty piers and great carved urns of the iron gates, and the gables and twisted chimneys of the gate-house. "Yes, that would l)e only natural, and her not doing so puzzles me more and more," replied Maximilla Medwyn ; "you are such an old friend, and know evervthino- about the affairs of this family so intimately, that I'll tell you ; but you are not to let it go further, for it is plain she does not want it talked about ; and it is simply that which makes me verv curious." " I've learned by this time to hold my tongue and to keep secrets, and T venture to say, this is a very harmless one," laughed Mr. Coke. " Well, now, listen — what a time Maud is ! Once a year — I think about July or August — my handsome cousin, Lady Vernon, is taken wdth what my maid terms a fit of the fidgets. She takes her maid, but never Maud with her, mind — never. Maud has never come out. J don't think she has been six times in London in her life. That is not right, you know ; but that is a diffe- rent matter. Lady Vernon and her maid go up to Grosvenor-squai'e, where the house is all locked up and uncarpeted, all except a room or two, and where there is no one to receive them but an old housekeeper and a housemaid. She tells old ]\Ir. 184 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. Foljambe, the vicar, that it is to consult a London physician. No great testimony, I think, to the surpassing skill of Doctor Malkin. But, I fancy, it is not about any such thing she goes to town, for her stay in Grosvenor-square never outlasts a clay or two. Her fidgets continue. She leaves her maid there, and goes alone, I believe, from one watering-place to another." " Without her maid, you say ?" " Yes, without her maid." "And how do they know she goes to watering- places 1" " They never know wdiere she is going. The only clue is, that now and then she sends a note of directions to her maid, in London, or to the house- steward, or the housekeeper, down here ; and these indicate her capricious and feverish changes of place, Avhich you'll allow contrast oddly with the stillness and monotony of her life, when she is at home. Then, after six weeks or so spent in this mysterious way, she appears again, suddenly, at her town-house, tells her maid that she is better, and so they return here. It is very whimsical, isn't it ? Can you understand it ?" "Restlessness, and perhaps a longing for a little holiday," he answered. " She has, I may say, a very peculiar position in what they call the reli- LADY veenon's excuesions. 185 gious world ; and the correspondence she directs, and even conducts with her own hand, is very- large. Altogether, I think, she makes her life too laborious." " Well, as you and she, and you and I, are all old friends, I don't mind telling you that I don't think that's it. I don't believe a word of it. There is more in it than that ; l)ut loliat I can't divine ; and, indeed, it does not trouble me much ; if Barbara would only do what she ought about Maud, I should be very well satis- fied. But she has never been presented, nor been to town for a single season, and Lady Vernon has never taken her out, and I don't think has any idea of doing so. Of course, you'll say that, with all her advantafres, it can't matter much. But there can be no advantage in people's saying that she has lived all her life like a recluse ; and I think there is always a disadvantage in despising what is usual. And really, ls\i\ Coke, as a con- fidential friend, I think you might very well say a word about it."' He smiled, and shook his head. " All that sort of thing is quite out of my line. But I think with you, it doesn't much matter ; for she's the greatest heiress in England ; and she is so l)eautifu1, and — here's Miss Vernon at last." 186 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. As Maud came down tlie steps she looked to the right and left, and seeing Miss Max, smiled and nodded, and quickened her approach. Mr. Coke advanced a step or two to meet her, with his business looks on. " I have been wishing to say a word if you will allow me, I think it would be advisable that you should be represented at the conference we are to hold to-day, to prevent any course being deter- mined on tliat might embarrass your interests under the will ; and if you authorise me to do so, I will watch them for you this afternoon ; and, in any case, I'll mention that a solicitor should be re- tained for you, as the instrument is unusually com- plicated, and you will be of age in a very little time." " I don't understand these things, Mr. Coke, but whatever mamma and you think right, 1 shall be very much obliged to you to do. What a charm- ing day it is! 1 hope you are not to be shut up all day. When you were last here it was winter, and you will hardly know the place now; you ought to see Rymmel's Hoc to-day, it is looking quite beautiful," said j\Iiss Maud Vernon. " I'm off, I'm afraid, to town this evening," he answered ; " a thousand thanks. I must now go in and see Lady Vernon, if she's at leisure." So with a smile that quickly disappeared, he turned and walked up the steps. 187 in CHAPTER XXL THE CONFERENCE. Of tliis muster of trustees, Miss Maud Vernon o-avc this account in one of her loDg letters to her friend, Miss Mary ^lainard : "On Tuesday we had a little parliament of trustees, opened Avith great solemnity by mamma. She was aided by an attorney, a Mr. Coke, who says that your humble servant ought also to have been furnisluid with an adviser of the same pro- fession. Old Lord Verney came similarly attended ; and Lord Barroden also brought his attorney ; Mr. llildering, a great man in ' the City,' I am told, dispensed with that assistance, and, 1 suppose, relied on his native roguery. Still there was an imposing court of attorneys, sitting as assessors 188 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. with the more dio;nifiecI members of tlie assembly. Sir Harry Strafford, who is also a trustee n amcd in grandpapa's will, did not attend. As all these Avere men of importance twenty years ago, when they were named in his will, you may suppose what a juvenile air the assembly presented. "INIamma did not choose that I should attend, telling me that I should be sent for, if required ; and I had begun to hope that my assistance had been unanimously dispensed with, when a servant came to tell me that mamma wished to see me in the library. Thither I repaired, and found lior presiding at her cabinet. "Lord Verney and Mr. Hildering were a little red, and I fancy had been snubbing one another, for Mr. Coke mentioned, afterwards, that they are members of the same boaixls in London, and fight like ' cat and dog ' whenever they meet. ]\Iamma looked, as usual, serene, and old Lord Barroden was, I am sure, asleep, for he was the only gentle- man of the company wdio did not rise to receive me. There were printed copies of grandpapa's will, one of which was given to me ; so I took a chair beside mamma, and listened while they talked in a lanfTuage which I did not the least understand, about Avhat they called real and personal rever- sions, contingent remainders, and vested remain- ders, and fees and tails, and more unintelligible THE CONFERENCE. 189 names and thiiiii;s tlian I could remember or reckon up in an hour. "They all seemed to treat mamma with great deference ; not complimentary, but real ; and I remarked tliat they said very little across the table to one another ; but whenever they had anything to ask or to say, they looked to her, and she seemed to understand everything about it, ^)etter than any one else in the room, and Mr. Coke told me, after- wards, she is one of the best lawyers he ever met, and he explained a great deal that I did not then understand. " The conference lasted nearly three hours ! You can't imagine anvthing so dull : and I came awav just as wise as I went there, except, perhaps, that I had learned a little patience. " Tiie Rose and the Key, Avhich, as you know, figure on our shield, were talked of a good deal, and arc mentioned very often in the will, as indi- cating tlie families which are named particularly. Old Lord Barro(.]en woke up at this part of the conversation, and talked a great deal of heraldry, wliether good or bad I can't say ; and then, as they were still very garrulous upon crests, supporters, shields, chevrons, and all the rest, mamma led the wav to the state dining-room. I don't know whv, we never dine tht'vo now ; I think it alxnit the prettiest room in the house — I don't think you saw 190 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. it, when you were with us. It lias great stone shields let into the wall all round, and ours over the mantelpiece. They are all cai*ved in relief, and painted and gilded, according to heraldry ; and you can't think how stately and brilliant it looks. Old Mr. Puntles, who is our antiquary in this part of the world, says that it Avas an old English custom, when a house was being built, for the owner to place the arms of the principal families in the county, thus, round the state dining-room, by way of a compliment to them ; and now I saw what I never observed before, that in every second one, or oftener, our device, the Rose and the Key, is quartered in the corner. The rose, red ; and the key, gold ; gules and or, they call them, on a field azure : you see how learned I have grown." Then the Avriter ran away to subjects more likely to amuse her and her friend. Mr. Coke did not stay to dinner. lie took his leave nearly three hours before that solemn meal. As he came down-stairs from his room he encoun tered Miss Vernon, who was going to dress. " You are going to hear the bishop's sermon, and see the statue unveiled ?" he inquired, stopping before her in the gallery. "Yes, Miss Medwyn and I ; mamma has ahead- ache, and says she can't come," she replied. " I'm afraid our long consultation tired her ; I'm THE CONFERENCE. 191 sure it tired you, and 1 don't think you can have understood half we said. If you have five minutes, I'll describe to you now, just in outline, the leading provisions of your grandfather's will." " I have more than five minutes, I'm sure," she answered ; but not so much interested as Mr. Coke thought she might have been. Young ladies are so much in the habit of being- taken care of by others, that they can Avithout much magnanimity dispense with the drudgery of taking care of themselves. They like whole bones as well as we do, but the vicious habit of being taken care of prevails, and what woman is quite capable of taking care of herself over a cross- ing? " You must have for life, if you outlive your mother, Lady Vernon, at least ten thousand pounds a year, and you may have ultimately one hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year, in land, and a great deal of money beside — I don't think there is any lady of your age, in England, with such magnificent prospects. If Lady Vernon should marry, and have a son, the estates will go to him charged with ten thousand a year for you. If she should not marry, then, on her death, they go to you. If you marry, then your mothers power over the whole property will be very limited indeed. If neither you nor she should marry, then on your 192 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. death the estates will go to some one to be appointed among certain families who are connected ■\\it1i yours, and who have a right to quarter the family device of the Rose and the Key." " I've heard that before. Mr. Tintern of the Grange, near this, represents one of those families, I've been toldf " Yes, and in that event, you or Lady Vernon, whichever survives, would have the right to appoint." " I'm afraid, Mr. Coke, I have not mamma's talent for business. I should very soon be lost in the labyrinth." " But, so far, you do understand ?" "Yes, I think I do." " Well, there are also specific provisions in the event of your marriage. Miss Vernon, and perhaps, until you are furnished with a legal adviser, the best thing I can do for you will be to send you as short and simple an abstract of the will and its codicils as I can make out. The plan of the will is, to keep the estates together, and to favour certain families, out of whom, in the event of your both dying unmarried, an heir is to be apjwinted. If your mother marries, which I rather conjecture is by no means unlikely " He looked very archly as he said this, and some THE CONFERENCE. 19o^ complication of feeling made the yonnpr lady, though she smiled, turn pale. " Do you really mean ?" began Miss Maud. " I only say conjecture, mind, but I am generally a tolerably good conjuror, and we shall see. But, if Lady Vernon should marry," he continued, " her power over the estates is increased very consider- ably, but your reversion — I mean, your riglit of succession — cannot be affected by any event but the birth of a son. The provisions respecting the personal property— that is money, jewels, pictures, everything but the estates — are very stringent also, and follow very nearly the dispositions respecting the real estate. There is an unusual ])rovision, also, with respect to all savings and accumulations, which may be made either by your mother. Lady Vernon, or by you, and they are to be carried to the account of the personal estate under the trusts ; and very searching powers for the discovery of any such are vested in the trustees, and thev are oblio-ed from time to time to exercise them : and any such sum or sums, no matter how invested, are to be carried to the credit of the trustees to the uses of the will. So you see, it is a very potent instru- ment." "I'm sure it is," said the young lady, with a dis- appointing cheerfulness. VOL. I. 194 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. " Well, I'll do my best ; I'll send you an abstract ; and, is that the church-bell I hear?" he asked, glancing through the open window. " Yes, we hear it very distinctly," said she. " Oh, then you'll be going immediately." And again he took his leave. 195 CHAPTER XXII. IN ROYDON CHURCH. The bell from the cliurcli tower sounds sweetly over town and field : and the sober-minded folk, who people the quaint streets of Roydon, ansAvcr that solemn invitation very kindly. In this evening sun, as the parishioners troop slowly towards the church-gate, near the village tree, sad Mrs. Foljambc, hard of hearing, the gay Captain Bamme, and the new curate, the Reverend Michael Doody, accidentally encounter. Mrs. Foljambc stops to receive their greetings. The level sunbeam shows all the tiny perplexity of wrinkles on her narrow forehead witli a clear illumination. o 2 196 THE KOSE AND THE KEY. " I'm going to the church to witness the cere- monial," shouts the captain, with his best smile. She turns with a little start. " No wonder she's a bit hard of hearing, captain, if that's the way ye've been talking at her this ten years," suggests Mr. Doody, in a tone to her in- audible. " We have been sending up some china and cut- glass to the vestry-room, for the bishop's toilet- table," says Mrs. Foljambe, and her head droops, and her sad eyes look dreamily on the road, as if she were thinking of passing the rest of the evening there. "The bell has only ten minutes more to ring, ma'am," says the curate, who is growing uneasy. " It is a nice evening," observes Mrs. Foljambe, drearily. " Quite so," says the captain, waving his hand agreeably towards the firmament. "Although we have sun, it's cool." " Your son's at school V repeats good Mi's. Fol- jambe, to let him know that she had heard him distinctly. " Oh, oh, oh, that's rich !" ejaculates the curate, exploding. The captain smiles, and darts a malignant glancfe' at the Keverend Michael Doody, but does not choose to bawl a correction in the street. IN KOYDON CHURCH. 197 So they resume their walk towards the church. The sun is drawino; towards the horizon ; it is six o'clock. The tombstones cast shadows eastward on the grass, and the people, as they troop upward toward the porch, throw their moving shadows likewise along the green;', mantle of the dead, and the grey churchyard wall catches them perpen- dicularly, by the heads and shoulders, and exhibits in that yellow light the silhouettes of worthy townsmc]! and their wives, and sharp outlines of hats and bonnets, gliding onward, to the music of the holy bell, to hear the good old bishop preach. The bishop is robing in the vestry-room. The vicar does the honours with profound suavity, and the curate assists with a military sense of subordi- nation and immense gravity. A note awaits the bishop, in charge of the clerk, from Lady Vernon, pleading her headache, and begging the good prelate to come to Roydon Hall, and if his arrana'ements about tlie Church ^lissions meeting will not permit that, at least that on his way back to the palace he will give her a day or two, or as much lonaer a time as he can. One of her grenadiers in blue and gold and cockade waits at tlie vestry-door for an answer, looking super- ciliously over the headstones. But the bishop cannot accept these hospitable proffers. In due time the statue is unveiled. In white 198 THE KOSE AND THE KEY. marble, the image of a slender man, of some forty years or upward, with a noble pensive face, and broad fine forehead, his head a little inclined, stands forth, one hand laid lightly on an open book, the other raised, in pleading or in blessing. It is what we don't often see, a graceful, striking, and pathetic monumental image. Dead two-and-twenty years, there were many present who remembered that energetic, charitable, and eloquent vicar Avell. And all who knew him adjusted themselves to listen, with earnest ears, to the words which were to fall from the lips of the good old prelate, who preached, after so long an interval, as it were the funeral sermon of his gifted friend. The Vernon family have a grand, old-fashioned, square pew in the aisle ; Maud Vernon and Miss Max Medwyn sit there now, and the bishop's chaplain has been, by special invitation, elevated to its carpeted floor, and sits on its crimson cushion, and performs his religious exercises on a level at least twelve inches higher than the rest of the congregation in the aisle. Under the angle of the organ-loft, at each side, is a narrow entrance. And above that, at the right, is a straight stone arch, separating the loft •from the side gallery, and looking diagonally IN EOYDOX CHUECH. 199 across the aisle. Behind this, going back deep into the shade, is a narrow seat, with a door opened by a latch-key from the winding tower- stairs. Here you may sit between stone walls that are panelled with oak, hearing and seeing, and yourself unobserved. In old times, perhaps, it was the private observatory of some ecclesiastical dignitary or visitor, who looked in when he pleased, secretly, to see that mass was sung, and all things done decently and in order. To those who look up, the arch seems empty, and nothing but darkness in the cavity behind it. But a human being in perturbation and bitterness of soul is there. It is hard for her to follow the benedictions of the psalm, to which the congre- gation read the responses that echo through the old church walls. In the corner of the deep and dark cell she occupies, there stands, as it were, an evil spirit, and there ripples in and fills her ears, with ebb and flow, the vengeful swell, but too familiar to her soul, of another psalm — a psalm of curses. Ever and anon, as if she would shake something from her ears, she shakes her head, saying : " Is he not dead and gone ? ' Vengeance is mine, 1 will repay, saith the Lord.' Let liim alone. Don't think of him." 200 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. But the gall returns to her heart, and fire and worm are working there, and the anathema goes on. Why had she committed it, syllable by syllable, Avith a malignant meaning, to memory, and conned it over, Avith an evil delight ? Had she abused the word of God : and was the spirit she had evoked her master now ? Though her lips were closed, she seemed to her- self to be always repeating, fiercely : "Set thou a wicked man over him, and let Satan stand at his right hand." " When he shall be judged, let him be con- demned : and let his prayer become sin." " Let the iniquity of his fathers be remembered with the liord; and let not the sin of his mother be blotted out." " Because he remembered not mercv, so let it be far from him." " As he loved cursing, so let it come unto him." She raises her head suddenly. "I'm nervous," she thinks, with her hands clasped over her dark eyes. " God have mercy on me, and let me hear !" The voice of the good bishop, clear and old, is heard uttering tlie brief prayer before his sermon. She throws herself on her knees, listening with IN EOYDON CHUECH. 201 clasped hands, passionately. A dull life rolls away, and warm and vivid youth returns, and the fountain of her tears is opened, and the stream of remembrance, sweet and bitter, rushes in. The scene is unchanged, there is the same old church, there are the rude, familiar oak carvings, the self- same saints and martyrs in the vivid windows. The same sweet organ-pipes breathe through the arches from time to time the same tones to which, in summer evenings just like this, long ago, she had listened, when a loved hand pressed the notes, and the melancholy sounds filled her ears as they do now. Oh ! the pain, how nearly insupportable, of scenes recalled too vividly, wanting tlie love tliat has made them dear to memory for ever. Over the heads of the earnest and the inatten- tive, of dull and worthy townsfolk there assembled, the tremulous silvery tones of the white-haired bishop reach tlie solitary listener in this dark nook. The old bishop tenderly enters on his labour of love. lie eloquently celebrates his early friend. He tells rlieiu how gentle th;tt friend was, how learned, Jiow noble an enthusiast, modest and sim])le as a v.hWd, yet a man of the finest genius. Many ot those who heard him now remembered Mr. Howard in the prime of manhood. Two-and- twenty years were numbered since his beloved friend died. Tliev, too, were once vouni}; stmlents 202 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. together — it seemed but yesterday ; and he, the survivor, was now an old man ; and if the com- panion Avhom he had deplored, with foolish sorrow, were now living, he would be but the shadow of the man they remembered, with hair bleached, and furrowed brows, and strength chanfrinir fast to weakness. But time could not have changed the fine affections and noble nature that God had given him, and would have only improved the graces that grow with the life of the Spirit. Then follow traits of the character he described, and some passages, perhaps unconsciously pathetic, on the vanity of human sorrows, and the transitorine.s« of all that is splendid and beautiful in mortal man. The feeble voice of the bishop is heard no more. The organ peals, and voices skilled in the mystery of that sublime music rise in a funeral anthem : voices called together from distant places chant the magnificent and melancholy passages in Holy Writ that speak on the awful and [)laintive theme of death. Then in one louix chord the voices faint and die, like a choir of angels receding from the earth, A silence follows, the organ peals once more, and the people begin slowly to disperse. Old Mrs. Clink, who opens and locks the pews, IN EOYDON CHURCH. ' 203 is waiting at the foot of the tower-stairs to receive Lady Vernon, whose brougham is to come to tlie churcli-door, when the people are gone, and there will be few to canvass the great lady's secret visit to the church. The funereal swell of the organ still rolls and trembles along the roof, and fills the building, now nearly empty. The sun has just gone down ; the fading mists of rose are still on the western sky. She ventures now to the front of the arch, in the shadow of which she has hitherto been hidden. The early twilight, dimmed by tlio stained windows, fills the church with a mis- leading and melancholy light ; white shafts of marble rise faintly through the obscurity, and she, from her lonely place, unseen, looks down, crying silently as if her heart would break. 204 CHAPTER XXIII. THE PARTY AT ROYDON HALL. Coldly handsome, an liour later, looked Lady Vernon, at the head of her table, with old Lord Verney beside her. Lord Barroden and her other guests, who had assisted at the legal consultation. were also of the party. The Dean of East Copely was tliere, very natty in his silk stockinjis, and apron, and buckles, and Sir Thomas Grummelston, Lady Grummelston, and Miss Grummelston, Avith several others who had attended the unveiling of the statue and the bishop's sermon. Lady Vernon was never very gay ; but she was this evening more than usually conversable and animated. "AYhat an admirable sermon the bishop gave us THE PARTY AT EOYDON HALL. 205 to-day," remarked the Dean of East Copely. " He always preaches well, I need not say ; but to-day there was so much feeling ; it really was, even for him, an unusually fine sermon. Didn't it so strike you, Lord Verney?" " I have had," said Lord Verney, looking across the table with his dull grey eyes solemnly upon the dean, "the advantage, Mr. Dean, of listening to the bishop of your diocese, in, as we say, another place. But I had been applying my mind to-day, I may say, to business a good deal, and although I have, people say, rather a facility of getting through business and things "' Lord Verney's dull eyes at this moment had wandered to the bald head, flushed pink with champagne, of his attorney, ]\Ir. Larkin, who instantaneously closed his eyes and shook his tall head with a mysterious smile, and murmured to the dean at his side : "I wish I had his lordsiiip's faculty; it would be an easy thousand a year in my pocket !"' Which griiceful little aside Lord Verney heard, and dropped his eyelids, raising his eyebrows with a slight clearing of his voice, and turning his face more directly towards the dean, suppressed in his own countenance, with an unusual pomp, a tendency to smile at the testimony of the man of business. 206 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. "People will form opinions and things, you know; and I was a little tired about it, and so I didn't mind, and I took a walk, and other people, no doubt, heard the bishop preach, and he seems to have gone somewhere." "I wanted him to take his dinner here," said Lady Vernon, interpreting Lord Verney's rather vague but probable conjecture, " but he could not manage iL" "You were a little tired, also, I fear. Lady Vernon," said Mr. Foljambe. "A great many people, as well as I, were disappointed on missing Lady Vernon from her place." " I had intended going, but I did feel a little tired; but I made an effort afterwards, though very late, and I glided into our little nook in the gallery without disturbing any one, and I heard the sermon, which I thought very good, and the anthem, which was better than I expected. I like our bishop so much ; he's not the least a prig, he's not worldly, he is thoroughly simple — simple as a child; his simplicity is king-like; it is better, it is angelic. He is unconsciously the most dignified man one could imagine ; and so kind. I have the greatest respect and affection for him." " He was a good deal moved to-day," said Mr. Foljambe, leaning back a little grandly. "It is charming, so much sensibility; I saAV him shed THE PARTY AT ROYDON HALL. 207 tears to-day while he spoke of the early years of Mr. Howard, my predecessor." Mr, Foljambe blinked a little, as he said this, being always moved by tlie tears of people of any considerable rank, hereditary or otherwise. Lord Verney being thus addressed by the stately vicar, whom he assumed to be a man of some mark, made answer a little elaborately. " Sensibility and all that, I think, very well in its place ; but in public speaking — and I hope I have had some little experience, I ought — sensi- bility, and that kind of very creditable feeling, ought to be managed ; there's a way of putting up the pocket-handkerchief about it — all our best speakers do it — to the face, because then, if there are tears, and things, the faces they make are so distressing, and you see, by means of that, it is always managed ; I can do it, you can do it, any one may do it, and tlmt is the way it is pre- vented." "Very true," said Mr. Foljambe, thoughtfully nodding, as he helped himself to a new entree, a something aux truffes, which piqued his curiosity ; " one learns something every day one lives." "You don't, of course, recollect Mr. Howard very distinctly, Lady Vernon ?" inquired the Dean of East Copely. " Perfectly — I was past twent\- when he died." 208 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. "A plain man, I should say, judf^ing from that statue V mf erred the dean. "He was not that — no — he had a very agree- able countenance, and his features were well- formed — his forehead particularly fine," she replied. "His opinions were, I've been told, very un- settled indeed," said the dean. "It did not appear from his preaching, then. It was admired and appi'oved, and the then bishoj) was not a man to permit any trifling with doctrine, any more than the present," answered Lady Vernon. " Mr. Howard was very much beloved, and a most able teacher — his influence was ex- traordinary in this parish — I am speaking, of course, upon hearsay a good deal, for at that time I did not attend as much as I ouo;ht to such things, and my father was still living." "Mr. Howard was, I believe, very highly con- nected?" said the dean. " Quite so," answered Mr. Foljambe. " In fact, as far back as we can go, there was Chevenix, and then Craven, and Vernon, one of this house; and then Percy, one of the old Percys, and Dormer, and Stanley, and Bulkely, and Howard ; and, in fact, it is really quite curious ! — the people here do seem always to have liked to be taken care of by gentlemen," said Mr. Foljambe, grandly. " I can't see that there is anything very curious THE PARTY AT ROYDON HALL. 201) in that," said Lord Verney. "I can't concede that. One naturally asks oneself the question, why should not a gentleman be preferred"? And one answers, he should be pi'eferred, because he is naturally superior to persons who are inferior to him; and we know he has certain principles and things that all gentlemen have, about it, and that, I conjecture, will always account for gentlemen, and things, being considered in that sort of light." •• I entirely concur," said Mr. Foljambe, who always concurred Avith peers. '• I only meant that it is a little curious that the vicarage of Roydon CD •/ should have been always filled by a person of that stamp." " That is what I have been. I hope, endeavour- ing to say, or, rather, what I have not said, because I have endeavoured to say something different ; in fact, that it is nut curious. I'll take some sherry about it." The concluding; remark was addressed to the butler. And so the conversation proceeded very agree- al)ly. But— Pleasures are like ])oppic.s spread, You pluck tlie flower, its bloom is shed. The most agreeable dinner-party, its outlets and conversation, its wit and its wines, are transitory, VOL. I. P 210 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. and the hour hievitably arrives when people prefer their night-caps, and the extinguisher. Lord Vernev has uttered his last wise and lucid exposition for the evening, and the stately vicar, who would not object to a visit to Lord Verney's hospitable house at Ware, has imbibed his latest draughts from that fountain of illumination. Lord Barroden has said his say to Lady Vernon, and enlivened by a nap, has made some agreeable sallies in conversation with Lady Grummelston ; and to that happy lady, in the drawing-room, Mrs. Foljambe has told her story about the two young women in whom she took an interest, who left lioydon and set up a confectioner's shop in Coventry, and prospered. The pleasures of that festive evening are over; and Miss Max and Miss Vernon are having their little chat together, in their dressing-gowns. Miss Max has a little bit of fire in her grate, for this is, thanks to our variable climate, by no means like last night; not at all sultry, rather chilly, on the contrary. "Well, we shall soon hear something, I fancy, about mamma's annual trip to town," says Maud, speaking from a very low-cushioned chair in a corner of which she is nestled, with her feet on the fender. The young lady's dressing-gown is of rose- THE PARTY AT EOYDON HALL. 211 coloured cashmere, some of the quilted silk lining of -which, in her careless pose, appears. She is extremely pretty, looking up from her cushioned nook at the old lady, who sits, in her odd garb, before the fire in a more formal arm-chair. " And why do you think so ? Have you heard anything ?" asks the old lady. " Only that Jones says that Latimer is making the usual preparations," answers Miss Maud. " Latimer's her maid, I suppose ■?" " Yes." " And why dosen't she ask Latimer directly V demanded Miss Max. " Because Latimer would be afraid to tell, and she would be afraid to ask. Mamma finds out everything she chooses to find out. You don't know mamma as well as I do in this house. Whatever she chooses to be secret is secret, and whatever she chooses to know she does know ; and the servants are awfully afraid of her. You might as well ask that pictvire as Latimer ; and Jones would not be such a fool as to ask her, for she does not know the moment mamma might say, ' Latimer, has any one been asking you anything about my going to Loudon V and so sure as she did, Latimer would tell lier the truth, for there is no fault she is so summary upon as a falsehood : V 2 212 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. and the servants think that she somehow knows everything." " Well, at all events, Jones thinks she is going in a week?" says Miss Max. "Yes. Do you know what Mr. Coke said to me to-day?" " No. What f says Miss Max, looking drowsily into the fire. " He said he thought, or had reason to think, or something of that kind, that mamma is going to marry." Miss Max turned, Avith a start, and looked for a few silent moments at Maud. " Are you sure ?" " Perfectly sure." " Well, that is very odd. Do you know, I've been thinking that, this long time. Did he say why he thought so ?" " No." " Nor who the person is ?" " No ; nothing. He only said that, and he looked very sly and mysterious." " Mr. Coke is a very shrewd man. I don't think he had heard before of your mamma's ex- cursions, and when I told him to-day I saw that his mind Avas workino; on what I said, and I suspect he has connected something he may have learned from a different source with what I told THE PARTY AT EOYDON HALL. 213 him, and has put tlie whole case together, and formed his conclusions. I wonder you did not make him tell you all he knew. I wish he had said so much to me. I should have made him say a great deal more, I promise you." " He talks to me as if I were a child, and it came so much by surprise, and really I don't think 1 could have asked him one word about it ; I felt so insulted somehow, and disgusted." " Suppose she has fallen in love with some one of whom, for some reason or other, she is a little ashamed, and suppose there is an engagement'^ I don't understand it. I have been suspecting some- thing for some time, and I did not like to say so, but you see it has struck Mr. Coke the same way. If it is that, there is a disparity of some kind you may be sure." " 1 dare say. I don't care," says the young lady, who looks, nevertheless, as if she did care very much. " I shall have as much money as I want. jMr. Coke said 1 shoidd have ten thousand a year, and I should go and live with you. You would take me in. Here nothing; on eartli sliould induce me to remain. She merely took a fancy to papa, soon grew tired of him, and ended by dis- liking him. But I shan't stay here to see his place filled, and his memory insulted, and to be hectored and ordered about by some low man." 214 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. " I shall be only too glad to have you at any time as long as you will stay "\vith me. But don't be in too great a huny. You are assuming a great deal ; and even if she does marry, it may turn out . very differently ; and you know, my dear, widows will marry without intending any particular affront to the memory of their first husbands." " It is not a pleasant home to me as it is," says the young lady, glancing fiercely along the hearth; " but if this takes place I shan't stay here to see it ; that I am resolved on." " In about a week she'll go, Jones thinks?" asks Miss Max. " I have grown very curious. I should like to see what sort of swain she has chosen. You never know what fancy a woman may take. He may be a very third-rate man. I was thinking he may possibly be in the army. Mrs. Stonix swears she saw her alone in Chatham last year. But it is growing awfully late. Good-night. We'll get to our beds and dream it over." 215 CHAPTER XXIV. A GENTLEMAN IN BLACK. They had l>otli risen preparatory to Miss Maud's flitting and a parting kiss and good-niglit, when Miss Max said, suddenly : " And what about Mr. Marston f "Well, what about him?" answered Miss Vernon, a little crossly, for she had not recovered the conversation that had just occurred. "Nothing very particular — nothing at all, in fact — only I had intended talking about him fifty times to-day, and something always prevented. He's coming to the ball at ^^'ynlering, isn't he?" "I don't know ; he said so. I don't care," said 216 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. the handsome girl, cb'owsily. And she advanced her hand and her lips a little, as if for her final salutation. But Miss Max had not quite done. " 1 like him so much. I think him so clever, and so good-natui*ed, and so nice. I wish so much, Maud, that you and he Avere married," said !Miss Max, with audacious directness. "And I wish so much that }ou and he were married," retorted Maud, looking lazily at the flame of her bedroom candle, which she held in her hand. "That would be a more natural conse- quence, I think, of your liking and admiring." " You can't deny that he is wildly in love with you," said Miss Max. " I can't deny that he was perhaps wildly in love with a poor seamstress in a dark serge dress a few days ago, and may possibly be in love with another to-day. That is A\ildly in love, as you say. I don't think there is anything very flattering in being the object of that kind of folly." " Well, he will be a good deal surprised, I ven- ture to say, when he comes in quest of his seam- stress to the Wymering cloak-room," remarked Miss Max, with a ])lcasant anticipation of the eclaircissement. "That depends on two things: first, how his seamstress meets him ; and secondly, Avhether she A GENTLEMAN IN BLACK. 217 meets him there at all. Good-night. It is very late." And with these words she kissed her genial old friend, and was gone. Miss Max looked after her, and shook her head with a smile. " There goes impracticability itself !" she says, and throws np her hands and eyes with a shrug. " I pity that poor young man ; Heaven only knows what's in store for him. I shall encrasie in no more vagaries at all events. What an old fool I was to join in that madcap project of rambling over the country and concealing our names! What will Mr. Marston think of us ?" When she laid her busy, rheumatic little head, bound up in its queer night-cap, on her pillow, it began at once to construct all manner of situations and pictures. Plere was a romance in a dolighti ul state of con- fusion ! On this case her liead may work all night long, for a year, without a chance of exhausting its fertile problems ; for it presents what the doctors call a complication. Barbara Vernon, with her whole heart, hates the \Varhamptons ; and the Warhamptons, with all theirs, detest Bar- bara Vernon. It is too long a story to tell all the aggressions and reprisals which have carried the feud to tlir iiitcniccino point. 218 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. • "I must certainly tell Maud. I'll tell her in the morning," thought Miss Max. " It's o nly fair." Perhaps this incorrigible old matchmaker fancied that it might not prejudice Mr. Marston if Maud knew that her mother had placed him under anathema. By noon next day Lord Verney and Lord Bar- roden, and their attorneys, had taken flight, and Miss Maximilla Medwyn had gone on to see friends at Naunton, with an uncertain promise of returning in a day or two to Roydon Hall. There is no life in tliat grand house but the phantom life on its pictured walls, and the gliding life of its silent servants. The hour is dull for Maud, who sits listlessly looking from one of the great drawing-room windows. Lady Ver- non, who has seen, in succession, two deputations in the library, returns, and in stately silence sits down and resumes her examination of a series of letters from tlie late Bisliop of Rotherham, and notes them for transmission to Mr. Coke. Maud changes her posture, and glances at her mother. Why is there never any love in the cold elegance of that face ? Why can't she make up her mind and be patient ? The throb of life will as soon visit that marble statue of Joan of Arc, by the door ; Psyche at the other side, in her A GENTLEMAN IN BLACK. 219 chill beauty, will as easily glow and soften into flesh. Miss Vernon leans on her hand, listless, gloomy — in a deo;ree indignant. The room is darkening. The darker the better, she tliiidcs. It is no metaphoric, but a real dark- ness ; for clouds portending thunder, or heavy rain or hail, have, on a sudden, overcast the sky, and •dvc ^rowino; thicker. The light is dying out, the shadow blackens on Lady Vernon's letters ; she raises her eyes. One can hardly see to read. Lady Vernon lays her letter on the table. She can no longer see the features of the Titian over the door, and the marlilc statues at either side have faded into vague white drifts. Some heavy, per- pendicular drops fall, plashing on the smooth flags outside the window, and the melancholy rumble of distant thunder-booms, followed by a momentarily aggravated down-pour, and a sudden thickening of the darkness. This was a rather sublime ]ircludo to the foot- man's voice, announcing : '' Mr. Dawe." jNIaud glanced toward the door, which was in obscurity, and then at Lady Vernon, who, sitting full in the light of the window, liml tui-nod, with a stare and a frown, as if she had heard somethinfr 220 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. incredible and unwelcome, toward the person who was enterino;. By no means an heroic figure, nor worthy of being heralded by thunder, has stepped in some- what slowly and stiffly, and halts in the dim side- light of the window, relieved by the dark back- ground. It is a small man, dark visaged, with a black wig, a grave, dull, mahogany face, furrowed with lines of reserve. Maud is certain that she never saw that small, insignificant-looking man before, who is staring with a very grave but not unfriendly countenance at her mother. He is buttoned up in a black outside coat, with a cape to it ; he holds a rather low-crowned hat in his hand, and wears those shining leather coverings for the legs, which are buckled up to the knees. Getting in and getting out of his posting carriage he has scrupulously avoided dust or mud. His boots are without a speck. His queer hat is nattily brushed, and, in stable phraseology, has not a hair turned. His black coat is the finest possible, but it has great pockets at either side, each of which seems laden with papers, mufflers, and other things, so that his hi})s seem to descend gradually, and culminate near his knees. This man's brown face, smoothly shaved, is furrowed and solemn enough for five-and-sixtv. In his dress and air there is nothing of the careless A GENTLEMAN IN BLACK. 221 queerness of a country gentleman. His singulari- ties suggest rather the eccentricity of a precise and rich old city humorist. There is something characteristic and queer enough, in the buttoned-up and black-wigged little man, to interest Maud's curiosity. He has not been ten seconds in the room, and stands poised on his leather-cased legs, looking gravely and quietly at Lady Vernon, and, like a ghost, says nothing till he is spoken to. One can reckon the tick, tick, tick of the Louis Quatorze clock on the bracket by the chimney-piece. Lady Vernon stood up with an effort, still look- ing hard at him, and advancing a step, she said : " Mr. Dawe? I'm so surprised. I could scarcely believe my ears. It is such an age since I have seen you here." And she put out her hand hospitably, and he took it in his brown old fingers, with the stiffness of a mummy, and as he shook it slightly, he said in his wooden tones, quietly : "Yes it is. 1 was looking into my notes yester- day — it is a good while. You look well, Barbara. Your looks are not much altered; no — considering." " It is very good of you to come to see me ; you mustn't stay away so long again," she replied in her silvery tones. ''This is your daughter?" he interrupted with a 222 THE EOSE AND THE KEY, little wave of liis dark, thin hand towards the young lady. "Yes, that is she. Maud, shake hands with Mr. Dawe." " Maud Guendoline she was baptised," he said, as he advanced two stiff steps toward her, with his prominent brown eyes fixed upon her. She rose and placed her pretty fingers on that hand of box- wood, which closed on them. 223 CHAPTER XXV. THE COUNTY PAPER. When he had inspected her features for a time, he turned to her mother and spoke. " Not like her father," he said, still holding her hand. " Don't you think so ?" answered Lady Vernon, coldly. " I can see a look — very decidedly." Maud Avas wondering all tliis time who this Mi". Dawe could be, who seemed to assert a sort of diy intimacy with Lady Vernon and her family, very unusual in the girl's experience. "I think it is more than a look. 1 think her extremely like him," insisted Lady Vernon, resum- ing in the same cold tone, and without looking at 224 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. Maud, as if she had that resemblance by heart, and did not Hke it. " She has some of tlie family beauty, wherever she got it," said Mr. Dawe, deliberately, in his hard quiet tones, and he let go her hand and turned away his inflexible face and brown eyes, a good deal to the young lady's relief. Lady Vernon was still standing. She did not usually receive such guests standing. There was a hectic red in each cheek, also vinusual, except when she was angry, and she had not been angry. " Her eyes resemble yours," said Mr. Dawe. " Oh, no. Perhaps, indeed, the colour ; but mere colour is not a resemblance," answered Lady Vernon, with a cold little laugh, that, in Maud's ear, rang with cruelty and disdain. " No, Maud's good looks are all her own. She doesn't, I think, resemble me in any one particular — not the least." Maud was wounded. She felt that tears were rising to her eyes. But her pride suppressed them. " H'm 1" Mr. Dawe hummed with closed lips. " Of course, Mr. Dawe, you are come to stay a little ? It is so long since you have been here." " I'm not so sure about staying. It is a long time — sixteen years and upwards. You have been well ; you have been spared, and your daughter, and I. AYe have all reason to be grateful to the THE COUNTY PAPEE. 225 Almighty. Time is so important, and eternitj so loner !" " Very true," she said, with a deep sigh, " and death so irremediable." Mr. Dawe took his bic; silver snuff-box from his coat-pocket, and tapped it. He nodded, in acquies- cence in the sentiment, leaned a little forward, and took a large pinch, twiddling his fingers afterwards, to get rid of any snuff that might remain on their tips. Perhaps the little superfluous shower that fell to the carpet suggested unconsciously his funeral commentary. " Ay, dust to dust." Whereupon he applied his Indian silk handker- chief, not to his eyes, but lightly to his nose. " By-and-bye I shall have a word to say to you," he said, with a solemn roll of his brown eyes. She looked hard at him, thouiih with a half- flinching gaze, as if to read the character of his news. But the solemn reserv^e of his wooden face never changed. " We shall be quite to ourselves in the library," she said. " Then suppose we go there now." " Very well ; let us go," she said, and letl the way. At the door he made, with his stiff backbone, a little inclination to INIiss Maud. VOL. I. Q 226 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. The door closes, and the young lady is left to herself, with matter for speculation to amuse her. Quite alone in that vast and magnificent room, she looks wearily round. The care of Mr. Tarpey, on whom devolves the arrangement of flowers and of newspapers, has spread a table in a corner near the window with these latter luxuries. Maud looks out ; the rain is still tumbling con- tinuously, and plashing heavily, though the sky looks lighter. She turns her eyes on the news- papers, and goes over to the table, and looks down upon them wdth listless eyes. She carelessly plucks the county paper from among its companions, and in that garrulous and homely broad-sheet a paragraph catches her sud- denly earnest eye. She reads it twice. The ajiinual Wymering ball is to come off three W'eeks earlier than usual. She takes the paper to the window and reads it again. There is no mistake about it. "Three weeks earlier than the accustomed day!" There is an unusual colour in her cheeks, and a lustre in her eyes. She fancies, as she muses, that she hears a step in the passage, and she drops the paper. She is afraid of Lady Vernon's all-seeing gaze, and the dreadful question, "Have you seen anything unusual in the paper ? Allow me to look at it." And she feels that her face w'ould proclaim, THE COUNTY PAPER. 227 to all who cared to look, that the Wymering ball was to take place three weeks earlier than usual. No one is coming, however. She hastens to replace the paper on the table, and she sits down, with a pretty flush, determined to think. She does not think very logically, or very much in train, and the effort subsides in a reverie. Well, what is to be done now? The crisis has taken her by surprise ; then fancy leads her into the assembly-room at Wymering. There are lights, and fiddles, and — oh, such a strange meeting ! Cousin Max must be with her. With that spirited veteran by her side she would fear nothing. Very glad she was when one of Lady Vernon's broughams drove up to the door a few minutes later. In that great house you cannot get as quickly to the hall as, on occasions like this, you may wish. But Maud overtakes iicr at the foot of the stairs, as in her cloak ami bonnet Maximilla Medwyn is about to ascend to her own room. " Mamma is in the library ; and there are three men, Avith ill-made clothes and lank hair, a depu- tation, as usual, waiting in the shield-room to talk to her about a meeting-house at ITe})psl)orough ; and two clergymen are waiting in the blue draw- ing-room, to see her afterwards about plate for the church of Saint Hilary. So you and I shall be ■ Q 2 228 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. very much to ourselves for a time; and do you know we have had a new arrival — a guest. I dare say you know him. Such an odd little figure, as solemn as a conjurer. His name is Dawe." " Dawe ? Why, for goodness sake, has Richard Dawe appeared again ?" exclaims Miss Max, stop- ping on the stair, and leaning with her hack against the massive banister in great surprise. " His name is certainly Dawe, and I'll tell you what he's like." And forthwith Maud describes him. " Oh ! there's no mistaking the picture," cries Miss Max; and then she is taken with a fit of laughing, very mysterious to Miss Maud. Recovering a little, she continues : " Mr. Dawe ? We were very good friends. I like him — at least, all I could ever know of him in twenty years. He keeps his thoughts to himself a good deal. I don't think any one else in the world had half his influence with your poor grandpapa ; Ijut, certainly, I never expected to see him here during Barbara's reign. My dear ! I thought she hated him. He was the only person who used to tell her, and in the simplest language, what he thought of her. Have they been fighting yet?" THE COUNTY TAPEE. 229 " No, I think not — tliat is, they had not time. I don't know I'm sure what may be going on now." "Where are they?" "In the library," says Maud. "I think he is tlic only person on earth she ever was the least afraid of. I wonder what he can have to say or do here. He has never been inside this door since — yes, he did come once, for a day or two, a few years after your poor papa's death, and that, I think, was simply because he had some direction of your grandfather's, about the Roydon vault, whicli he had promised to see carried out ; but, except then, he has never once been here, till now, since your poor grandpapa's death." " How did he come to have such an influence here f asked Maud. They had resumed their ascent, and were walk- ing up the stairs, side by side. " I believe he understands business very well," and he is, I fancy, the best keeper of a secret on earth. His influence with your grandpa])a in- creased innnensely toward the close of his life ; and he knew he could talk to him safely about that Avonderful -will of his." "I wonder he allowed liim to make that trouble- some will," said Maud. 230 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. Miss Max laughed. " I said the very same thing to him once, and he answered that he could not dissuade him, but that he had prevented a great deal. So, here we are." The latter exclamation accompanied her entrance into her room. Maud was more cm-ious than ever. " He's not the kind of person, then, who would have come here, under all the circumstances, without good reason," she said. " Not he. He has a reason — a strong one, you may be very sure of that. It is very odd. I can't imagine what it can possibly be about. Well, leave him to me. I think he's franker with me than with any one else; and I'll get it from him, one way or other, before he goes. You'll see." In this sanguine mood Miss Maximilla Medwyn put off her things, and prepared very happily for luncheon. Mr. Dawc and Lady Vernon are, in the mean time, holding a rather singular conference. 231 CHAPTER XXVI. * COLLOQUY. On reacliinn; tlic library, Lady Vernon touched tlie bell. " You know this room very well, Mr. Dawe ? You see no change here V "This house has seen many generations," said he, looking up to the cornice and round, " and will see out a good many generations moi-e." He steps backward two or three steps, looks up at the Vandyck over the mantelpiece, nods to that very old acquaintance, and says " Yes." Then he rolls his prominent eyes again about the room, unusually shadowy on this dark day, and spying a marble bust between two windows, the little man walks solemnly towards it. 232 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. " That is ISIr. Howard, who was our vicar, long ago," says Lady Vernon. The blue livery is standing, by this time, at the opened door. "Poor papa placed that bust there," she con- tinues, " and it has remained ever since." " Indeed I" says Mr. Dawe, and peers at it, nose to nose, for some seconds. " They took casts from it," she continues, " for the statue that the bishop wished to place to his memory in the church." " Here V says ]\Ir. Dawe, turning his profile, and rolling his brown eyes suddenly on her. % "Yes, in the church of Roydon, of course, where, as vicar, he preached for so long." " I see," says Mr. Dawe. " I shall be engaged for some time, particularly, oji business," says Lady Vernon to her footman, " and you are to admit no one." " Yes, my lady." And the apparition of gold, azure, and powder (for they still wore powder then) steps backward, the door closes, and they are alone. Lady Vernon is smiling, with bright hectic patches in her cheeks. Tliere Is something a little piteous and deprecatory in her smile. " We are quite alone now. Tell me what it is. COLLOQUY. 233 slie says, in a voice that could have been scarcely heard at the door. Mr. Dawe turns on his heel, walks briskly up, and seats himself near her. He takes out his old silver box, witli groups of Dutch figures embossed on it, and takes a pinch of snuff preparatory, with his solemn eyes fixed on her. "Is it anything — alarming — what is itf she ahiiost gasps. "There has been illness," he says, with liis unsearchable brown eyes still fixed on her. " Oh, my God ! Is he gone ?" she says, turning 'j^s white as the marble Mr. Dawe has just been lookinc; at. " Captain Vivian has been very ill, yes, Elwyn has been very dangerously ill," says the imper- turbable little man in the black win-; "but he's out of danger now, quite — that's all over." There was a silence, and Lady Vernon was trembling very much. She jjlaced her finger-tips hard against her forehead, and did not speak for a few minutes. Mr. Dawe looked at her with stoical gravity, and taking his spectacles from a very shabby case, put them on, and occupied himself with a pocket- book, and seemed to be totting up some figures. "You guessed, of course, that I nnist have 234 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. something to say on that subject?" he said, raising his eyes from the page. "I thought it possible," she answered, witli an effort. " I could not in the flrawing-room,you know " " No, of coui'se," she said, hastily, and the colour returned with two liot flushes to her cheeks. There Avas in her bearing to this elderly gentle- man an odd embarrassment, something of pain and shame ; a wounded pride struggling through it. She rose, and they walked together to tlic window. "He has got his leave. His troop is still at Chatham. The doctor says he must go to some quiet country nook. He has been thinking of Beaumaris," said the old gentleman. " Is he as beautiful as ever ?" she asked. " Oh, why should I ask? What does it matter? Is there any gift that God gives his creatures that is not more or less a curse ?" " You should not talk in that wild way, Barbara. If people can't control their feelings, they can, at least, control tlieir words. It is only an effort at first. It easily becomes a matter of habit. You shan't talk so to me." She looked at him angrily for a moment of silence. "You treat me witli a contempt, sir, that you COLLOQUY. 235 never could have felt if I had not trusted you so madly," she cried, passionately. The tone, fierce and plaintive, was lost on the phlegmatic old man in the black wig. He delivered a little lecture, with his thin brown finger raised, and his exhortation was drv, but stern. " You have been rash and self-willed ; yon have been to blame. Your unjust imputation shan't prevent my saying that, and whatever else truth requires. Your difficulty is the creation of your own passions. I don't say look your difficulty in the face, for it will look you in the face ; but take the lesson it teaches, and learn self-control.*' "Don't blame me for this. I met liim first in a railway carriage, nearly two years ago. Who can prevent such accidental ac(|uaintanccs? He was so attentive, and so agreeable, and so gentle- man-like. I had chosen to travel alone, without even a maid. You'll say 1 had no business doing so. I say, at my years, there was nothing against it; it was more than four hours; there were other people in the carriage. T never meant to seek him out afterwards ; it was the merest accident my learning even bis name. When I met him next, it was in town, at Lady Stukely's, 1 recog- nised him instantly, but he did not know me, for my veil had been down all the time." This narra- 23G THE ROSE AND TEE KEY. tive Lady Vernon was pouring out with the rapid vokibility of excitement. "I was introduced to him there. Perhaps I have been a fool ; but there is no good, now, in telHng nic so. I have seen him since, more than once, and gone where I tliought I was Hkelj to see liim, and I succeeded. If I have been a fool, God knows I suffer. My dijfficulty, you call it ! My difficulty! My agony is the right word. To love as I love, without being loved, without being loved ever so little !" " So much the better," said Mr. Dawe, phleg- matically. "What are you driving at? You ought to consider consequences. Don't you know the annoyance, and possibly insane litigation, to which your folly would lead? In a woman of your years, Barbara, this sort of thing is inex- cusable." " Why did you come at all ? Why did you come in so suddenly, and — before people ? Would not a letter have answered? Ilast thou found me, oh ! mine enemy ?" she suddenly almost cried, and clasped her fingers for a moment wildly upon his arm. " A letter ?" lie repeated. "Yes, a letter. You should think. It would have been more merciful," she answered, vehe- ment! v. COLLOQUY. 237 " Not when I had so many things to talk to you about," he retorted, quietly. " I would have met you anywhere. You ought not to have come into the room so suddenly," she persisted. " You alone know my sad secret. You might have remembered that people are sometimes startled. You say I have no self-command. I think I have immense self-command. I think I am a stoic. I know how you tasked it, too. I knew you had something important to tell me, and that he was probably involved." " H'm ! Yes ; I'm an old friend of yours, and I wish you well. And I'm Captain Vivian's friend, and was once his guardian, and I wish him well. And this kind of thing I don't approve of. And you'll get yourself spoken about ; you are talked of. People saw you alone at Chatham last year ; and if they come to connect your movements with his, think what it will be." " He's the only person on earth I love, or ever shall love." " Barba?'a, you forget your child, iMaud Vernon," said the old man, with hard emphasis. " I don't forget her," she answered, fiercely. The old man tiu'ned away his head. There was no change of countenance ; that, I believe, never changed : but the movement indicated disfjust. 238 TEE EOSE AND THE KEY. " I say I love liira, with all my love, with a^/," she repeated. " Be it so. Still, common prudence will suggest your keeping that love locked up in your own heart, a dead secret." " I am determined, somehow or other, to meet him, and talk to him, and know him well," she persisted ; " and you shall assist me." " I'm Avholly opposed to it." " You'd not have me see him again ?" " No." " Why ? What arc you ? Who are you ? Have you human sympathy ? Good Heavens ! Am I a free Avoman V she broke out again, wilaiy. " Certainly, quite free," said Mr. Dawe, cutting her short with a little tap on his snuff-box. " You can do it, Barbara, when you please; however, whenever, wherever }'ou like best ; only you have a right to my judgment, and I'm quite against it." " I know, Mr. Dawe, you are my friend," she said, after a brief pause. " I know how I can trust you. I am impetuous, perhaps. I dare say you are right. You certainly would speak wisely if your counsels Avere addressed to some colder and happier woman. Why is it that to be cold, and selfish, and timid, is the only way to be happy on COLLOCiUY. 239 earth ? If I am sanr^uine, audacious, wliat you will, I can't help it. You cannot understand me — God knows all ; for me to live any longer as I am is worse than death. I'll endure it no longer. Oil ! if I could open my lips and tell him all !" " There, that's it, you see ! You are ready to die now to be on more intimate terms with him; and if you were you would be ready to die again, as you say, to open your heart to him. Don't you see ? Don't you perceive what it is tending to ? Are you prepared for all that? If not, why approach it ? Y'^ou. would be in ])erpetual danger of saying more than you think you should." Mr. Dawe had probably not spoken quite so long a sentence for more than a month. "^ " I may be a better listener, Mr. Dawe, in a little time. Let us sit down. I want to ask you about it. Tell me everything. ^Vhat was his illness?" " Fever." " Fever ! and he was in great danger. Oh ! my darling, my darling, for how long ?" " For two days in great danger." Her hands were clasped as she looked in his face, and she went on. " And there is no danger now ? It is quite over?" 240 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. " Quite," he repeated. She looked up, her flugers raised a little, and a long shuddering sigh, like a sob, relieved her. "I had the best advice — the two best men I could get from London. He's all right now ; he's fairly under way, and nothing can go wrong ; with common })rudence, of course. I have the account here." He held his pocket-book by the corner, and shook it a little. " He Avas near dying," she repeated. " Why didn't vou tell me ? I knew nothino; of his danger." " The doctors did not tell me the extent of it till it was over," he replied. '' Think what it would have been if he had died ! I should have been in a madhouse. I should have killed myself." "Don't, don't, don't. Nonsense. Come, you must not talk so. I admit it is a painful situation ; but who has made it? You. Remember that, and control your — your vehemence." " Has he been out ? Is he recoveriufr strenxrth?" " Yes. He has been out, and he has made way ; but he is still an invalid." " I want to know ; I must know. Is there any danger still apprehended T' " None ; I give you my word," said IVIi*. Dawe, dryly. COLLOQUY. 241 " He is still very weak ?" she uri^cd. " Still weak, but gaining strength daily." " How soon do the doctors think he will be quite himself?" " In five or six weeks." " And his leave of absence, for how long is that ?" " It has been extended ; about four weeks still to run." "I think I know everything now?" she said, slowly. ]\Ir. Dawe nodded acquiescence. " He's not rich, Mr. Dawe ; and all this must cost a good deal of money. It is oidy through you I can be of any use." " Yes ; I was his guardian, and am his trustee. I had a regard for his father, and his grandfather was essentially kind to me. But I have learned to regret that I ever luulertook to interest myself specially in his affairs ; and you, Barbara, are the cause of that regret." "You mustn't reproach me; you know whixt I am," she pleaded. Mr. Dawe responded with his usual inarticulate " H'm I" and an oracular nod. " I can't help it ; I can't. Why are you so cruelly unreasonable? Do you think I can learn a new character, and unlearn the nature that God gave me, in a moment?" VOL. I. ' u 242 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. " I say this. If you cultivate Captain Vivian's acquaintance further, it is against my oi)inion and protest. I don't expect either to have much weight. I think you incorrigible." Lady Vernon coloured, and her eyes flashed. But she would not, and could not, quarrel with Mr. Dawe. "Surely you can't pretend there is anything wrong in it ?" she said, fiercely. " I did not say there was. Extreme imprudence ; reckless imprudence." " You always said everything I did was reckless and imprudent." " Not everything. Some things extremely. And what you propose, considering that you are no longer young, and know what the world is, appears to me a positively inexcusable folly." " It is possible to prescribe limits and impose conditions upon oneself," she said, with an effort ; " and if so, there need be no rashness in the matter, not the slifjhtest." "Possible? We know it's not possible with some people." " You always hated me, sir." " Tut, tut !" " You never liked me." " Pooh, pooh !" COLLOQUY. 243 " You have always thought ill of me." " I have always wished you well, Barbara, and accident, I think, enabled me to understand you better than others. You have great faults, im- mense faults." " All faults and no virtues, of course," she said, with a bitter little lauo-h. CD " You are capable of strong and enduring attachments." " Even that is something," she said, with an agitated smile, and burst into tears. " This is very painful, Barbara," said the little man in the black wig, while a shadow of positive displeasure darkened his furrowed face. " I believe my first impression was right, and yours too. I begin to think 1 had no business coming to lloy- don." Lady Vernon got up, and walked toward the window, and then turned, and walked to the further end of tlie room, standing before a picture. Ho could sec that her handkerchief was busy drying her eyes. With a womanly weakness she walked to the mirror close by, and looked into it, and perha[)s was satisfied that the traces of this agitation were not veiT strikino;. e2 244 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. Slie returned to lier place. " I have been a fool. My saying so will perhaps save you trouble. I want to put you in funds again." " When you please," said the old man. " Any time will answer. I have the figures here." His pocket-book was still in his hand. " But he has money enough of his own. He must think me a fool, paying all these expenses for him. And I think, Barbara, your doing so is a mischievous in- fatuation." " And you would deny me this one pleasure !" she said. " Enough, enough," he answers. " It was not about that I came here ; that we could have settled by a letter. But I knew you would have fifty questions to ask. He has made up his mind to try change of air. I'm ignorant in such mattei's, and he has not made up his mind where to go." " I have quite made up my mind upon that ])oint," she answered. "Well; and where r " Here," said Lady Vernon, once more in her cold, quiet way. " I'll ask him here." " H'm !" said Mr. Dawe, " Here," she repeated, with her old calm per- cm})toriness. " Here, at Roydon Hall. I'll receive COLLOQUY. 245 him hero, and he can't be quieter or better any- where else, and you shall come with him." It was now Mr. Dawe's turn to get up, which he did with a kind of jerk, and, checking some impulse, walked slowly round his chair, looking down on the carpet, and with a pretty Avide circuit he- came behind it, and resting his hands on its high back, and leaning over, he said, with a little pause, and a wag of his head to each word : " Is there the least iise in my arguing the point?" " None." "H'm!" Mr. Dawe looked to the far corner of the room, with eyes askance, ruminating, and took a pinch of snuff, some of which shed a brown snow upon the cut pattern of the Utrecht velvet on the back of the chair. " I can't say it is anytliing to me ; nothing. I should be officious were I to say more to dissuade you from it. Oidy remember, I have no share in the responsibility of this, excuse me, most strange step. As I suppose he Avill be brought here, one way or other, in any case, I think I had better come with him, and stay a day or two. It will excite less observation, so " " Thank you so very nuich, ^Nlr. Dawe," said 24G THE EOSE AND THE KEY. Lady Vernon, extending her hand, with an odd, eager gratitude in tone and countenance. " That is like yourself." Mr. Dawe's usual " H'm !" responded to this little effusion, and with an ominous countenance he took her proferred hand in his dry grasp, and let it go almost in a moment. Looking down on the carpet, he walked to the window, with his hands behind his back, and as, Avith furrowed jaws and pursed mouth, and a roll of his prominent eyes, he stood close to the pane of glass, down which the rain was no longer streaming. Lady Vernon opened her desk, and Avrote a cheque for two hundred pounds, and coming to his side, she said : " He does not suspect that he has a friend con- cealed?" " Certainly not — certainly not," said INIr. Dawe, sharply. " Will you apply this for me, and we can account another time "? And you think me very ungrateful, ]\Ir. Dawe, but indeed I am not. I only wish an opportunity may occur, if yoa could only point out some Avay. But you are so rich, and so happy. AYell, some day, notwithstanding, I may be ablo to shoAv you how I thank you. Let us return to the dra"\vinc;-room." COLLOQUY. 247 As she passed the mirror, the lady glanced at her face again, and was satisfied. " Yes," said Mr. Dawe, recurring to the matter of business, "I'll do that, and with respect to coming here, I say no more. Under protest, mind, I do it. Only let me have a line to say when you can receive us." 248 CHAPTER XXVII. THE nun's well. Maud was found by her elders, on their return, nestled in a low chair, in one of those lazy moods in which one not only does nothing, but thinks nothino;. They were talking as they entered, and Maud turned her eyes merely in their direction, being far enough away to feel herself very little ob- served. " You will surely stay to-night, INIr. Dawe ?" said Lady Vernon. " No, 'certainly ; thank you very much. I have made up my mind," replied ISlr. Dawe, dryly. Miss Maud was observing this little man in the THE nun's well. 249 wii^ with increased interest. There was in his manner, looks, and voice something of the fami- liarity of an old friend, she thought, without much of the liking. Whatever the business which they discussed in the library, her mamma, she thought, was per- fectly unruffled ; but there Avere traces of dis- pleasure in the old gentleman's demeanour. " I ought to have told you that my cousin, Maximilla Medwyn, is staying here." " She has returned, mamma ; she will be down In a few minutes," said ISIaud. " Oh ! and we shall certainly have her here for some days. Will that tempt you to stay ?" " I like her well — very well, but I shall be off, notwithstanding," said the old gentleman, with a rioid countenance. The sound of the gong announced luncheon. " We are a very small party," she said, smiling. " I'm glad you're here to luncheon, at all events." "I've had a biscuit and a fi-lass of sherry." "But that is not luncheon, you know," said Lady Vernon. Maud w^ondered more and more why her mamma should take such unusual pains to conciliate this odd, grim old man. For her part, she did not know what to make of liim. Ungainly, prepos- terous, obsolete as lie was, she yet could not 250 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. assign him a place outside the line that encircles gentlemen. There was not a trace of vulgarity in the reserved and saturnine inflexibility of his face. There was something that commanded her respect, in the obvious contrast it presented to the viilgar simper and sycophancy of the people who generally sought " audiences " of her mother. And Maud fancied when he looked at her, that there was something of kindly interest dimly visible through his dark and solemn lineaments. " Luncheon and dinner," he said, " are with me incompatible ; and I prefer my dinner. My train, I think, is due at six-twenty r.iM. I suppose your servant can find a Bradshaw, and I'll consult it while you are at luncheon. Go, Barbara. Go, pray ; you make me uncomfortable." The little old man sat himself down in an arm- chair, took out his pocket-book, and seemed to forget everything but the figures over which he began to pore. Miss Max joined the ladies at luncheon. " Well, we shall find him in the drawing-room," she said, reconciling herself to her disappoint- ment. " It is a long time since I saw him. But I dare say he's not much changed. Wigs wear wonderfully." " So do ugly men," added Lady Vernon, care- lessly. THE nun's well. 251 So lunclieon proceeded. And when it was over, the three hidies came to the drawing-room, and, looking round, discovered that Mr. Dawc was y to make him stay here as long as I can. Captain Vivian, that young man, is his friend, and, it seems, was his ward, and as he could not leave him — he has 278 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. been ill, and requires looking after — Mr. Dawe asked me if he might bring him here, and so I make him welcome also." "A very gentleman-like, nice young fellow he is," said Mr. Tintern. And so that little talk ended. Mr. Tintern went his way, and the little party broke up, and the bedroom candles glided along the galleries, and the guests had soon distributed themselves in their quarters. But that nicrht an odd little incident did occur. Miss Max had, after her usual little talk with Maud, bid her good-night, and her busy head was now laid on her pillow. The glimmer of a night- light cheered her solitude, and she had just addressed herself seriously to sleep, when an un- expected knock at her door announced a visitor. She thought it was her maid, and said : " Do come in, and take whatever you want, and let me be quiet." But it was not her maid, but Lady Vernon, who came in, with her candle in her hand, and closed the door. "Ho ! Barbara? Well, what is it?" she said, wondering what she could want. " Are you quite awake ?" asked Lady Vernon. " Perfectly ; that is, I was going to settle ; but it doesn't matter." CAPTAIN VIVIAN. 279 " Well, I. shan't detain you long," said Lady Vernon, placing the candle on the table. " I could not sleep without asking you what you meant, for I'm sure you had a meaning, by asking me the question you did to-night." She spoke a little hurriedly, and her eyes looked extremely angry, but her tones were cold. " The only question I asked was about first love," began Miss Max. "Yes; and I ask you what did you mean, for you did mean something, by putting so very odd a question to meV she replied. " Mean ? What did I mean ?" said Miss Max, sitting up straight in a moment, so that her face was at least as well lighted as her visitor's. " 1 assure you I meant nothing on cartli, and I don't know what you mean by putting such a question to me." The handsome eyes of Lady Vernon were fixed on her doubtfully. "You used to be frank, Maxiniilhi. Why do you hesitate to speak what is in your mind?" said Lady Vernon, sllarph^ " Used to be — I'm always fraid\. As I told you before, there was nothing in my mind; but 1 think there's something in yours." "I only wanted to know il' }i>u iiite'iided any insinuation, however ridiculous. I fancied there 280 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. was a significance in your manner, and as I could not comprehend it, I asked you to define, as one doesn't care to have surmises affecting oneself afloat in the mind of a friend, without at least learning what they are." " I had no surmises of the kind ; but you have certainly gone the very way to fill my head with them. What could you have fancied I meant ?" " Suppose I thought that you meant that I had made overtures of marriage to my husband before he had declared himself. That would have been untrue and offensive." " Such an idea never entered my mind — never could have — because I knew all about it as well as you did. That's mere nonsense, my dear child." "Well, then, there's nothing else you could mean, and so I'm glad I came. I believe it is al- ways best to be a little out-spoken, at the risk of a few hot words, than to keep anything in reserve among friends, and you and I are very old friends, Max. Good-night. I have not disturbed vou much?" And she kissed her. " Not a bit, dear. Good-night, Barbara." And Lady Vernon disappeared as swiftly as she came, leaving a new problem for Maximilla's active mind to work on. 281 CHAPTER XXX. A VISIT. Ix the moniiiig Lady Vernon was more than usually affectionate wlien she greeted Miss Max. AVhen the little party met in the small room that opens into the chapel, where, as we know, ]\lr. Penrhyn, the secretary, officiatetl at morning prayers, Lady Vernon actually drew her cousin ^laximilla to her and kissed her. "Making reparation I suppose," thought Maxi- milla. "But there was no occasion, I was not hurt." And hy the suggestion in\(>l\ed in this unusual demonstration, good Miss !Max's fancy was started on a wild tour of entertaining conjecture respect- ing her reserved cousin, Barbara, and the possible 282 THE EOSE AND THE KEY. bearing of that curious question upon the sensi- bilities of the handsome woman of three- and-forty, who had not yet contracted a single wrinkle or grey hair ; and I am sorry to say that the measured intonation of Mr. Penrhyn, the secretary, as he duly read his chapter from the First Book of Chronicles, sounded in her ears faint and far away, as the distant cawing of the rooks. This morning service was now over, and the little party gathered round the breakfast-table. Seen in daylight. Captain Vivian looked ill and weak enough. He was not up to the walking, riding, and rough out-door amusements of a coun- try house. That was plain. He must lounge in easy-chairs, or lie his length on a sofa, and be con- tent, for the present, to traverse the country with his handsome but haggard eyes only. Those eyes are blue, liis hair light brown and silken, his moustache soft and golden. It is a Saxon face, and good-looking. There is no dragoonery or swagger about this guest ; he is simply a well-bred gentleman, and, in plain clothes, as completely divested of the conven- tional, soldierly manner, as if he had never stood before a drill-sero;eant. Whether it is a consequence of his illness, I can't say, but he looks a little sad. In a house now and then so deserted and always A VISIT. 283 so quiet as Koydoii, the sojourn of a guest so un- exceptionable, and also so agreeable, would have been at any time very welcome. A little time ago, indeed, Maud might have thought this interruption of their humdrum life pleasanter. She had a good deal now to think of. "Wliat an inheritance of pictures you have," said Captain Vivian. There is a seat outside the window, and on this the invalid was taking his ease, while Miss Max and ]\Iaud Vernon, seated listlessly within, talked with him llu'ough the open window. " I think portraits are the most glorious and interesting of all possessions ; I mean, of course, family portraits." " If one could only tell whose portraits they are," said Maud, with a little laugh. "I know about twenty, I think, and. Max, you know nearly forty, don't you ? And 1 don't know who knows the rest. There is a list somewhere ; grandpapa made it out, I believe. But thev are not all even in that." " I look round on them with a vague awe." lie said : " Artists and sitters, so long dead and gone ; I wonder whether their ghosts come back to look at their work again, or to see what they once were like. I onvy you all those })ortraits. Aren't }ou proud of them. Miss Vernon?" "I suppose T ought to 1)0," replied Maud. "I 284 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. dare say I should be if tliey were treated with a little more respect. But when one meets one's ancestors peeping from behind doors, shouldering one another for Avant of room in o;alleries and in lobbies, hid away in corners or with their backs to the wall half-way up the staircase, they lose some- thing of their dignity, and it becomes a little hard to be proud of them." " Such lono; lines of ancestors runnino; so far back into perspective !" said the invalid, languidly. " Think of those who look back without a single lamp to liglit the past I I knew a man who was well born, his parents both unquestionably of good family, first his mother, then his father died, when he was but two years old," Captain Vivian con- tinued, looking down, as he talked, on the veining of the oak seat, along which he was idly running his pencil. " His fate was very odd. He found himself with money bequeathed to him by his father, and with a guardian who had hardly known that father, but who, I dare say half from charity, the father being on his death-bed, undertook the office. Of course if my friend's father had lived a little longer, the guardian v/ould have learnt from his own lips all particulars respecting his charge. But his death came too SAviftlv. There was no mystery intended, of course ; the money was in foreign stocks, and was collected and brought to 5> A VISIT. 285 England as the will directed, and neither he nor his guardian know as much as they would wish of the family of either parent. So there he is, quite isolated ; a good-natured fellow, I believe. It gives him something to think about ; arid I assure you it is perfectly true. 1 was thinking Avhat that poor fellow would give for such a flood of light upon his ancestry as your portraits throw upon yours " Perhaps he has made it all out by this time, suffsested Miss Max. " I don't think he has," said Captain Vivian. " And what is his name ?" inquired the old lady. "Well, I'm afraid I ought not to mention his name," he said, looking up. " It does not trouble him much now, I think, and I dare say it has caused him more pain than it is worth. Here comes a carriage," he said, raising his head. " Your avenue is longer than it aj)pears, it is so wide. What maa;nificcnt trees !*' " Who are they, I Avonder ; the bishop or the dean 1" said curious Miss Max. "It may be the Manwarings. ^^ e called there a few days ago," said Maud. "The liveries look like brown and gold, as well as I can see," said Captain A^i\ inn, who had stood up and was looking down the avenue. "' Oh, it is the Tinterns, then,"' said Maud. 86 TEE ROSE AND THE KEY. " Chocolate and gold, yes," assented Miss Max. " I liope so much that charmmg creature, Miss Tintern, is in the carriage. You'd be charmed with her. Captain Vivian." " I dare say I should. But I am an awfully dull person at present, and I rather shrink from being presented. Mr. Tintern, from what I saw of him last night, appears to be a good-natured, ao;reeable man 1" This was thrown out rather in the tone of an inquiry ; but Captain Vivian did not wait for an answer ; and, instead, moved slowly towards the hall-door, and before the Tintems' carriage had reached the low balustrade of those ponds on which the swans and water-lilies float, he was in the drawinff-room. " I'm ashamed to say, I'm a little bit tired," said he to Miss ISIax; and pale and languid he did, indeed, look. " And I think till this little visit is over I'll get into the next room, and look over some of those books of prints. You must not think me very lazy ; but if you knew what I was a week ago, you'd think me a Hercules now." So, slowly. Captain Vivian withdrew to the quieter drawing-room beyond this room, and sat him down l)efore a book in the window, and turned over the pages, alone. In the mean time, agreeable ]Mr. Tintern has A VISIT. 287 arrived, and liis extremely pretty daughter lias come with him. She and Maud kiss, as young lady friends will, with more or less sincerity, after a long absence. They make a very pretty contrast, the blonde and the dark beauty. Miss Tintern having golden hair and blue eyes, and Maud Vernon large dark grey eyes and brown hair. So these young persons begin to talk together, while Lady Vernon and Mr. Tintern converse more gravely, a little way off, on themes that inte- rest them more than flower-shows, fashions, and the coming ball at Wymering. Good Miss Max, who, in spite of her grave years, likes a little bit of frivolity, joins the young people, and has her laugh and gossip with them very cosily. Having disposed of the Wymering ball, and talked over the statue of Mr. Howard in the church a little, and passed on to some county man'iages likely to be, and said a word or two on guipure Avork, and the fashions, IMiss Max said : "I did not see your flowers at the Grange: I'm told they are perfectly lovely. The shower came on, you know ; I was to have seen them." " Oh, yes, it was so unlucky," says Miss Tin- tern. " Yes, I think they are very good. Don't you, Maud V 288 THE KOtfE AXD TUE KEY. " Yes, wonderful," answers Maud ; " tliey tlirow us, I know, quite into sliade." " I think you are great florists in this part of the world," says Miss Max. " I thought I was very well myself ; but I find I'm a mere nobody among you. You have got, of course, that new Dutch hyacinth. It is so beautiful, and so immense — white, and so waxen. What is its name, Maud ?" Maud gave the name of this beautiful monster. ''No; I'm sure we haven't got it," answers Ethel Tintern. " I should have liked so to see it." " We have one," says Maud, " the last, I think, still in its best looks ; they are very late. I saw it in the next room. Come and see." In the histories of a thousand men, I suppose it has not happened six times, possibly in that of ten thousand, not half so often, that a young man should be surprised, in a deep sleep, over a book, by two young ladies so beautiful, and in whose eyes he wibhed, perhaps, to a])pear agreeable. When the young ladies had pushed open the door, they stood for a moment beside it talking, and then, coming in, Maud Vernon pointed out the flower they had come to examine. And, as they looked, admired, and talked, acci- dentally her eye lighted on the invalid, as he sat in the window, one hand on his book, his book slanting A VISIT. 289 from his knee, and he with closed eyes and head Slink on his other hand, in a deep sleep. She ex- chancred a glance with her companion, and a faint smile and a nod. The young ladies returned to the drawing-room ; and when they had left the room a very few seconds, the slumbering invalid, without disturbing his attitude, looked after them curiously from the corner of his now half-opened eye, and listened. Then he turned his cliair, so as better to avert his face, and, without stirring, continued to listen. But they did not return. And as jSIr. Tintern proposed lunching at Hartstonge Hall, he and his pretty daughter very soon took their leave, and Captain Vivian watched them quietly from the window, as they got into the open carriage and drove away. " Wliat a nice girl Ethel Tintern is. I like her so very much," said Miss Max. " Yes," said Ladv Vernon, " but 1 did not think her looking well, did you ?" " Ver}' pretty, but perhaps a little pale," acquiesced Miss Max. " Very pale, indeed," says Lady Vernon ; " when slie was going 1 was quite struck with it. Did you ever see her before, Mr. Dawe ?" " No,'^ answered that gentleman promptly fmni VOL. I. I 290 THE ROSE AND THE KEY. the recess of the window, where he was reading a note. " I saw YOU look at her a good deal, Mr. Dawe," said ISIaximilla, " and I know you thought her very pretty." " H'm !" said Mr. Dawe, oracularly. "And I think she observed your admiration, also, for I saw her eyes follow you about the room whenever she fancied no one was lookinir, and I think there is more in it than you intend us to understand, and that you are a very profound person." " It's time I should be," said Mr. Dawe, and the gong began to sound for luncheon as he spoke. END OF VOL. I. i r.dNDo.N : r. WIUTIXO, BICAITOKT IlOI.sK. PIKK STREET. M NroLN'S-INN-l-I KI,I>S. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. I REC'D LD-URL CD .( — 1 i DEC 71873 QL SF^" : DISCHAPGF-URL DEC 91981 aOm-7,'68(J1895s4) — C-12ii ""^ ^''''recI ftB 1 5 laaj rnJ^HS 3 1158 00188 9772 uc SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 373 245 o