IRLF 
 

 GIFT OF 
 Prof. C. A. Kofoid 
 
a 
 
PHILIP EARNSCilFFE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MORALS OF MAY FAIR. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT was a cold, gusty evening. Although 
 the middle of May, the wind, as it swept up 
 from the sea, howled round the Tete Noire 
 rocks with more of the fierce melancholy of 
 December than of that "sweet sighing" 
 which should belong to the month of flowers ; 
 and the rain beat in torrents against the grey 
 old walls and narrow casements of the Man- 
 oir de Kersaint, as it loomed grimly through 
 the gathering mists and dying twilight. The 
 Manior was situated in one of the wildest 
 parts of Western Brittany, and was a gloomy 
 looking building at all times even with the 
 summer sun shining on its many-paned win- 
 dows, scutcheoned doorways, and high-point- 
 ed slate roofs ; but doubly so, when, as was 
 the case during six months of the year, the 
 storms of the Breton coast beat around it, 
 with groans, and shrieks, and tremulous wail- 
 ings, which, to the superstitious peasantry of 
 the district, might well seem like voices from 
 the ghosts of shipwrecked mariners many 
 of whom every winter found a watery grave 
 among the shoals and rocks of that cruel 
 shore. 
 
 The Manoir stood about a league from the 
 nearest town, and with no hamlet or cottage 
 in its immediate neighborhood. It was close 
 to the sea which, indeed, in stormy weather 
 often dashed its foam against the windows on 
 that side which faced the bay while between 
 the house and the shore lay a garden, only 
 exposed to the south, and sheltered even in 
 winter from the rude north and north-western 
 blasts. This garden was old-fashioned, stiff, 
 and quaint ; with a terrace overhanging the 
 beach at the farther end, flights of broken 
 steps, an ancient sun-dial, and the remains 
 of a fountain all records of the palmy days 
 of the chatteau, and the stiff" taste of a by- 
 gone age but pleasant in summer, when 
 bright flowers, tended by no unloving hands, 
 decked its borders, and ripe peaches and 
 grapes hung upon the warm southern wall. 
 
 On this evening, however, the garden look- 
 ed desolate in the fast falling shadows, and 
 the early flowers lay crushed and soiled un- 
 der the heavy rain. The court gates com- 
 municating with the road on the other side of 
 the house were firmly closed for the night ; 
 
 lor tne nignt ; or tli 
 
 M111474 
 
 the watch-dog lay silently sleeping in his 
 kennel ; and only through one of the lower 
 windows the uncertain flickering of a wood 
 fire gave token of life, and the presence of 
 human beings in this dreary habitation. 
 
 But, however cheerless the scene withojt, 
 within that room was light and warmth, and 
 a little group, so happy in themselves, as 
 scarcely even to bestow a thought upon the 
 drifting torrents of rain upon the windows, 
 or the wind that screamed and eddied in the 
 immense old chimney. The room was itself 
 a vast one, With a lofty painted ceiling, and 
 floor of many-colored woods, arranged in ara- 
 besque patterns. The faded furniture was 
 of the style belonging to the reign of Louis 
 Quinze, and conveyed an instant idea of for- 
 mer courtly days, and more ample means 
 than were possessed by the present inhabitants 
 of the Manoir. On the walls hung a goodly 
 array of portraits blooming, powdered, and 
 wreathed with flowers ; doubtless, some of 
 them representing the fair chatelaines of 
 Kersaint, who had once reclined on those 
 very high-backed chairs of cramoisi damask 
 which now stood grimly ranged under their 
 lifeless effigies. The enormous chimney- 
 piece was of white marble, sculptured over 
 with innumerable bands of roses, and figures 
 of love and graces ; whose projecting heads 
 occasionally caught a rosy glow from the ca- 
 pricious flickerings of the well-piled wood 
 fire. Before this fire was a little group of 
 three persons, and their appearance seemed 
 to harmonise strangely with the old-world 
 room they inhabited, although, at the same 
 time, they gave it a warm and household as- 
 pect. It was, indeed, an "interior," upon 
 which an artist's eye might long have rested 
 with delight, half lit up as it was by the ever- 
 changing light from the hearth. 
 
 At intervals, pale, fitful gleams bathed the 
 figures, and the whole room, then, quickly 
 dying away into the red glow of the embers, 
 left the large solle alternately black and 
 sombre, or quivering for a few seconds in a 
 soft half-shadow. Anon this wandering light 
 would fall upon some projecting gilding of 
 the picture-frames, covered with medallions 
 and crowns of carved wood, then on the 
 massive furniture, plated in brass and ebony, 
 or the delicately-cut cornices of the wail 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 coting ; andf then, as one brand fell extin- 
 guisb*d and a new flame broke from a differ- 
 ent side p he, fire , r objects visible before re- 
 turned agaifi .?nk> obsquifity^Jind other bright 
 points stood ant frdru fat ' (Jaik/.ess. Thus 
 the eye co,uld gradually trace every detail of 
 the, pu-tuie. Fir,<t '.the- paintsd/oeilirig, be- 
 det'l&tf ^vfcli.'azMje'.a^id stajrs ; ;theri< the'heavy 
 console, supported upon four huge silver 
 tritons, now darkened and tarnished with 
 age ; lastly, the fringed hangings of crimson 
 damask, at the extreme end of the room, 
 which, covered with wavy reflections, seemed 
 to advance and recede "mysteriously in the 
 undulating rays of the fire. 
 
 In a large arm-chair, drawn towards the 
 centre of the fire-place, sat an elderly man 
 of grave and noble exterior. He might, 
 perhaps, have been about fifty ; but study 
 and an expression of habitual melancholy, 
 joined to delicate health, made him look some 
 years older than he really was. His high, 
 pale brow was perfectly bare at the temples, 
 in which the blue veins were painfully visible, 
 and around the eyes was that hollow rim 
 which bespeaks the slow, sure progress of 
 life's decay. His tall figure was somewhat 
 bent, and his white, thin hands hung with an 
 attitude of weakness upon the arm of the 
 chair. A rough deer-hound was at his feet ; 
 he was old and grey, but still bore traces of 
 the strength and beauty of his youth. His 
 wiry coat of a deep brindle hue, his black 
 eyes, long, sharp muzzle and dark ears, still 
 soft and silky, all bespoke his high race and 
 pure blood. He had rested his head upon 
 the invalid's knee, and now stood gazing up 
 in his face with a tender, melancholy expres- 
 sion, as though he could read, in his brute 
 love, the signs of suffering so plainly written 
 there; but when his master occasionally 
 passed his hand over his shaggy neck, the 
 creature's eyes softened and dilated with 
 pleasure, and his long tail swept from side to 
 side upon the hearth. At length, he gave a 
 little bark of impatience, as the object of so 
 much love still kept his face averted, while 
 he looked down at a young figure on his 
 other side, and only extended an unthinking 
 caress to the hound. 
 
 "Jealous, as usual, old Bell!" said a 
 childish voice. "Father, if you even look 
 at me too long, that creature barks." And 
 the speaker, leaving a low stool by the 
 hearth, came and seated herself by her fa- 
 ther's feet, and held up her little fist in the 
 old hound's face. 
 
 She wa a young girl of scarcely sixteen, and 
 a Countenance of more perfect, and almost in- 
 fantiix ,, it would he dillicult to 
 
 coweive. It was just one of those faces so 
 rarely met with, except in some picture by 
 the old masters. Her hair, of a rich 
 chestnut brown, hung in a flood of light up- 
 on her neck, and, forming a waving halo 
 round her head, added t> its pure Madonna- 
 like character. She was very fair, with all 
 
 the first blush of childhood upon her cheeks, 
 and her small white iiand shone like a lily 
 upon Bell's grizzly coat. Her eyes of so 
 deep a blue that in this light they seemed 
 black were fringed with the longest eye- 
 lashes; and clearly-defined, dark eyebrows 
 gave a character to the otherwise soft coun- 
 tenance. In person she was tall ; and, 
 though so young, there was already promise 
 of the richest lines of contour in the grace- 
 ful shoulders, and full and exquisitely-pro- 
 portioned bust. As it had never entered 
 into her head, or that of her father, that she 
 was approaching the age of womanhood, she 
 was still dressed like a mere child, in a little 
 muslin frock, without any ornament of lace 
 or ruffle, and so short in "the skirts as to al- 
 low' a full view of her tiny feet in their well- 
 worn house slippers. She had no melan- 
 choly expression, like poor Bell, as she 
 looked up into her father's face; but con- 
 tinued laughing, and chattering, and playing 
 with the dog, occasionally resting her head 
 against her father's knee, or stroking the 
 thin hand which hung listlessly at his side. 
 
 Another figure sat somewhat apart from 
 the two principal ones ; but still near enough 
 to enjoy the warmth from the fire, and mix 
 with perfect freedom in the conversation. 
 This was Manon, Marguerite's former nurse, 
 and now their only attendant, who, with a 
 respectful familiarity still to be found amongst 
 servants in the remote part of France, al- 
 ways took her place near the evening hearth, 
 gazing ever and anon at her master, then at 
 his child ; but with the eternal stocking form- 
 ing under her busy fingers, and which ap- 
 peared to require neither light nor thought 
 to aid its progress. Manon was a woman of 
 about five-and-forty, perhaps older, for hers 
 was one of those faces which never look 
 young, yet on which, after a certain time, 
 years and years pass away and leave no fur- 
 ther trace. She had the hard Celtic features 
 peculiar to Brittany, and wore the usual cos- 
 tume of the peasants the white linen head- 
 dress, short dark petticoat, enormous apron, 
 and bright handkerchief pinned across her 
 bosom, over which hung a large silver cru- 
 cifix. 
 
 The conversation was carried on in good 
 French, which Manon understood well, al- 
 though Breton was her native tongue. Mar- 
 guerite spoke with the perfectly pure accent 
 of a born French child ; but her father, al- 
 though possessing a thorough knowledge of 
 the language, still bore traces, in tin- pro- 
 nunciation, of bring an Knglishman. 
 
 " How delightful to think that summer 19 
 come ! v said the girl, pausing in her play 
 with hello. " Do you know, father, the 
 hawthorns are in full blossom on the warm 
 side of the on hard, and the young linnets 
 arc hatched, and Bruno thinks I shall have 
 some roses in a fortnight? What a pleas- 
 ant summer we shall have, darling old la- 
 ther! you will get so strong in the sunny, 
 
PR. 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 open air ; and, till you are well enough t > 
 walk, Manon and I will take you down in the 
 garden-chair to the shore, and you can sit 
 quietly and enjoy the fresh sea breeze, while 
 Bello and I run about on the sands, and keep 
 watch over you." 
 
 She looked so hopeful and happy, that her 
 father had no courage to tell her he saw 
 small prospect of any summer weather mak- 
 ing him strong again. His lips never could 
 approach that cruel subject when talking to 
 his child ; although he had several times con- 
 fided his forebodings about his state to the 
 old servant. 
 
 " Well, Marguerite, I hope this is not 
 your idea of summer," he answered, smiling; 
 " listen to the wind and rain as they drift 
 against the window. Where will your early 
 flowers be to-morrow ? 
 
 "Only beaten down for a day, father; by 
 Sunday they will be fresher than ever, and I 
 shall make Manon t ! e first bouquet she has 
 had this spring to take to mass with her." 
 
 For Manon was, of course, a rigid Cath- 
 lic, and, on fete days and Sundays, thought 
 nothing of the long, rough miles she had to 
 walk to the nearest town to church. The 
 rain or snow indeed, nothing but the ill- 
 ness of her master had ever kept her at 
 home ; and, in fine weather, Marguerite fre- 
 quently accompanied her. Mr. St. John 
 had reared her in his own simple faith, but 
 utterly apart from all sectarian prejudice ; 
 and it gave the poor child such pleasure to 
 go to the old cathedral with Manon, and see 
 the pictures, the rich vestments of the priests, 
 the acolytes swinging the incense, while the 
 sun poured through the stained window over 
 the altar ; above all, to listen to the solemn 
 peals of the organ, and the sonorous chant- 
 ing of the priests, that her father was glad 
 for her to have this one enjoyment ; and, in 
 time, the cathedral became to her childish 
 fancy all imaginable beauty, grandeur, and 
 sweet music combined. She had a passion- 
 ate love for music herself, and Mr. St. John 
 also thought it good for her to have the oppor- 
 tunity of gratifying it, and of hearing any 
 * other harmony than that of her own voice 
 although, to him, that was worth more than 
 all the music on earth. 
 
 " And if Sunday is fine," Marguerite con- 
 tinued, " I may go with Manon, petit papa? 
 that is, if you are very well, and quite sure 
 you will not want me " 
 
 " And if we have no more rain between 
 this and then," chimed in Manon. " The 
 roads are not in a state for your little feet, 
 mamie dame ! When I went to church last 
 Sunday, I had often to wade through the mire 
 and bog well nigh up to my knees. Luckily, 
 I had wrapped m) white stockings round my 
 prayer-book, and put them in my pocket, 
 before I set out." 
 
 " Oh, Manon, how I wish I had seen you ! " 
 cried Marguerite; "you must have looked 
 so droll, with your large ancles nil covered 
 
 in mud. Never mind, Bello, you shall come 
 too, and carry me through these wonderful 
 torrents on your back," and she shook her 
 Jong, bright curls over the hound's eyes to 
 wake him. He made a start, but, on seeing 
 how matters stood, only gave his usual impa- 
 tient bark, and, turning his head resolutely 
 towards the fire, went off again to sleep. 
 Mr. St. John closed his eyes, wearied, as he 
 generally grew towards evening ; and there 
 was no sound for some minutes but the oc- 
 casional click of Manon's knitting-needles, 
 or the little hissing voices from the wood fire, 
 and the eternal pattering of the rain. Mar- 
 guerite was just meditating going in search 
 of her kitten to rouse up Bello and make 
 them all less silent, when the old clock in the 
 hall struck nine. 
 
 " Supper-time already ! " she cried, jump- 
 ing up. " How late we are to-night ! Come, 
 Manon, let us get lights at once, and make 
 the omelette." 
 
 Manon carefully folded her work, having 
 first removed the disengaged pins from their 
 place in her black hair, and struck them with 
 much precision through the stocking ; then 
 she placed it all in the ample pocket of her 
 apron, and followed Marguerite to the door. 
 They felt their way through winding passages 
 and down many treacherous descents, until 
 they reached the kitchen, where Manon, af- 
 ter considerable groping, struck a light, and 
 they began their evening labors. 
 
 The kitchen was a low, dark, vaulted room, 
 so large that it seemed to extend under the 
 whole ground floor of the house ; and the 
 one candle and few expiring embers on the 
 hearth, instead of lighting its obscurity, ap- 
 peared only to render it more intense. There 
 were strange old closets and projections, be- 
 hind which a dozen men might lie concealed, 
 in this kitchen ; and a ghostly owl took de- 
 light in flapping his wings against the case- 
 ments of an evening; so, altogether, Manon 
 was not fond of frequenting it alone after 
 twilight, and generally persuaded mademoi- 
 selle to accompany her for Marguerite was 
 not afraid of ghosts or owls, and she also 
 liked to assist with her own hands in prepar- 
 ing her father's supper. 
 
 Manon on her knees, quickly succeeded in 
 fanning the wood embers into a blaze ; the 
 savory omelette was soon upon the fire ; the 
 roasted potatoes among the ashes declared to 
 be done to perfection ; and then Marguerite 
 filled the kettle, and got ready the little tea- 
 service. Mr. St. John retained his old Eng- 
 lish liking for tea at night ; and it was his 
 daughter's pleasure to arrange it for him her- 
 self, and to take care that it was strong and 
 well made. Her father's cup of good tea 
 was the one extravagance of their houst hold. 
 She looked like a little fairy, contrasted with 
 Manon's solid form, while she flitted about, 
 searching for the different objects she requir- 
 ed, among the uncouth shadows of the place ; 
 and her white, slender hands, and that name- 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 less air of high birth which was visible in 
 each of her movements, seemed strangely at 
 variance with the place and her occupation. 
 She went on chatting merrily toManon in her 
 sweet, full voice, while the old servant, al- 
 though perfectly familiar, invariably answered 
 in a tone of respect which, even to strangers, 
 would have expressed the difference of con- 
 dition, and her own sense of it. 
 
 " This has been a long day, Manon," said 
 Marguerite, suddenly. 
 
 " My days are never long, mademoiselle ; 
 and to-day I have been looking over the last 
 year's preserves to see what we must make 
 this summer. Will you believe it, ma mie, 
 two jars of my best green-gage were empty ? 
 and I never knew the mice to touch them 
 before." 
 
 "The mice, you silly old Manon! more 
 likely Bruno ! " 
 
 Manon almost dropped the pan containing 
 her omelette, and her eyes flashed fire. 
 ** Bruno ! " she exclaimed. " If I thought 
 that lout that idiot that cochon de paysan 
 had touched one of my master's green - 
 gages, I would Bruno, indeed ! " 
 
 " There," cried Marguerite, " I have made 
 you happy for the night in giving you Bru- 
 no's sins to think over. Do you know, Man- 
 on I wish sometimes that Bruno, or you, or 
 some one, would do something really wrong ? 
 I am so tired of nothing happening." 
 
 "Nothing happening!" echoed Manon. 
 " Why, Gilbert, the pedlar, was here yester- 
 day with all the news from Quimper ; and 
 Friday eight days M. le Cure met us in the 
 road; and, in three weeks we shall have the 
 
 fair at N Mon Dieu, it seems to me that 
 
 a great deal happens ! " 
 
 "Does it? " answered Marguerite, dream- 
 ily; "well, I suppose so. But sometimes, 
 lately, I have wished for something more 
 I cannot exactly tell what. What can I 
 want Manon ? " 
 
 tf Manon knew, she did not choose to speak ; 
 but, inspecting the omelette closely, she de- 
 clared it to be done a ravir ; and then, re- 
 marking that the carafe was empty, went off 
 to fill it with fresh water, while Marguerite, 
 who had to arrange the tray, forgot all about 
 her own question. 
 
 And now the repast was ready, and carried 
 in by Manon, Marguerite preceding her 
 with a light. The .snowy doth was laid, the 
 invalid's chair wheeled round to the table, and 
 Manon had taken her plan- behind her master, 
 when an events iddenly occurred for certain- 
 ly thu lir-t time, at such an hour, within a do/.- 
 t"n years which made them all start with as- 
 toni.-liment : the great bell of the court-yard 
 ran;.'. Mr. St . .John looked uneasy, as an 
 invalid always does at any imexpeeted inter- 
 ruption of his usual existence. Manon 
 exclaimed, " Mon Dieu !" and crossed her- 
 Bclf; Hello, awakened thi> time in good ear- 
 tve a long, unearthly, howl, which 
 was echoed by the fierce barkings of the 
 
 watch-dog without ; while Marguerite clap- 
 ped her hands with delight at " anything 
 happening." Manon was the first to speak. 
 
 " Oh, master, they must be robbers there 
 can be no doubt of it 5 no visitor ever comes 
 to Kersaint, and the country people know 
 me better than to dare ring at the great bell 
 at this hour: we shall all be murdered. Ah, 
 bon Dieu, and all the saints, help us-! " 
 
 Marguerite laughed aloud, and Mr. St. 
 John answered "No, good Manon; if 
 robbers were to attack a house like this, which 
 is not likely, they would enter by the garden, 
 and not warn us quite so loudly of their in- 
 tentions. It is, more probably, some way- 
 farer overtaken by the storm, and seeking a 
 night's shelter." 
 
 " Then come, Manon," cried Marguerite, 
 seizing a light with one hand, and the ser- 
 vant's sleeve with the other; "let us open 
 the door at once, and admit this poor travel- 
 ler to our fire. Father, toll her to come 
 with me ! " for Manon visibly hesitated, and 
 drew back. 
 
 " Nay. Marguerite, "he answered, "though 
 I have small fear of robbers, yet, at this un- 
 usual hour, it would certainly be well to hold 
 some parley through the little lattice, before 
 opening the gates. I will go myself, and as- 
 certain the character of our visitors, and do 
 you remain here until my return ; " and he 
 rose feebly from his seat. But to the last 
 proposal his daughter and Manon made so 
 instant and decided a resistance, that Mr. 
 St. John was soon obliged to give them their 
 own way. He must remain quietly by the 
 fireside, while they proceeded to the lattice ; 
 and if, after scrutinizing the strangers, they 
 were not satisfied with their appearance, 
 Marguerite would return and tell him the re- 
 sult; and Bello, meanwhile, should go as 
 their protector. So they left^b^-pom ; but 
 Manon first placed the omeletjMpti potatoes^ 
 on a stand before the fire. No excitement 
 made her forget her master's comfort; and, 
 although she had just declared that they 
 would all be robbed and murdered, she 
 seemed to think it well to keep tin: supper 
 hot until the completion of the tragedy. 
 
 The little window mentioned by Mr. St. 
 John had formerly belonged to the con- 
 cierge, or, iu more ancient times -till, to t^e 
 manoir-warden, and was scarcely more than 
 a loop-hole through the solid masonry on 
 the outer side of the court facing the road ; 
 
 so that, in daylight, it commanded a 
 view of any person standing hctinv the -ales. 
 Having lighted a lantern, Manon undid 
 the manifold bolls of the house-door, her 
 healthy, red face being, b\ thi- lime. 
 al shades paler than usual, and Accompanied 
 by Hello, they both ran throu-li the rain, 
 across the courtvard. and gained tin- shelter 
 of the gn-at Outer gates. There, a winding 
 stone staircase led them up ml" the small 
 chamber, or, more properly -peaking, look- 
 out for there was scarcely euou;;h room iu 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 it for more than one person at a time in 
 which the loophole window was placed. 
 After some difficulty, Manon undid the rusty 
 fastenings of the casement, and, with con- 
 siderable trepidation of manner, looked out 
 first. But such a torrent of rain and sleet 
 beat into her face as nearly blinded her, and 
 she quickly drew back her head, exclaiming 
 angrily Milles tonnerres ! " which, under 
 the circumstances, was not inappropriate. 
 Marguerite, with a stifled laugji, next at- 
 tempted, but with almost similar success. 
 They had entirely forgotten that, while the 
 light from their own lantern rendered their 
 movements perfectly clear to any person 
 without, they were themselves unable to see 
 an inch after the profound darkness of the 
 night. 
 
 "What shall we do?" whispered Mar- 
 guerite, upon whose courage the gloom and 
 uncertainty were beginning to tell a little ; 
 " had we better go down and speak through 
 the door, or " 
 
 " Return to the house at once, and not look 
 at them at all/' added Manon, quickly, as 
 another vigorous peal of the bell close be- 
 side them made them both start again. 
 
 ** No, no, Manon, it may be some poor 
 travellers seeking for shelter, as my father 
 said. Let us first fasten up the chain, so that 
 they cannot enter, and then open the gate an 
 inch or two, and speak to them." 
 
 Manon unwillingly complied ; and after 
 much delay, caused by the trembling of her 
 great strong hands, the gate was opened. 
 She was, by this time, so gasping and fright- 
 ened, that she could not get out a word ; so 
 Marguerite advanced her own face to the 
 small space which was left open, to be speak- 
 er; while Mancn held the light, exactly 
 where it was in no service in seeing the 
 strangers, buHell full upon the girl's figure, 
 nd long sfBBfciing hair ; and old Bello snarl- 
 ed and showea every tooth in his head, as he 
 stood, waiting to seize upon anybody's legs 
 who might enter. 
 
 " Who are you ? " said Marguerite, rather 
 faintly, in French, of course ; and do you 
 wish to come irr* " * 
 
 Whether it was this question, or the sight 
 of the enraged old hound, and. Manon's ter- 
 rified face, or all combined, which produced 
 the effect, is unknown ; but a suppressed 
 laugh was the first reply. Marguerite's cour- 
 age returned at the sound. 
 
 " Turn the lantern this way, so that we 
 can see them, "she whispered, looking round. 
 Manon did so, and the light streamed not 
 upon a band of robbers but upon the face 
 of one young and handsome man, who, per- 
 fectly drenched with rain, stood outside in 
 the road. 
 
 " Eh, mon Dieu ! " exclaimed Marguerite, 
 reassured in a moment, " if I had only known 
 it was you. Wait one moment, please," and, 
 aided by Manon, she hastily withdrew the 
 chain, having first silenced Bello with an 
 
 admonition to be friendly, which he appeared 
 rather imperfectly to understand, as he still 
 continued showing his teeth, and uttering a 
 low, dissatisfied growl. The stranger entered, 
 his cap in his hand, and the water literally 
 streaming from his clothes and hair, and be- 
 gan an apology for disturbing them, in toler- 
 able French, but which Marguerite knew in 
 a moment to be that of a foreigner. 
 
 " I am so glad you have found our house," 
 she replied, in English; " my father will be 
 delighted to see you, and he is an English- 
 man. You are very welcome to Kersaint.." 
 
 The young stranger looked well pleased 
 with his reception ; and, when he had assis- 
 ted in replacing the chain, they all crossed 
 the court together. But, after entering the 
 house, and just as Manon had re-fastened 
 the bolts, while Marguerite was waiting impa- 
 tiently to conduct the visitor to Mr. St. John, 
 Bello overturned the lantern, which had been 
 placed on the floor, and they were suddenly 
 left in utter darkness. 
 
 " Never mind," cried Marguerite, laugh- 
 ing, '* I know the house quite as well at 
 night as in the day. Give me your hand, 
 please, and I will take you to my father." 
 
 The stranger resigned his hand, nothing 
 loth, to her little warm touch ; and she led 
 him on through endless windings and passa- 
 ges, occasionally saying, "Now down one 
 step now up two steps," until he began to 
 think he was in some enchanted house with- 
 out an end. At length, they reached the door 
 of the salle ; there Marguerite whispered, 
 " Just wait one moment here, while I go in ; 
 for my father is not strong, and I must pre- 
 pare him to see you ; " and, entering the 
 room, she closed the door, with the simplici- 
 ty of a child, exactly in his face ; while 
 Manon made many apologies, and vainly 
 groped about for a light. 
 
 " It was a traveler, and I have let him in, 
 father. He is quite young, very handsome, 
 and an Englishman and, oh, so wet ! " cried 
 Marguerite ; while the stranger, just outside 
 the door, naturally heard every word. 
 
 *' An Englishman ! " echoed her father, 
 rising from his seat, and an expression of 
 pleasure crossing his face. " An Englishmai 
 at Kersaint! this is, indeed, strange aftb. 
 more than fifteen years, to meet one of my 
 countrymen again ! Well, he shall receive 
 all the welcome we have to offer; but where 
 have you left him, child ? not still shivering 
 in the cold, I hope ? " 
 
 "Oh, no, father!" returned Marguerite, 
 triumphant at her own management. " He 
 is quite close only just outside the door ; " 
 and she returned to open it. Mr. St. John 
 advanced to meet the stranger, with the easy 
 courtesy of a man who had been long used 
 to good society. He shook his hand, and 
 made many excuses for their suspicious mode 
 of giving him welcome, adding " But as I 
 have lived in this lonely spot for sixteen 
 years and you are my fiist evening visitor, 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 you will understand that we are somewhat 
 cautious of opening our doors after nightfall.' 1 
 
 The Englishman said that he ought to 
 apologise himself for disturbing the house- 
 hold at such an unseasonable hour. He was 
 traveling through Brittany alone, and on foot, 
 and, having lost his way, had been overtaken 
 by the storm, and was almost blinded with 
 the beating rain, when he suddenly found 
 himself under the walls of the chateau, and 
 rang the bell, in hopes of finding it inhabited. 
 "Although," he added, "with little expec- 
 tation of meeting so kindly a reception ; " 
 and he glanced at Marguerite. 
 
 " But now, 11 returned Mr. St. John, " be- 
 fore you partake of refreshment, which you 
 must so greatly need, or even approach the 
 fire, you must at once change your dripping 
 garments. Manon, take this gentleman to 
 my room, and help him to find whatever he 
 requires among my wardrobe." 
 
 The stranger, however, pointing to a small 
 waterproof knapsack slung across his should- 
 ers, said he was, fortunately, provided with a 
 dry suit of clothes, and, in five minutes, 
 would be ready to join them at the supper- 
 table ; and he then accompanied Manon, up- 
 stairs. It was not long before he re-appear- 
 ed. In the meantime, Manon had added 
 some dainties from her store-room to their 
 repast, and Marguerite prepared some fresh 
 tea ; while her tongue ran on in a perfect 
 maze of delightful bewilderment at the ad- 
 venture. 
 
 " My own countryman the first I ever 
 saw but you, father and so handsome, and 
 such a soft voice ! I never saw anything like 
 it all before. Oh ! we must ask him to stay 
 a long time at Kersaint it will be such a 
 new life for us to have a visitor ; and and 
 I shall have no time to go with you to church 
 on Sunday, Manon." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE entrance of the stranger cut short 
 Marguerite's words ; and the little party 
 aoon Mat down to their evening meal. Bel- 
 lo, although partly reassured, kept very close 
 to his master, and occasionally eyed the new 
 comer from under his shaggy brows with no 
 friendly expression, as though aggrieved at 
 this interruption of their accustomed life ; 
 but upon the human members of the lonely 
 household the guests quickly produced a most 
 favorable impreion. Mr. St. John's pale 
 face grew almost animated while listening to 
 his lively account of his Breton adventures; 
 Marguerite's open* delight expressed itself 
 both in looks and words; and Manon, who 
 could not understand the conversation, leis- 
 urely surveyed his handsome face and fine 
 linen, and mentally decided that he waa a 
 
 worthy guest to sit at their table. It waa 
 certainly a face upon which nobility if not 
 of birth, that of soul was legibly written. 
 
 The Englishman was pale, and though 
 young apparently about four or five-and- 
 twenty had already that care-worn look 
 which can arise onlv from some deep sorrow, 
 or a too early knowledge of life and its pas- 
 sions. His forehead was high and fair; his 
 features regular, and nobly cast ; and hi* 
 eyes, somewhat deeply set, had a mingled 
 expression of grave intellect and youthful 
 softness, which gave a peculiar charm to his 
 face. He was rather above the middle height, 
 but slightly made ; and Manon thought she 
 had never seen such small fair hands before. 
 Marguerite's gaze was quite as free as the 
 old servant's ; but what she noticed most 
 was the kindly expression of the stranger 
 when he addressed herself, and the unusual- 
 ly musical tones of his voice. And. as Mar- 
 fuerite's world had hitherto been limited to 
 er father, the cure, Manon, and the Breton 
 peasants, it is not surprising that her admir- 
 ation for their new guest bordered upon the 
 enthusiastic. 
 
 " I hope you like our Bretagne," she said, 
 when a pause emboldened her to speak. 
 
 " What I have seen of it and its people 
 as yet," he answered, " has interested me 
 greatly ; especially in this wild, sea-side dis- 
 trict, where I hope to linger away half the 
 summer" (her face grew so bright). " But 
 you say our Bretagne have you then given 
 up your claim to be Saxon, as the people 
 here call us ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " answered her father, " poor little 
 Marguerite forgets sometimes that she is 
 English. She was born in this old house, 
 where her whole childhood has since been 
 passed ; and has never known anything but 
 the rocks and forests of Brittany. You are 
 the first Englishman, excepting myself, that 
 she has ever seen ; and, but that I make it a 
 point for her to read with me in her own 
 language every day, she would long ago 
 have been French "in that as in everything 
 else. Even as it is, I suppose, she speaks 
 like a foreigner; for Manon is much with us 
 in our primitive life, and we never converse 
 before her in a language she cannot under- 
 stand ; and our good friend the cure, who 
 occasionally spend! the winter evenings with 
 us, has been Marguerite's French teacher 
 from her infancy/ 1 
 
 " I certainly" thought your daughter was 
 French," replied the stranger; "though 
 speaking English unusually well." 
 
 " Ah! I want practice,' 1 replied Marguer- 
 ite, rather indignantly : "for, father, \<>u 
 know you read all day, except when \ on are 
 teaching me, and then in the evening we 
 must talk French for Manon. Now that 
 monsieur is come, however/' she added, " f 
 shall have seme one to t ilk to;" and she 
 glanced at the voiing Englishman , who could 
 not forbear smiling at her childish 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 gions, and utter absence of what is usually 
 called manner. He resumed his conversa- 
 tion with Mr. St. John, but in a few min- 
 utes Marguerite rose, and going to her fa- 
 ther's side put her arm round his neck, and 
 whispered something. He smiled and shook 
 his head ; but she insisted, and then looking 
 towards his guest, Mr. St. John said '* Al- 
 though my little daughter has been brought 
 up among wilds and deserts all her life, she 
 has still the natural curiosity of her sex at 
 heart ; and cannot rest until she has heard 
 the name of our visitor/' 
 
 "Oh! petit papa," interrupted Marguer- 
 ite; " when you know I wished you to ask 
 for yourself, and not for me ! " and she 
 blushed crimson ; but still fixed her eyes in- 
 tently upon the young Englishman, as though 
 the subject were one of all-engrossing inter- 
 est. 
 
 For a moment the young man looked 
 somewhat confused, and the slightest shade 
 of color rose in his own face at the question ; 
 but quickly recovering his composure he re- 
 plied, " I am only too happy to satisfy mad- 
 emoiselle's wish. My name is Philip Earns- 
 cliffe." And his tone seemed to imply that 
 in hearing that answer, his new friend would 
 at once be acquainted with h s history. But 
 Mr. St. John simply bowed with the air of 
 one who hears a perfectly unknown name, 
 and Marguerite communicated the discovery 
 to Manon in French, adding in a whisper, 
 44 that she thought Philip Earnscliffe the 
 most beautiful name in the whole world ; " 
 while the stranger himself was evidently re- 
 lieved at the unconscious manner of his host 
 on hearing his name. 
 
 " And now, Marguerite, as your own cu- 
 riosity is satisfied, perhaps you will tell Mr. 
 Earnscliffe how we out-of-the-world people 
 call ourselves," said her father. 
 
 "Pray do so," added the stranger. "I 
 may now confess that, for the last hour, I 
 also have wished to ask that question." 
 
 They had left the supper-table, and were 
 all seated round the fire ; Marguerite in her 
 old place at her father's feet, with her arm 
 over Bello, who was gladly forgetting his 
 injuries under the influence* of warmth and 
 sleep ; and Mr. Earnscliffe placed where his 
 eyes could rest fully upon the little group. 
 Marguerite looked up at him, when her fa- 
 ther spoke, with that full, confiding gaze, 
 never seen save on the face of a child, and 
 replied gravely " My father's name is Per- 
 cy, and mine is Marg'uerite Lilla St. John. 
 Marguerite, after my little sister, who died 
 before I was born, and Lilla," she added, 
 very softly, " after my own dear mother. I 
 never saw her, monsieur ; she left us alone," 
 touching her father's hand, " when I was 
 born." 
 
 Her father's face clouded at these recol- 
 lections ; and he soon grew so pale and si- 
 ent, that Manon, who was hovering about 
 
 the background, came forward, and remind- 
 ed him that it was long past his usual hour 
 for rest ; then, turning respectfully to Earns- 
 cliffe, she said " My master is not very 
 strong at present, sir ; and mademoiselle and 
 I are obliged to keep watch over his health." 
 
 The guest having entreated that Mr. St. 
 John would not remain longer, out of cere- 
 mony towards him, he rose; and then the 
 Englishman first fully saw how thin and 
 weak he was. He extended his hand to 
 Earnscliffe, and said, kindly, he should hope 
 on the morrow to rise stronger, and be bet- 
 ter able to entertain him, adding " At all 
 events, my little one will be only too de- 
 lighted to show you all the walks and won- 
 ders of the neighborhood ; and I hope you 
 will spend as long a time at Kersaint as you 
 can find anything to interest you." 
 
 Earnscliffe heartily accepted this invita- 
 tion, and, after bidding him " good night,* 
 his host withdrew first kissing his daughter, 
 and saying, in a low voice, " But you, my 
 child, can stay up longer and entertain oui 
 guest." 
 
 " And not help you, father? " 
 
 " No, not to-night, darling." And he 
 took Manon's arm, and walked to the door. 
 
 Marguerite had a confused idea that po- 
 liteness required her to remain by the visit- 
 or's side ; but when she saw her father, foi 
 the first time since his last serious illness, 
 going up to his room without her attendance, 
 the tears rushed into her eyes, and she 
 turned round to Earnscliffe " Oh ! I must 
 go with him, sir, if you please. I will not 
 be long but, indeed, I cannot see him 
 walking so feebly, and not help as well as 
 Manon ! " 
 
 Earnscliffe begged her to do so ; and, run- 
 ning lightly to her father's side, she sup- 
 ported him with her own firm young arm ; 
 while the poor invalid smiled gratefully at 
 his child's warm love, which nothing could 
 for a moment turn aside. 
 
 The stranger was left alone, and stood 
 gazing at the door through which Mr. St. 
 John and his daughter had disappeared ; 
 and a gloomy expression crossed his face, a* 
 he recalled the scene he had just witnessed. 
 "This dying man," he thought, ' living in, 
 the midst of a dreary solitude, and with pain, 
 and suffering written upon his teatures, po.s-- 
 sesses the priceless treasure of human love,, 
 which I, with youth and health, have nevec 
 found in the world. He is happy in all tht 
 first affection of that girl's young heart 
 And what a lovely being she is!" he contin- 
 ued, to himself. " With the unconscious 
 grace of a perfect woman, and the artless- 
 ness of a child. How she looked at me, and 
 smiled, and then turned away her little head, 
 blushing, only to look again a moment after- 
 wards ! " He thought for some minutes, 
 then said, half aloud ' ' It will be better for 
 her, and for me, too, perhaps, that 1 should 
 
10 
 
 PHILIP EAEXSCLIFFE. 
 
 leave them to-morrow morning;' 1 and he 
 turned round, and walked up and down be- 
 fore the fire. 
 
 But, as still he continued alone, his late 
 companions seemed gradually to lose their 
 recent tangible forms, and to fade, into a 
 mere creation of his own brain. The lonely 
 spot in which he bad suddenly met two such 
 beings as Mr. St. John and his daughter 
 the manner of their introduction the cha- 
 teau with its old-world furniture the dim 
 outline of the gigantic hound who lay out- 
 stretched upon the hearth, and the weird 
 voices of the storm, which still beat against 
 the windows all combined to give to the 
 evening's adventure something dreamy and 
 unlife-fike ; and Marguerite seemed to him 
 more like some Breton fairy, than a real 
 blooming inhabitant of that gloomy house. 
 " She is a mere child, too," be went on at 
 length ' * a lovely little meadow-daisy but 
 no more ! What can she be to me, but a 
 pretty, wild idea for the heroine of my next 
 book? Why, her whole innocent life pre- 
 cludes any other thoughts, even if my own 
 position did not. I will stay and make this 
 fresh nature my study, and leave them in 'a 
 few days. I have had enough of love" he 
 smiled bitterly "without adding another 
 failure to my experience ; and if I do create 
 any feeling in this girl's heart, it will be only 
 the awakening of a first fancy, no deeper 
 than that of a child for a new toy. All her 
 love is given to her father ; and if it were 
 cot so, fche would run small danger from 
 me." 
 
 The door opened, and the little meadow- 
 daiiy entering herself, interrupted his medi- 
 tations upon her. She approached him, her 
 face radiant with a grave happiness. 
 
 "You have done my father good al- 
 ready ! " she cried. Although he is tired, he 
 is BO cheerful, and glad to have heard an 
 English voice. Manon says and she un- 
 derstands well about his health that it will 
 do him more good than taking all the med- 
 ia the world to have a new companion. 
 I know so little, you see," she added, hum- 
 bly, that I am not enough for him." 
 
 Earnscliffe thought bow charming it was 
 when a woman knew so little; but he 
 checked a rising compliment, and only in- 
 quired if her father had been long ill. 
 
 .. ! do not call him ill," she answered, 
 with a look of sudden , terror. " Surely you 
 do not think that my father is ill ? " 
 
 II' r \oice faltered; and, to the beseech- 
 
 n <>i h'-r -' liffe could 
 
 nswer, gently, "that he meant Mr. 
 
 St. John appeared delicate and to require 
 
 care." 
 
 - ! he is not very strong at present; 
 but tin n % you know, we have had a long. 
 col<l \\i:it r, and he has not had nun-h <>p- 
 portunjty yet of recovering from his illmv 
 in the autumn, wh< n IK- li.nl a linp-rii 
 fever. Now that the summer La 
 
 can be out all day in the garden, and gain 
 his strength. Should you not think he will 
 be quite well in two or three month? ? " 
 
 Earnscliffe tried to join in her hopes, al- 
 though his own conviction was that Mr. St. 
 John had not long to live ; but her terrified 
 look at the mere idea of her father being 
 seriously ill, made him turn from the subject, 
 and he began inquiring how she spent her 
 own time in summer. This was a theme on 
 which Marguerite could be eloquent. She 
 told him of all the wild haunts on the sea- 
 shoreof the distant caves among the St. 
 Hernot rocks of the one small, sunny bay 
 so hard to reach, even at low water, but 
 where you were sure to find the most beau- 
 tiful shells and sea-weed of the high cliff, 
 from whence there was the widest view of 
 the ruined chapel the heath the fir-forests 
 the meadows, now full of primrose and 
 hepatica the hawthorn lane, with the lin- 
 net's nest and, lastly, of their own orchard 
 and garden; ending' it all with "But, if 
 to-morrow is only fine, I will take you to 
 see our walks, and then you will believe 
 what a happy place this is in summer." 
 
 He listened with evident interest, and en- 
 couraged her to proceed with her descrip- 
 tions. It was something strangely new to 
 him to listen to such conversation as hers ; 
 and he found a singular pleasure in gazing 
 down upon her animated features, and hear- 
 ing all her childish accounts of her life. 
 Marguerite soon forgot that she had only 
 known him two hours ; and when Manon at 
 length entered, she found the guest still 
 standing by the fire, with Marguerite close 
 to his side, shaking very earnestly, and 
 looking up in his face. 
 
 .Monsieur's room is ready," said Man- 
 on ; and, after bis cold drenching, he 
 should endeavor to get a good night's rest- 
 it is past eleven o'clock." 
 
 " Past eleven ! " echoed Marguerite, who 
 had never been up so late before. " Why, 
 how quickly the time has gone ! I thought 
 it was only ten minutes since my father left 
 
 n 
 
 It was impossible for the stranger not to 
 feel somewhat pleased at this naif acknowl- 
 t, from such a mouth ; and as be 
 looked in her glowing face, he thought he 
 had never, among all the beauties of London, 
 seen any one to compare with the little 
 meadow-daisy, Marguerite. She held out 
 her hand with the m< frankness, 
 
 _ him Good night; " and Earnscliffe 
 : inon up the oak staircase, and 
 -e winding passages of the first floor, 
 to tl.e room prepared tor him a <jiia:: 
 
 , all him;: with faded blue arras, and 
 i-nuld hear tl. "f the 
 
 ws : but a 
 fill wood tire Ma/, d on the hearth, and made 
 
 and sound >1 . p to 
 ur," said Manon, as she handed him the 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 11 
 
 light, and took a last look round the room, 
 to see that all was in comfortable order for 
 the stranger. Then she dosed the door, 
 and descended to her young mistress. Mar- 
 guerite was still standing in the same place, 
 with Bello sound asleep at her feet, wishing 
 the morrow were come, and wondering why 
 the whole world had suddenly grown so 
 bright. 
 
 "Is it not delightful, Manon ?" she ex- 
 claimed, as her nurse re-entered. 
 
 "What, mamie?" 
 
 "Why, having a visitor, of course and 
 such a visitor ! Oh ! Manon, how unlike any 
 one here, with his gentle manner and low 
 voice ! And he spoke so beautifully to my 
 father and yet did not mind listening to my 
 childish talk. Did you ever see any one so 
 handsome ? " 
 
 " This young man is good looking," re- 
 plied the other, in a tone which sounded 
 very cold to Marguerite, " and his shirt 
 front is of the finest batiste I ever saw ; but 
 he has a look at times which is much too 
 grave for such a young face. I don't be- 
 lieve his life has been as happy as ours, ma 
 mie ! " 
 
 And Manon was right. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE had lived and suf- 
 fered more than the generality of men at six- 
 and-twenty. His parents bo'th died during 
 his early childhood, and circumstances had 
 thrown him, when a mere boy, upon the 
 treacherous sea of London society. Gifted 
 to no common extent handsome, warm- 
 hearted, generous, and, above all, the heir 
 to an immense fortune, Earnscliffe had not 
 wanted friends. Few, indeed, could look 
 on his fair, noble face, or hear the tones of 
 his singularly sweet voice, without becom- 
 ing interested in him ; but, unfortunately, 
 his lot lay among a class of persons, of all, 
 the least likely to conceive really disinter- 
 ested attachments, or to assist in the forma- 
 tion of a character, which natural softness 
 and absence of all relf-reliance made only 
 too ductile. 
 
 Philip's mother was a woman of high fam- 
 ily which family she was considered to have 
 irrevocably disgraced, by eloping with her 
 brothers tutor at the very time her mother 
 was planning her marrfage with a hoary- 
 headed foreign prince. Mr. Earnscliffe was 
 a gentleman by birth as in feeling, and was 
 also a scholar of no mean attainments ; but 
 he was poor, and without connection or in- 
 fluence in the church; and all the happy 
 married life of Philip's parents was spent in 
 an obscure and very small living in the north 
 of England. For the outraged family of 
 
 EarnsclifiVs wife would not bestow any of 
 their church patronage upon the man who 
 had disgraced them ; and, indeed, held no 
 communication whatever with their daughter 
 from the hour of her marriage. Philip was 
 the only offspring of the union, and all the 
 fond love of these two gentle hearts was 
 centered in their lovely, promising child. 
 
 But when the boy was about four years 
 old, Mr. EarnscliftVs health, at no time ro- 
 bust, began visibly to decline. The strong, 
 vigorous air of the north had never suited 
 him, although he had not felt himself justi- 
 fied in giving up his small living for this 
 cause ; and not until it was too late, did his 
 agonised wife read in his face, and in the 
 evasive answers of the country physician, 
 that the fiat had gone forth and they were 
 to part. But, from the first, something told 
 her she would not long survive her husband. 
 She had been his so exclusively, from the 
 moment her own family cast her off, and in 
 their lonely life they had seen so little of any 
 but each other, that her very existence seem- 
 ed bound up in that of Earnscliffe, as every 
 will and thought of her heart were depend- 
 ent upon his. Had it not been for the child, 
 perhaps neither of them would have greatly 
 grieved to leave the world, where they had 
 met with so much neglect. But their child 
 their unprotected, unprovided-for child to 
 leave him, was indeed the bitterness of death ; 
 and all the thoughts of both turned unceas- 
 ing!}' upon him, and the stranger hands into 
 which their unstained jewel was to be com- 
 mitted. 
 
 Mr, Earnscliffe had one brother, many 
 years older than himself, and a man of enor- 
 mous property, amassed solely by his own 
 endeavors, in India. Their 'father was a 
 man of small fortune, and not able to give 
 both his sons a college education ; so the 
 elder, and stronger one, had to make his way 
 for himself; while the delicate, gentle Her- 
 bert was destined for the church from his in- 
 fancy. A mere lad, with a few pounds in 
 his pocket, Miles Earnscliffe started, and 
 worked his way out in a merchant vessel. 
 On his arrival in India, he got one of the 
 most menial offices in a large mercantile firm ; 
 one of the partners having picked the boy 
 up for his shrewd face, but without recom- 
 mendation. A dogged, untiring persever- 
 ance and thorough integrity, united, certain- 
 ly, to some degree of good fortune, raised 
 him step by step, from errand-boy to clerk 
 clerk to manager manager to partner 
 until, at length, Miles Earnscliffe was one of 
 the wealthiest merchants in Calcutta ; and 
 thirty years after he had left his country a 
 friendless, penniless youth, he returned to it 
 with boundless wealth, and as many friends 
 as he had rupees. He had never held much 
 communication with his brother, and was ig- 
 norant of his marriage, or its results. Short- 
 ly after his return, however, he received 
 a letter, in which Herbert, after warmly oon- 
 
12 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 gratulating him on his brilliant fortunes, gave 
 him a sketch of his own life of his marriage, 
 and present condition concluding with a 
 hope that, for the future, the brothers would 
 see more of each other than their divided 
 state had hitherto permitted. But with the 
 suspicion which long years of lonely labor, 
 and distrust of every one but himself, had 
 engendered, Miles Earnscliffe thought that 
 the gentle, affectionate letter contained some 
 covert request for money; and as he read, 
 every feature in his face worked with rage. 
 Of poverty as poverty he had, like all 
 self-made men, the most utter contempt ; 
 but when to this was added education, re- 
 finement, and the profession of a gentleman, 
 he could scarcely keep his hatred within 
 bounds. He crunched the letter up, flung it 
 into the fire, and paced up and down his 
 lordly room, muttering aloud " So, my fine 
 gentleman brother, whose white hands were 
 not made for work with your college edu- 
 cation, and brainful of Greek and Hebrew 
 you have married a noble, titled beggar, 
 whose family despise and scorn you ; and I 
 the low, vulgar, hard working tradesman- 
 brother, am to help you and your grand 
 lady-wife to live ! Never, by " I " And, 
 leaving his untasted breakfast, he sat down, 
 and wrote Herbert a coarse, unfeeling let- 
 ter; which the latter read once, destroyed, 
 and never even mentioned to his wife. 
 
 And thus ended the brothers' intercourse. 
 But when death was upon him, and Earns- 
 cliffe looked in his little Philip's face, pride 
 died in his heart. He forgot the past insult, 
 and only remembered his isolated position, 
 and that his brother might be the child's pow- 
 erful friend and prelector for life. Accord- 
 ingly, after deep deliberation, he made a new 
 will, appointing Miles sole guardian of his 
 son, and leaving the small property he had 
 to bequeath to his care. This done, he 
 consigned the future to the hands of Provi- 
 dence ; rightly judging that his brother's iron 
 lieart might more readily soften to the child 
 as an orphan than during his parents' life- 
 time. In three months from this time Philip's 
 lather and mother were dead. Miles read 
 the announcement of his brother's death in 
 the paper; and, a few weeks afterwards, 
 that of his wife, and something human smote 
 at his heart as he thought of tho child; but 
 pride forbade him making any inquiries about 
 " pauper relations." 
 
 It was now late in the autumn; and, one 
 cold, Monny night, Miles sat alone in his 
 splendid dining-room, over his wine. He 
 was ab.Memious from long habit, and never 
 took more than two or three glasses : so now 
 he sat, with his empty glass at his side, 
 watching the bright logs crackle and bla/.e 
 Upon the hearth, and listening to tin- mourn- 
 ful soughing of the wind, as it beat fitfully 
 Upon the windows. It sounded to him like 
 the voices () f ;|,e poor trying in vain to en- 
 ter the rich man's dwelling, and the unusual 
 
 thought made him turn restlessly in his easy 
 chair. 
 
 " Will the evening papers never come ? " 
 he exclaimed, after again waiting long and 
 silently. "It is cursed lonely to-night." 
 And the weary Croesus rang the bell impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 At that moment, a knock a little flutter- 
 ing knock came at the dining-room door. 
 
 " Come in !" thundered Miles. " What the 
 devil are the idiots at now? scratching like 
 rats, instead of bringing me my paper? " 
 
 The door opened slowly, and only after 
 repeated turnings of the handle, and in came 
 to old Miles's amazement, and almost hor- 
 ror a child a very small, young child, 
 dressed in the deepest black, and with long 
 fair hair falling all round its face and neck. 
 
 "What the !" he began, hastily, 
 
 starting to his feet ; but the words died un- 
 finished on his lips as still, slowly, but with- 
 out the slightest trace of fear or shyness, the 
 child continued to approach him. When he 
 was quite near, he looked up in Miles's face, 
 and touching his hand with his own little cold 
 finger, said " Are you my uncle? If you 
 are, I have brought you a letter from my 
 papa :" and he pulled a sealed envelope from 
 under his dress, and held it up to him. 
 
 Earnscliffe was a cold, hard, suspicious, 
 worldly man ; but he was human and in 
 every human breast lurks the tie of blood, 
 and pity for a fatherless child. And as 
 Philip, in all the confidence of childhood, 
 stood looking up in his uncle's face, his lips 
 parted, and the golden curls falling back 
 from his open brow, he recalled so strongly, 
 in his infantine beauty, the image of his own 
 father whom Miles had last seen, long years 
 before, a bright-eyed boy, hanging round his 
 neck, and weeping before he went to India 
 that his usually bard feelings were softened 
 in the sudden remembrance of his youth; 
 and, seizing his nephew in his arms, he 
 kissed him with more tenderness than he had 
 shown to anything for years. Philip wound 
 his little arms round his neck, and stroked 
 his cheek. His parents had prepared him to 
 love him, and with the ready warmth of his 
 nature, he already clung to the uncle, who 
 was to supply their place to him. Supply 
 their place poor child ! 
 
 On his mother's death, their nearest neigh- 
 bors, a fanner and his wife, had taken Philip 
 to their house, as, they had already promised 
 Kanisrlilfe, and comforted him, in their 
 homelv fashion, during his first passionate 
 sorrow ; but three weeks had now elapsed, 
 and already his pale cheeks wej-e more bloom- 
 ing, and lie began again to laugh merrily 
 o\er his play. In childhood, three weeks i.1 
 an eternity of grief. The g I fanner had 
 
 himself tourneyed with Philip to Miles Karns- 
 
 cl i lie's door, and tin-re left him, as his father 
 requested, merely asking the servants to al- 
 low tin- boy, unannounced, to enter his un- 
 cle's presence. At first there was considera- 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 13 
 
 ble demur amo ng these grand gentlemen as 
 to the propriety of this proceeding ; but 
 Phillip settled the matter for himself by 
 walking through them all with the air of a 
 young pri-nce, and knocking at the first doof 
 that took his fancy, which chanced to be that 
 of the dining-room ; and thus, as we have 
 seen, introduced himself to his uncle's notice. 
 Philip still nestled in his new protector's 
 arms, when the door noiselessly opened, 
 and the stately butler entered, contrition 
 and apology duly impressed upon his fat fea- 
 tures. 
 
 *' Indeed, sir, it was quite against my 
 
 knowledge, sir " he was beginning, when 
 
 he suddenly stopped. The sight of Miles 
 Earnscliffe of his master with a child in 
 his arms, so astonished the worthy man, that 
 he was to use his own words when describ- 
 ing the scene afterwards " took all of a 
 heap," and the unfinished sentence gurgled 
 and choked in his throat. 
 
 Miles set the boy hastily on the ground, 
 enraged that one of his own servants should 
 have witnessed his emotion, and, red with 
 passion, demanded what he meant. 
 
 ' I did not know, sir," replied the'gasping 
 butler, " that you might like to be interrupt- 
 ted, sir I thought " 
 
 "And who requires you to think, sir?" 
 was the reply. " My nephew can go where 
 he pleases in my house, and enter my din- 
 ing-room when and as often as he likes with- 
 out the interference of my servants. Send 
 Mrs. Scott at once," he added, as the butler, 
 very crest-fallen, left the room; and he was 
 again alone with the new-comer, who hoped 
 his uncle would never look so angry at him 
 as he did at the big man with the white head 
 and black breeches. 
 
 Mrs. Scott, a thin, starched, unpleasant- 
 looking, middle-aged female, was much ag- 
 grieved at hearing of the unexpected addi- 
 tion to the household. On the strength of 
 many extraordinary accounts of wealthy na- 
 bobs espousing their own housekeepers, she 
 had been always pleased at the isolation in 
 which her master lived, and was disposed to 
 look with no favorable eye upon any new 
 claimant of his attentions. However, she 
 put on her sweetest smiles as she proceed- 
 ed to the dining-room, and entered, with the 
 blandest of curtsies to Miles, and what she 
 meant for an encouraging, motherly look at 
 Philip, who immediately grasped his uncle's 
 hand the tighter. 
 
 *' Mrs. Scott, my nephew having arrived 
 some days earlier than I expected, you have 
 as yet received no orders for his reception. 
 You will now see a room prepared for him 
 for to-night, and to-morrow have nurseries 
 and attendants got ready for him at once." 
 
 The housekeeper, with venom at her heart, 
 smiled most sweetly at this announcement ; 
 and when Earnscliffe added " And now 
 take him with you for whatever refreshments 
 he requires," held out her hand with great 
 
 kindness to Philip ; but the child turned away 
 from her, and looked imploringly at Miles. 
 
 44 Oh, let me stay with you this once, un- 
 cle ; I like to stay with you, and I don 1 * love 
 her," pointing to Mrs. Scott. 44 I will be so 
 quiet here." Miles chuckled at this speech 
 and at the housekeeper's visible discomfiture ; 
 and dismissing her, now fairly boiling over 
 with indignation, prepared himself to spend 
 the evening alone, in company with his broth- 
 er's child. He sat down in his arm-chair, 
 and Philip, drawing a little stool to his feet, 
 seated himself also. 
 
 44 This is how I used to do at home with 
 my papa," said the boy; "and he gave me 
 my dessert on a plate." 
 
 44 Oh oh ! " said Miles, ' I see through it 
 all now " and he filled a plate with peaches 
 and grapes, and handed it to him; ' 4 it was 
 for the sake of the dessert you wished to stay 
 with me." Philip jumped up, his face all in 
 a glow of indignation. He had never even 
 been accused of untruth before. 
 
 44 You may keep your fruit," he said, push- 
 ing the plate as far as he could upon the 
 table; 4t I won't eat it. [ wanted to stop 
 with you, and never thought of your dessert 
 till you gave it me" and his eyes flashed 
 again. Miles was more pleased at this dis- 
 play of spirit than even with his former ca- 
 resses ; and, drawing him to his knee, said he 
 did not doubt his truth, and only meant to 
 joke him. 
 
 44 Oh," returned Philip, brightening up, 
 44 if you were only in joke, of course, that is 
 different, and I don't care a bit ; but you said 
 it so like earnest"- and all his anger vanished. 
 So again he sat down, the plate in his lap, 
 and began his fruit. How fair he looked, 
 with the red firelight dancing on his long, 
 waving hair, and white neck and arms, which 
 shone like marble upon his sable dress, divid- 
 ing the fruit with his rosy fingers, and every 
 minute looking up and smiling archly at 
 Miles. 
 
 44 You have very good fruit, I think, here ; 
 we had only apples and plums at home, 
 though they were very sweet, too. I never 
 saw fruit like this before." 
 
 44 I should think not," said his uncle, com* 
 placently. 44 You will see a great deal in my 
 house that you never saw before." 
 
 44 Shall I?" returned Philip, with much 
 animation. 44 Oh, tell me what! " and, hav- 
 ing finished his dainties, he came and stood 
 close to his uncle's side. 44 Can you tell 
 stories?" he whispered as Miles remained 
 silent looking inquiringly up into his face. 
 
 44 Well," he replied, 44 1 suppose 1 could 
 if I tried." 
 
 44 Then, please let me sit on your lap, and 
 tell them to me till my bed-time ; " and, 
 without further invitation, he seated himself 
 on his uncle's knee, folded his hands, com- 
 posed himself comfortably to listen, and then 
 said, 44 Begin." And old Miles began, awk- 
 wardly enough as might be expected of a 
 
14 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 man who had never talked to children in his 
 life and in a very low voice, as though he 
 were half ashamed of himself. But Philip 
 saw no defects or hesitation ; and, when he 
 came to stories of parrots and monkeys, 
 clapped his little hands with delight, and 
 cried out, " Tell it again tell it again ! " 
 
 So Miles told it again ; and went on im- 
 proving until Philip was fairly in ecstacies, 
 and thought he had never seen such a funny 
 man as his uncle. Miles Earnscliffe a funny 
 man ! And thus passed the evening. At 
 length the child's head drooped, and his eyes 
 grew heavy with fatigue, and his uncle said 
 he must go off to bed. 
 
 " Yes, directly," said Philip. Then he 
 lingered and looked rather shy " but I want 
 to say something first. When my mamma 
 was alive, I used to say my prayers to her. 
 Oh, uncle, let me say them to you this one 
 rnght, because I am all alone here, and I 
 don't like to say them to Mrs. Scott/ 1 
 
 Miles assented with a husky voice ; and the 
 child knelt down, and, folding his dimpled 
 hands on his uncle's knees, said his evening 
 prayers, concluding with " God bless papa 
 and mamma" poor little fellow ! as though 
 they still needed the weak, imperfect prayer 
 of their child. 
 
 And now he is gone ; and Miles sits long 
 by the red fire-light, with new thoughts in 
 his heart, and a softer expression on his hard 
 face, and his dead brother's open letter in his 
 hand. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PHILIP was thus installed in his uncle's 
 house ; and, in one of those sudden revul- 
 sions of the heart, to which the hardest of 
 human beings are subject, Miles Earnscliffe 
 had soon conceived an almost passionate 
 love for the child. After living all his life 
 distrustful and alone, a natural source of 
 affection was at length opened for his hitherto 
 barren feelings, and they seemed more in- 
 tense from the very fact of having been so 
 long pent up in his own bosom. Philip was 
 soon paramount in the house. Mrs. Scott 
 the boy seemed to look upon as a natural 
 enemy ; and, after a six weeks' war, Mrs. 
 Scott w;is dismissed. He had a cheerful 
 ymiMfr relation of his old friend the. firmer 
 for his own attendant, birds and pets for his 
 amusements, a Shetland pony to ride in 
 MOTi, a flood of sunshine seemed to have 
 broken upon the house;, which used to be so 
 " dull and dignified." 
 
 Mill's was more happy in the change than 
 lit- would acknowledge to himself. To hear 
 Philip's little voice. a> he played about the 
 room during breakfast to have him prattling 
 at his knees, in the long winter evenings to 
 look in his fair face, and fuel, " he, of my 
 
 own blood, and not a stranger, shall inherit 
 my wealth" all this gave him a living interest 
 in his life, and in his riches, which he had 
 never felt before. As the boy grew older, 
 he was formally announced by Miles to be his 
 heir ; and it is needless to sav what numbers 
 of friends awaited young Philip in the world. 
 Although his uncle himself hated society, 
 his pride was gratified by all the attentions 
 showered upon his heir; and he would 
 chuckle to himself as he thought " how much 
 love would Phil's grand relations have shown 
 him, if he had not been adopted by his vulgar 
 old uncle ? " 
 
 For gentle reader, the family of Philip's 
 mother with that beautiful constancy to a 
 rich relation, so frequently to be observed in 
 the world although they had cast off a 
 daughter of their house for marrying a poor 
 man, were exceedingly anxious to court the 
 poor man's rich brother. Miles had himself 
 abandoned Herbert in his poverty ; but he 
 felt the greatest disgust at their meanness, 
 and insulted his lordly relations on more than 
 one occasion when he chanced to meet them 
 in the world. After his adoption of Philip, 
 however, and as the latter grew up, he began 
 to relent towards them, for the child's sake ; 
 for he wished his nephew to have an introduc- 
 tion to the very society he had himself 
 always affected to despise. The first amiable 
 advances on the part of the eccentric Mr. 
 Earnscliffe very rich men are only eccentric 
 never rude were met cordially ; his former 
 rebuffs were forgotten with true Christian char- 
 ity ; and Philip found a score of affectionate 
 grand-parents, uncles, aunts, and cousins all 
 ready to love him. As Herbert Earnscliffe 's 
 son, they would, probably, have considered 
 him a common-place, uninteresting boy ; but, 
 as Miles Earnscliffe's nephew, every one dis- 
 covered that he had inherited his father's wit, 
 and his mother's beauty. It happened that 
 all these praises were, as regarded Philip, 
 true. He grew up exceedingly handsome; 
 with more, perhaps, of that beauty which 
 awakens interest from the intellect shining 
 through the outward form than of the mere 
 physical perfection which attracts the com- 
 mon mass of people. And yet Philip's fea- 
 tures, of themselves, were all good and finely 
 chiselled. The (Jrecian nose, and full, poet 
 mouth, might have borne the most critical 
 scrutiny ; although it was in his brow, and 
 deep, spiritual eyes, that lay the rare charm 
 of his (ace. 
 
 He went to Harrow, and did not shine 
 there; some of his masters pronouncing him 
 merely idle, others a dunce. I'.ut when 
 Miles, in stern displeasure, questioned the, 
 bof upon these evil reports, Philip's only re- 
 ply w is "Uncle. I have as much ability as 
 any of niv masters, though I cannot learn as 
 they tea.-'h. Take me from school, and let 
 me study at home, and I will be a greater 
 man than any of them." Miles would do 
 nothing of the kind, so Philip remained at 
 
PHILIP EAKN T SCLIFFE. 
 
 15 
 
 Harrow the usual number of years, and left 
 it with the proportionate amount of ignorance 
 and Greek, which can* be acquired at an Eng- 
 lish public school. But his mind had not lain 
 idle all this time. His education had been 
 not in the wretched daily routine of immoral 
 classics but in his life. In his school friend- 
 ships, and dislikes ; in all the varieties of 
 human life although only that of boys 
 which he had learnt to analyse ; in his own 
 transition from childhood into youth; in the 
 long summer walks among the Harrow hills ; 
 in his solitary evening dreams under the star- 
 light, his poet's mind had gradually dawned. 
 And at the end of five years he left school, 
 no scholar, but a genius. 
 
 " What are you at, Phil ? " his uncle would 
 exclaim testily, when he was continually fill- 
 ing endless sheets of writing-paper, and ab- 
 senting himself from all his old amusements ; 
 and Phil had not the moral courage to say 
 " he was writing a book ; " knowing well that 
 Miles was no lover of authors, and would, 
 probably, not be pleased at the prospect of 
 having one in his own nephew; so he evaded 
 the question, and kept his papers out of sight, 
 but, in his own study, returned with redoubled 
 ardor to his occupation, made all the sweet- 
 er from having to be pursued by stealth. 
 As his work grew, and he felt within him the 
 wonderful power of creative genius strength- 
 ening, day by day, his love for his art in- 
 creased tenfold. It was with Philip no wish 
 for fame, no feverish desire to be heard of, 
 but the mere delight of creating, which im- 
 pelled him to write ; and with extraordinary 
 rapidity the book proceeded. Full of faults 
 it was, both of diction and composition ; but 
 with frequent touches of pure pathos, vigor- 
 ous conception, and a shrewd and caustic 
 wit, which bespoke the early dawnings of no 
 common mind. At length, he finished it. 
 One summer midnight, he wrote the last 
 line ; and then, for the first time, he felt that 
 he had succeeded. Although no eye but his 
 own had ever read a word of his writings, 
 something within him said that his was not 
 like the generality of books, and that he was 
 to be one of the few who rise apart from the 
 common leaven of humanity. He extinguish- 
 ed his little lamp, and, throwing open his 
 window, walked out upon the balcony. 
 
 The summer night, with its thousand vo- 
 luptuous odors the soft, warm air the deep 
 sky above and the stars, those mysterious 
 types of immortality, which seern, in every 
 deep emotion, to have kindly sympathy with 
 the heart of man all harmonised with his 
 own happy feelings. Nature seemed bid- 
 ding him welcome among the poet band, who 
 alone interpret her rightly, and are her 
 apostles to the weary children of the world. 
 He remained long, building a hundred bright 
 dreams for the futuro those first visions of 
 fame than which the hopes of love are not 
 sweeter and when he at length retired to 
 
 rest, he slept not ; for now other and more 
 practical thoughts arose upon his mind. 
 
 How should his first work appear before 
 the world ? should he publish anonymously, 
 and unknown to his uncle, trusting merely 
 to his own merit for success ? At first, he 
 liked the idea, but then his heart revolted 
 against even a temporary concealment from 
 Miles ; he tho'ught of the old man's disap- 
 pointment at his Harrow failures, and felt he 
 should confide his secret to him, and let him 
 participate with him in his hopes and triumph. 
 Then, again, he thought of his uncle's sar- 
 castic remarks about authors of fiction 
 "trashy rubbish." as he called novels; and 
 so the hours passed, in a conflict of opposing 
 plans, until daybreak, when he rose to read 
 and re-touch portions of his work. When 
 he came down to breakfast, next morning, 
 his heavy eyes bore ample testimony to the 
 way in which he had passed the night. He 
 had decided to broach the subject at once : 
 and his manner was constrained, as he seat- 
 ed himself and began his breakfast, without 
 knowing what he was about. 
 
 Miles eyed him sharply; he had watched 
 Philip much of late. His abstraction, his 
 late hours, his pale cheek, had not escaped 
 his notice ; and a suspicion had arisen, the 
 bare thought of which filled him with horror 
 the boy must have fallen in love. Ot 
 course, he looked forward, some day, to his 
 marrying a woman with rank or money ; but 
 of love, or youthful romance, he had almost 
 a greater horror than of poverty, and he was 
 resolved to cure all such nonsense in its be- 
 ginning. He had never known a similar 
 weakness himself, and classed it with mea- 
 sles, and other childish disorders, that must 
 be gone through. He only wished his 
 nephew had had the good grace to keep clear 
 of the contagion. 
 
 "What ails you, Phil? with your ghost- 
 ly white face helping yourself three times 
 to sugar, and crumbling your bread ail over 
 the table-cloth do you hear me, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Philip, looking very 
 guilty; " I the fact is I" 
 
 "Oh, yes, it is all coming!" groaned 
 Miles, internally ; then he added aloud, with 
 sarcastic politeness " Pray take your time, 
 nephew ; I am in no hurry." 
 
 " I fear you will not be pleased, uncle. I 
 should have told you sooner, but " 
 
 * But what, sir? " interrupted Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe, angrily. "I know the meaning of 
 your hesitation, and your blushes, and your 
 modesty. Tell me the woman's name, you 
 love-sick young idiot, at once, and have done 
 with it." 
 
 '* The woman's name ! " said Philip, look- 
 ing up in amazement, and with his face ex- 
 ceedingly red. " It has nothing to do with 
 any woman in the world. I have written a 
 book, sir," bringing out the last words with 
 an effort. 
 
16 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 Miles heaved a colossal sigh of relief; he 
 drank an entire cup of tea buttered some 
 toast looked Philip full in the face and 
 then went into a hearty fit of laughter. " So 
 you have written a book ? oh ! " 
 
 "Yes, sir. I am glad to see you so 
 amused." Philip had already too much of 
 the author in him, not to feel offended at the 
 way his important announcement was re- 
 ceived. 
 
 " A book ho ! ho ! don't be angry ; and 
 what are you going to do with it? " 
 
 " Publish it," he returned, shortly, 
 
 ** Well, I suppose, at your age, you must 
 do something ridiculous ; and it is so infinite- 
 ly better than the other thing, that I feel ac- 
 tually relieved. But a book well what is 
 it all about? " 
 
 4 ' Perhaps you would like to hear some of 
 it?" replied Philip he could not long be 
 angry with his uncle " I should be glad to 
 read you some of my scenes." 
 
 "Is it in verse? No. Well, that is a 
 comfort. A novel, I suppose? I thought 
 so. I am an excellent judge of that valua- 
 ble class of works, and shall be happy to 
 give you my criticism. We will publish it, 
 by all means (without our name, if you 
 please) ; and I daresay our first success will 
 be such, as to make us leave book-writing 
 alone for the future." 
 
 And in this cheerful strain Miles finished his 
 breakfast. He loved Philip deeply, but it 
 was not in his power to refrain from saying 
 spiteful things, even to him ; and looking 
 upon him with all his good looks and noble 
 qualities, as no genius there was really, to 
 him, something quite ludicrous in this new 
 idea of authorship. 
 
 " I shall be in the library at eleven, punc- 
 tually, for the reading, Phil," he said, as 
 they parted. * Bring the shortest chap- 
 ters " 
 
 Philip went sadly to his own room. He 
 was very young ; and his uncle's sarcastic 
 manner had fallen like a pall upon all his 
 bright hopes. 
 
 " Yes," he thought, " I daresay he is 
 right. I have no real genius ; and the world 
 will think so, too." He took his manuscript 
 in his hand, and turned the leaves ovef with 
 a feeling of disgust. ** And all this, that 
 only last night I thought was to live for ever, 
 is, perhaps, worthless nonsense." And he 
 4>cgan, bitterly, to read a passage aloud. 
 But, even as he did so, the feeling under 
 which that very passage was written a des- 
 cription of genius slowly conquering difficul- 
 ties, and rising above this world to another 
 returned to him, and his own words be- 
 came his comforters. " I have genius ! " he 
 exclaimed, aloud, " I know I feel it. My 
 uncle has not heard any of my writings yet ; 
 and, even when he has, and if he judges ill 
 of it, it shall not alter me. I must succeed. 1 " 
 He laid down the manuscript; and walking 
 up and down the room, waited impatiently for 
 
 the appointed hour, when he descended his 
 work under his arm to the library. His 
 uncle was already there. 
 
 "Heaven help me!" he exclaimed, half 
 to himself, but, of course, meaning Philip to 
 hear; " I expected one, or, at most, two, 
 quires of foolscap, and, behold ! as much 
 paper as goes to a family Bible." Then 
 he added, aloud " Well, how much are we 
 to get through at one sitting? " 
 
 " As muc'h, or as little, as you like," re- 
 plied Philip, laughing; " I will read you a 
 scene here and there ; and when you are 
 tired you can tell me." 
 
 " Don't fear. I shall not forget that," was 
 the answer, as Philip seated himself at the 
 table. 
 
 Who does not remember the nervous, 
 choking sensation in the throat, when one 
 was about to read one's first composition to a 
 relation ? No after ordeal among editors 
 and publishers can ever come up to it. He 
 arranged his papers turned, and re-turned 
 them, to find an effective part and then 
 glanced at Miles. He was comfortably seat- 
 ed in his easy chair, by the open window 
 his hands folded over his ample waistcoat, 
 and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, with an 
 expression of mock resignation, very trying 
 to a young author. His feet were out- 
 stretched in an attitude of excessive ease ; 
 and overhis head he had thrown a large silk 
 handkerchief his usual prelude to falling 
 asleep. 
 
 " Are you ready, uncle? " 
 
 " Quite, Philip the day is hot and if I 
 should go to sleep, you must wake me, and 
 not be offended ! " 
 
 And, at length, after clearing his throat 
 twice, the boy began. Miles expected a 
 great deal of nonsense about love and senti- 
 ment ; but Philip knew his taste too well to 
 choose such scenes, even had there been 
 much about love in his work, which there 
 was not. He selected a portion of the book 
 where the workings of an erring, but origi- 
 nally noble nature, were developed ; and 
 there was a vigor and truthfulness in the way 
 this character was brought out, of which 
 Miles, who had seen so much of life, was 
 fully able to judge ; for, although lie knew 
 nothing of books, he was well versed in the 
 darker parts of human nature. The des- 
 cription was one of a youth, who, by slow 
 and gradual stages, becomes a gambler; for 
 years plays, ns men term it, with honor; rind, 
 :it length, in a moment of uncontrollable 
 temptation, makes another downward transi- 
 tion, and is a felon. Then he analyse. 1, at 
 some length, the passion which had led the 
 youth on into crime, and paiuteu minutely its 
 terrible pleasures and irresistible fascina- 
 tions. A passage or two may lie quoted, 
 as giving some idea of the general style. 
 
 "The love of gambling." he read, "is 
 more intense than was ever the love for wo- 
 man ; more intoxicating, more fervid, and 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 17 
 
 actually, In its deeds of self-abnegation, more 
 heroic. With the mere vile end of gold for 
 the reward, what blind and boundless sac- 
 rifice, what changeless courage, what unfail- 
 ing ardor is evinced in the pursuit ! The 
 true gambler conquers or falls, with the cold- 
 ness of a stoic ; passing, in an hour, from 
 the highest to the lowest grades of society, 
 without a change of features. Still, hang- 
 ing over the green cloth, where the demon 
 of play enchains him, he experiences in one 
 night every vicissitude of our life. First king, 
 then slave, he leaps over, in one bound, the 
 enormous space that separates these two 
 men in the scale of human existence. What 
 will he be when he leaves this fevered den, a 
 prince or a beggared outcast ? weighed down 
 with countless gold, or despoiled of the last 
 poor gem which glitters on his hand ? He 
 knows not he scarcely cares. For, after 
 all, it is not the lust of gold which chains 
 him to his consuming life. It is the loath- 
 ing of repose, and love of the fierce excite- 
 ment caused by these eternal gains and loss- 
 es. Gold becomes his life his mistress 
 his one desire his avenging fiend his god ; 
 and yet it is not gold for its own sake that 
 Le covets. This ceaseless combat for a 
 shadow, no sooner caught than it again eludes 
 his grasp, and which he loses almost with 
 pleasure, that he may re-commence the 
 struggle, is to him, at length, as the very 
 breath of his nostrils. In time he has no 
 other life but this life; every softer feeling 
 of his nature is sacrificed to the infernal fe- 
 ver that consumes him. Love, self-esteem, 
 friendship even the blandishments -of mere 
 sensual pleasure what are they to him, 
 whose delight it is to make his own heart 
 throb with agony, his blood boil, his brain 
 reel madly ; who throws his life, his fortune, 
 his honor away at one throw of the dice, or 
 risks them, piece by piece, in a slower and 
 more exquisite torture P What are the excite- 
 ments of our life to him ? puerile and child- 
 ish. 
 
 " The ocean could as soon sink into eter- 
 nal calm, the eagle b.e happy without wings, 
 as he return to the peaceful monotony of 
 common existence. Oh ! what patriots would 
 have lived tor their country alone what 
 lovers have sacrificed their life and honor for 
 their mistress, if the same fire had ever burnt 
 in their breasts which lights up the hollow 
 eye of the gambler ! " 
 
 Philip went on reading several pages ; at 
 length he stopped, and stole a glance at his 
 uncle. He was not asleep ; his eyes were 
 fixed intently upon the boy's face, his head 
 bent forward in a listening attitude, and the 
 handkerchief lying unheeded upon the floor. 
 
 " Are you tired, uncle ? " 
 
 -No." 
 
 " Shall I go on?" 
 
 " No. Philip, answer me one thing, and 
 truly; how did you leanfall you have just 
 read to me ? where did you get your experi- 
 2 
 
 ence of a gambler's life and feelings? From 
 what you have read or but, no, it is im- 
 possible that you could have seen such things 
 at your age. 1 ' 
 
 "Uncle," returned Philip, quietly, "I 
 cannot tell you how I learn anything that I 
 write ; as you say, it cannot be from my own 
 experience, and I have read so few novels 
 that I do not think I have borrowed much 
 from them. I suppose, in this case, it must 
 partly be from what 1 have read and heard, 
 but much more from imagining what must be 
 the state of a man's mind under one power- 
 ful and all-engrossing passion. Further than 
 this, I cannot explain how or why I have 
 written." 
 
 Miles looked into the frank young face, 
 and believed him. He was shrewd, and not 
 without ability, of a certain kind, himself; 
 and, though Philip's was of a higher and very 
 different order, he was able to recognize th 
 youth's dawning talent at once. But he paid 
 him few compliments. 
 
 "I do not deny, Philip, that I am alto- 
 gether surprised at what I have heard of 
 your writing. You shall begin this even- 
 ing, and read the whole work to me through. 
 Afterwards, I suppose you will publish it. 
 Well, I never thought you would end in be- 
 ing an author." 
 
 The readings were long, often extending 
 until after midnight for old Miles grew more 
 interested in the plot than he acknowledged 
 and, when it was finished, he was as anx- 
 ious as Philip about the publication ; adding, 
 at last " anal, I believe, after all, it may be 
 as well to publish it under your own name. 1 ' 
 
 In a few weeks the book was in the press. 
 
 Philip had small difficulty to contend with 
 at the commencement of his literary career. 
 Had he been an ordinary youth of eighteen, 
 struggling on without friends or fortune, his 
 talents would have undoubtedly remained the 
 same, but his success might have been differ- 
 ent I mean the success of his first work, 
 not his ultimate fame as an author and 
 therein lies a great distinction. The rugged 
 path to be toiled up in early youth the neg- 
 lect at first the harsh criticism the slow- 
 ly-dawning fame, are the very circumstances 
 which have braced up and fostered many a 
 youthful genius ; while, on the other hand, 
 there is scarcely a more perilous test of real 
 worth, than for a first work to be brought 
 out under all the accidental advantages of a 
 name and fortune, excellent publishers, and 
 friendly critics. But the result at the time 
 is unquestionably far pleasanter. 
 
 At eighteen, Philip found himself a suc- 
 cessful author a lion in London society ; 
 with as great a share of adulation, and as 
 many pretty women ready to be in love with 
 him/ as might have turned many an older 
 head. He was naturally no coxcomb, and 
 became as little one as was perhaps possible ; 
 but no handsome young author, courted as 
 he was, could remain long free from the per- 
 
18 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 nicious effects of such a life ; one of the 
 greatest evils of which was, that his mind, 
 instead of the quiet and repose necessary af- 
 ter the feverish haste in which his first book 
 was written, was kept in a constant whirl of 
 excitement, when it should have been ac- 
 quiring new and healthy vigor for its next 
 labors. At the end of another year, how- 
 ever, he again published. The success of 
 the work was great perhaps, greater than 
 had been the former one but it was a false 
 success this time that of society. In the 
 world the book was indiscriminately praised, 
 its faults, which were many, were unnoticed, 
 and the really true and beautiful parts over- 
 looked. Only a few grave critics were more 
 sparing in their praises than before ; and 
 hinted that if the third work of the young 
 author were again as intrinsically poorer, as 
 was this one, compared to the first, his lit- 
 erary career would be over. Philip felt the 
 truth of these remarks deeply, and resolved 
 to profit by them, and withdrew himself 
 awhile from the noisy world of London, ere 
 he again attempted to compose. 
 
 Miles gladly seconded his intention ; for 
 all Philip's success and engagements had nat- 
 urally deprived his uncle of much of his so- 
 ciety, and they were both looking forward, 
 with pleasure, to spending some quiet months 
 at a place of Mr. Earnscliffe's, far away in 
 the north of England, when a new train of 
 events arose, which altered their plans, and 
 colored the whole of Philip's after life. 
 
 When he again wrote, it was to be under 
 very different circumstances. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 PHILIP EARXSCLIFFK was already looked 
 upon as one of the best partis in London. 
 Joined to all his own attractions, he was the 
 acknowledged heir of one of the richest men 
 in England ; and many a wily mother and in- 
 nocent daughter had combined their united 
 snares around him. But Philip, although he 
 had had a do/en admirations, had never fallen 
 in love. Perhaps he had as yet had no time to 
 do so ; or, more likely, he had been thinking 
 too much of himself to bestow undivided at- 
 tention upon any other object. However 
 this might lie, lie only laughed, when his 
 nude used to ask him, at breakfast, " What 
 silly face he had become enamoured of the 
 evening In-fore ? M and always said he .should 
 have no time to think of marrying, for the 
 next ten ireaiV, at lea-t. He little knew how 
 near his file w.-is upon him. 
 
 One of the houses at which lie wa^ the 
 most intimate was that of Lord St. Leger, 
 his maternal uncle. The noble lord was him- 
 H-lf as disagreeable a person ;is you will of- 
 ten meet with, and possessed .scarcely an 
 
 idea beyond his own dignity and the dice- 
 box, while of principle he was most singular- 
 ly and entirely void. His wife was not a 
 whit inferior to himself in coldness of heart 
 or, rather, in the complete absence of what 
 common people term natural affection. She 
 had, however, a fair, kindly face a plausi- 
 ble manner a soft voice, and was generally 
 spoken of as a very charming woman indeed. 
 Few claims to popularity go deeper. 
 
 They had only one child, a daughter ; and 
 Lady Clare St. Leger inherited many of the 
 qualities of both her parents although these 
 were, of course, somewhat glossed over by 
 her youth and personal attractions. She 
 was several years older than Philip, and had 
 already attained the age of five-arid-twenty 
 an age at which most girls, in her position, 
 would have been some years married. But, 
 although she had had several offers, and one 
 lover, none of her suitors had been consider- 
 ed eligible, either by herself or her parents. 
 Time wore on, however, and every year 
 Lord St. Leger became more anxious for his 
 daughter to marry a wealthy man. Beneath 
 his cold, white, unmeaning face, lurked the 
 fire of many an evil passion; and the 
 gambling-table had long been making fearful 
 inroads upon a fortune already crippled with 
 youthful extravagance. 
 
 Lady St. Leger was equally desirous that 
 Clara should make a distinguished marriage ; 
 but she had always looked less to mere money 
 than to high birth and position, until one day, 
 when her husband abruptly acquainted her 
 with the darkening state of his own affairs ; 
 adding, coarsely, "and it would he well, 
 madam, for you to make a last effort to mar- 
 ry your daughter, or I reckon she will have 
 little chance soon of finding a husband at all. 
 Unless something very unforeseen occurs, 
 you may look forward, in the course of the 
 present year, to being the wife of a beggar." 
 Lady St. Leger pondered deeply over this 
 fearful intelligence the most fearful that can 
 be conceived to a heartless woman of the 
 world. The prospect of poverty was, to her, 
 the prospect of disgrace, loss of position, 
 inlluence in societv all that constituted her 
 life. Without domestic affections, resources 
 in herself, or religion, she looked upon a 
 beggared future as Jar worse than death it- 
 self; and, with a desperate determination, 
 she resolved to marry Clara at once. She 
 felt that upon that alone hung their last 
 chance, lint to whom; 1 She turned over 
 in her mind all the men who had ever shown 
 her daughter any attention, and even those 
 who had not ; ami as, one by one, the most 
 eligible rose before hi r, she felt that Clara, 
 at live-and-twenty. h.nl small prosp. 
 sueceeiling where she had failed at eighteen: 
 she was getting somewhat thin, of late, and 
 had not too many partners at halls during the 
 present season. Suddenly a new thought 
 llasheil across Lady St. 'Leger; she half 
 smiled, and deliberated long but the delib- 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 19 
 
 eration seemed, at last, favorable, and her 
 thin lips parted disdainfully, as she muttered 
 aloud, "Well, I suppose it must be so ; I 
 must marry my daughter to young Earns- 
 eliffe." 
 
 Later in the day she sought for Clara, and 
 found her alone in the drawing-room. She 
 was neither working nor reading, but sitting 
 in the twilight, Vith her eyes fixed upon the 
 fire, and her hands lying listlessly in her lap. 
 She was paler even than usual, and her long 
 light hair, thrown back from her face, re- 
 vealed lines which had already lost the 
 rounded contour of early youth. Lady St. 
 Leger looked at her for a few seconds, and 
 then, approaching noiselessly, laid her hand 
 on her shoulder. 
 
 "Clara!" 
 
 ** Yes, mother/' 
 
 She never turned her head. 
 
 "What are you thinking of, child, sitting 
 alone in the dark ? " 
 
 " I was thinking of Harry, mother." 
 
 "Of Harry!" returned the other, with 
 cold contempt. " Well, I should not have 
 expected that my daughter would think of 
 Harry Douglas again, after the lapse of 
 eight years. A poor penniless young sailor, 
 who presumed to talk to you of marriage." 
 
 " Aye, is it not ridiculous ? " she replied, 
 with a bitter laugh. " For I refused him 
 at your bidding, certainly, but also through 
 my own pride. And for eight years you 
 remember rightly, mother 1 have planned, 
 and x plotted, and acted, in the hope of be- 
 coming the wife of a dozen other rnen, and 
 have not succeeded. And now a worn and 
 wearied woman I can yet think of him and 
 of my girlhood, and shed tears for both, as 
 I have done to-day. But I do not feel that 
 I shall shed many more." She clasped her 
 hands upon her knees, bowed her head upon 
 them, and was silent. 
 
 " Clara," resumed her mother, after a 
 pause, " listen to me. You have been a 
 dutiful daughter, hitherto " she moved im- 
 patiently '* and have never opposed my 
 wishes. Now, the very existence of your 
 father and myself may depend upon you. 
 Our affairs, it matters not how or why, are 
 in the most desperate condition, and to your 
 marriage alone can we look for help. If 
 you were to marry a man of property, we 
 might yet " 
 
 " Well ! " said Clara, suddenly looking up, 
 "I understand you. Who is it to be ? what 
 happy man am I this time to try to win for 
 my husband ? " 
 
 Her mother even was rather taken aback 
 at her hard, cold manner, but she soon re- 
 covered her composure ; and turning her 
 face a little aside, answered quietly, " Your 
 cousin Philip." 
 
 " Philip Earnscliffe ? " " Yes." 
 
 " Mother, are you dreaming? Why should 
 I marry that boy ? Surely you do not care 
 
 for his handsome face or his genius?" she 
 added, with a sneer. 
 
 " Clara, Philip's uncle is the wealthiest 
 commoner in England. His nephew is, cer- 
 tainly, only his presumptive heir; still, every 
 chance is in his favor. Old Earnscliffe 
 would probably make handsome settlements ; 
 and, at all events, it is the best parti you 
 have any chance of making, and he will be 
 easily won." 
 
 " He is not likely, with his poet's fancies, 
 to fall in love with me." 
 
 "At twenty, a vain youth will fall in love 
 with any woman who shows a preference for 
 him. Leave everything to me, my darling ; 
 only act as I wish you, and in a few weeks 
 you will be Miles Earnscliffe's niece." 
 
 " And his wife. Well, as you will his 
 or another's ; it is all the same. Only one 
 thing, mother get it over as quickly as you 
 can, and let me have as little to do with it 
 as possible. And once more she sunk into 
 her old listless attitude. Her mother pressed 
 a kiss upon her forehead, and then, quite 
 delighted at Clara's acquiescence, fluttered 
 gaily out of the room. 
 
 Thus was Philip's marriage projected. 
 
 Lady St. Leger was naturally a clever 
 woman. Long experience in the world had 
 given her an extensive knowledge of the foi- 
 bles of human nature, and she had an inborn 
 talent for scheming and maneuvering. It 
 would not be interesting to the reader to 
 follow her minutely in the way she plotted 
 for Philip. The crowning scene of her en- 
 deavors it will be enough to relate. 
 
 One day, about a week after the interview 
 with her daughter, Philip was to dine with 
 them alone. He frequently did so, partly 
 on the score of relationship, partly because 
 he rather liked his cousin's society. In spite 
 of her pale face and moodiness, there was 
 something about her which interested him, 
 although she was certainly the last woman 
 in the world with whom he could have fallen 
 in love. In her calm, sensible conversation 
 he found a pleasant contrast to the blooming, 
 exuberantly happy and excessively amiable 
 young ladies he generally met with in the 
 world. Clara rather liked him, too, in her 
 own cold way; and looking upon her cous- 
 in as one she Avould, at least, never be called 
 upon to win, her manner with him had al- 
 ways been friendly and natural. 
 
 Philip found Lady St Leger alone in the 
 drawing-room. She received him affection- 
 ately, and made many inquiries for his un- 
 cle ; but, after these first customary greet- 
 ings were over, he perceived that she was 
 silent and abstracted. Her face was avert- 
 ed from him, and occasionally she sighed, as 
 if unconscious of his presence. 
 
 " You are not well, I fear," he said, kind- 
 ly; "or something has occurred to depress 
 you." 
 
 She raised a little mass of deep lace to 
 
20 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 her eves that action being considered a 
 symbol of feminine agitation and was si- 
 lent. Philip became interested, and pressed 
 her for a reply. 
 
 "Ah, Philip!" she cried, seizing his 
 hand her own was still white and soft, as a 
 girl's ; " none but a mother can know how I 
 suffer. I feel that it is imprudent, but I 
 cannot conceal it, even from you ; the sad 
 truth has broken upon me so suddenly. 
 After watching the infancy of an only child, 
 seeing her grow up to' womanhood, and 
 never once in her life having breathed a re- 
 proving word to her; now, in the brightness 
 of her youth, to know that she is pining, al- 
 tering day by day. Oh, Philip ! my heart 
 will break under it ! " and the lace was again 
 in requisition. 
 
 " Is Clara is my cousin ill ? " he inquired, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Yes, she is ill, and with a worse malady 
 than any bodily ailment. Philip, for some 
 months I have perceived that she was rest- 
 less and unsettled ; she has cared less for so- 
 ciety, her gay cheerfulness has decreased " 
 (Philip never remembered her being very 
 cheerful) "her cheeks have grown pale; 
 and yet, when I have questioned her upon 
 her health, she has always replied, ' she was 
 well quite well quite happv.' But a moth- 
 er is not so easily deceived. "'I have watched 
 more closely every indication of her feelings, 
 and, at length, only two days ago, an acci- 
 dent discovered to me my poor darling's se- 
 cret. Clara oh, how can I tell you ! you 
 of all others!" (her voice sank until it was 
 scarcely audible) " my child is the victim of 
 a deep and too much, I fear, unreturned 
 attachment." 
 
 " Good heavens ! how little I should have 
 supposed it possible. Believe me, dear Lady 
 St. Ledger, I fully sympathise with you in 
 your anxiety ; but what man can be insensible 
 to the preference of so gentle a being as 
 Clara?" 
 
 Philip had not the slightest idea which way 
 his afflicted relative was drifting. lie only 
 felt real concern at Lady St. Leger's com- 
 munication, not. unmixed with astonishment 
 that she had selected him for a confidant on 
 such a very delicate subject as her daughter's 
 unrequited love; while the lady's inward re- 
 flection was, " Stupid creature! I shall have 
 to tell him in so many words." 
 
 " I cannot tell you more ; perhaps I have 
 already said too much. I believe it would kill 
 my poor child if she thought I had revealed 
 ret and to you ; for, once, when I 
 remarked upon her altered looks, ami -aiil 1 
 must ask you to cheer her with SOUK- of your 
 right poetic thoughts, she exclaimed, ' Not 
 him, mother! not one word to my cousin, or 
 I shall die!" :i?i. I her verv lips turned a^-hv 
 pale. Oh. Philip! it was then that I first 
 
 MISpeete.l the rruel t Ml t ll . I'.llt llllsll ! here 
 
 0h comes ! " and at that moment the door 
 fclowly opened, and Clara entered. She was 
 
 dressed in white, with only a bouquet of nat- 
 ural moss-roses in her bosom, and looked 
 younger and fresher than usual with her 
 long, pale hair falling in a cloud upon her 
 transparently fair neck, and a somewhat 
 heightened color in her face. When she saw 
 her mother and Philip alone together, the col- 
 or deepened to a crimson blush, and she 
 averted her head as they shook hands. 
 
 The last words of Lady St. Leger had 
 caused an extremely painful sensation to 
 Philip ; and Clara's evident embarrassment 
 at seeing him only confirmed his half-formed 
 fear, that he was the object of her attachment. 
 Although she was not a girl he could love, 
 she was gentle, and certainly pretty ; and he 
 had always felt a kind of pity for her com- 
 panionless life. Nothing could have given 
 him more sincere pain than the idea which 
 had been forced upon his mind ; and he al- 
 lowed Lady St. Leger to talk on without 
 reply, while he became as silent and em- 
 barrassed as his cousin. Lord St. Leger, 
 however, soon entered, and dinner was an- 
 nounced, Lady St. Leger whispering to him 
 as he handed her to the dining-room, " Not 
 a word not a look as you value my poor 
 darling's happiness." 
 
 The meal passed off slowly. Lord St. 
 Leger was out of temper, as usual, and 
 spoke little. Clara was perfectly silent; 
 and although Lady St. Leger and Philip ex- 
 erted themselves to talk, their conversation 
 was evidently constrained. Soon after tho 
 ladies had left the table, his uncle be<*ged 
 Philip to excuse him, saying he had an en- 
 gagement which obliged his attendance ; so 
 Earnscliffe was compelled to join his aunt 
 and cousin in the drawing-room. But. he 
 had a gloomy feeling a sort of presenti- 
 ment of evil upon his spirits, and he would 
 much sooner have left the house. He found 
 Clara alone. She was seated by a small 
 table, at the further end of the room, appar- 
 ently intent upon the book she was reading. 
 As he approached, his heart fluttered slight- 
 ly at seeing it was one of his own works. 
 He was too young to be insensible to the at- 
 tachment of any woman; and his cousin had 
 never appeared to him so interesting before. 
 
 * I wish you had a better book to study, 
 Clara," he said with rather a forced smile. 
 
 She turned and looked at him that fixed, 
 steady look which, had he lived longer, ho 
 night have known no woman could bestow 
 upon the man she loved ami again a deep, 
 painful blush overspread her face, coloring 
 ven her neck and arms. How >hould ho 
 know that it'was a blush of burning shame? 
 rhere was but one way to interpret her con- 
 usiou after the. half-confession of her mntb* 
 T; ami it was an interpretation too Mattering 
 o his vanity to be doubted. She loved him! 
 Poor Philip" felt himself getting rather con- 
 used, too. and seated himself quite close to 
 icr, witjiout knowing exactly wJiat he win 
 ibou,. 
 
PHILIP EARNSCL1FFE. 
 
 21 
 
 Clara bent over her book again, and sigh- 
 ed no acted sigh. Whatever her emotion 
 at that moment, it was real, although it arose 
 not from love to her cousin. She felt that 
 her mother had spoken; and all the linger- 
 ing pride, of her girlhood was warring against 
 the worldly obedience to which she had been 
 trained. When she looked in Philip's bright, 
 young face, too, she felt more than her usual 
 disgust at the part she was acting. This 
 time she was not trying to win a mere man 
 of the world, but to deceive a frank and 
 truthful nature. She remembered him as 
 the one friend she had ever possessed since 
 her childhood ; and, even now. the thought of 
 speaking openly to him, and saving them 
 both, struggled in her bosom. 
 
 "You are ill, dear Clara vcmr color 
 changes every minute ! " He took her hand, 
 and was shocked at the clammy, death-like 
 touch. 
 
 " Not ill, Philip. T am ill in mind onlv. 
 Cousin " (her cheeks were again on fire), 
 '* I fear mv mother has spoken to vou my 
 
 i " * * * 
 
 mother " 
 
 But her proud lip could not speak those 
 humiliating words, and quivered with agita- 
 tion as she vainly tried to continue. 
 
 Unhappily for himself, poor Philip was too 
 generous to allow her to do so. He reflect- 
 ed not that on a few words of his the after- 
 coloring of his whole life might depend ; and 
 that, in saving her a passing humiliation, he 
 was about to sacrifice himself for ever, with- 
 out one warmer feeling than pity in his heart. 
 He only saw a broken-hearted girl trying, 
 with pale, trembling lips, to exonerate her- 
 self in his eyes for having given him her 
 love unasked, and all the noblest feelings of 
 his nature were awakened. Throwing his 
 arms around her, he whispered, before' she 
 could speak another word, " Oh, Clara, con- 
 fide all yotrr sorrow to me for I love you ! " 
 
 She had not then the principle to withdraw, 
 though she shuddered in his embrace ; and 
 the recollection of the warm love she had 
 once known for Harry Douglas came like a 
 mockery to her, even at that moment, when, 
 with a selfish, unbeating heart, she was 
 about to give herself for life to another. 
 Her cold lips were pressed unresistingly to 
 Philip's, and he poured forth passionate words 
 which, in the excitement of the moment, he 
 actually himself believed were genuine. 
 
 When Lady St. Leger entered the room, 
 after a reasonably long time had elapsed, 
 her delighted eyes beheld them, standing to- 
 gether near the fire, Clara's face deeply 
 flushed, and her eyes cast down, and her 
 companion speaking in low but animated 
 tones, with her hand clasped in his. 
 
 It was late that evening when Philip found 
 himself on his way home, excessively be- 
 wildered at all that had passed, and the ac- 
 cepted suitor of Lord St. Leger's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IT woidd be difficult to describe Mr. 
 Earnscliffe's feelings on hearing of Philip's 
 sudden engagement to his cousin. Of course, 
 he flew into a great passion at first, and re- 
 fused point-blank to give his consent, saying 
 " the boy had been decoyed, inveigled, taken, 
 in." But this he would have considered it a 
 sort of duty to do, whatever project of mar- 
 riage had been formed by his nephew with- 
 out his own advice. On cooling down, and 
 reflecting more calmly, tiowever, the leading 
 weakness of the old man's nature was im- 
 mensely flattered at the 'idea of the St. Le- 
 gers the proudest people amongst the whole 
 English nobility catching eagerly at Tiis 
 heir. It had always been his secret hope 
 that Philip would one day marry into a noble 
 family, and thus unite in his posterity his own 
 hardly-earned wealth with aristocratic blood. 
 As he thought over it he became gradually 
 more reconciled to his nephew marrying so 
 young, and at length grew really friendly 
 to the match, although he made himself 
 thoroughly disagreeable to everybody, long 
 after he had, in his own mind, determined 
 to consent. Lady St. Leger's expectations, 
 however, of handsome settlements, on the 
 part of old Miles, were grievously disap- 
 pointed. A few days after he had given his 
 tardy consent to the engagement, Philip 
 hinted delicately that it was probable his fu- 
 ture father-in-law would be desirous of an 
 interview, on business, with him. 
 
 '* Then, let him come here, Phil ! I am 
 quite ready to tell him my intentions towards 
 you ; and I hope his daughter's prospects are 
 one-tenth part as good as your own though 
 I much doubt it." 
 
 Philip thought it would be well for his un- 
 cle to wait upon Lord St. Leger Miles did 
 not. 
 
 "Not a bit of it it is all their doing! 
 They want to marry into my family, not I in- 
 to theirs. You know," he added, maliciously, 
 " the proposal was not made in my drawing- 
 room, after dinner. Don't distress yourself, 
 Phil ; your noble father-in-law will find out 
 his way to me, when money is to be talked 
 of, without our assistance." 
 
 And he was right. Two days afterwards, 
 the proudest gentleman in England was 
 standing nervously in old Miles's study for 
 half an hour, waiting to see him, while Miles 
 finished his luncheon. 
 
 " Don't fret yourself, Phil," he remarked, 
 as he leisurely rose from the table; "my 
 lord has had patience, I have no doubt." 
 
 When he entered the study, Lord St. Le- 
 ger advanced warmly to meet him. " My 
 dear sir " 
 
 " How are you? Pray sit down, and we 
 will at once begin the business you have 
 come upon." 
 
 " Your health, my dear Mr. EarnsclifFe? " 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 " Is excellent, my lord. I am as clear in 
 my head as I was fifty years ago, when 1 
 started life the lowest clerk in a merchant's 
 office. You are aware that I am a self-made 
 man, Lord St. Leger. Without birth, con- 
 nection, or any advantages but my own 
 brain and perseverance, I became what 1 
 am. Pray seat yourself, and we will enter 
 into accounts at once. As you are the young 
 lady's father, and I am only Philip's uncle, 
 you will, perhaps, first have the goodness to 
 state the settlements you propose making 
 upon your daughter, and I will then tell you 
 my own intentions towards my nephew. 
 
 Lord St. Leger's face had grown several 
 shades more sallow than even its usual ca- 
 daverous hue, during Miles EarnscliffVs lit- 
 tle speech. The old merchant, with spite- 
 ful pleasure, had purposely recalled his own 
 humble origin, and made his noble compan- 
 ion feel, to the full, the true position in 
 which they stood to each other. It was with 
 an immense effort that he swallowed his 
 proud indignation, and brought out a few 
 common-place remarks very courteous ones, 
 but not at all in answer to Miles's question. 
 
 "But the figure, my lord?" he said, 
 sharply, drawing an immense sheet of blue 
 paper before him, and placing his pen in the 
 extreme left hand corner, as though the 
 whole page would be required to note down 
 Lord St. Leger's magnificent intentions. " I 
 am a plain man, as you know ; and, though 
 I have greatly objected to the whole thing 
 thinking Phil, with his unsettled position and 
 love of society, far too young, and unsteady, 
 my lord, to marry yet, as everybody else 
 seems bent upon 'it, and the poor boy feels 
 his honor engaged may I trouble you to 
 pass the ink? thank you feels his honor 
 engaged why, I have given my consent. 
 And the only thing now is for you and me 
 to decide upon the settlements, and let them 
 marry ; and, considering my objections to 
 the engagement from the first, I think I am 
 now acting generously in meeting you half 
 w;iy about the money." 
 
 Lord St. Leger bowed and smiled. He 
 was bland and courteous, made; vague prom- 
 i~c^, and commented largely upon the other's 
 well-known riches and generosity; but it 
 was all of no avail. Nothing led Miles for 
 one moment, from tlieiractual business : ami, 
 after his lordship's most flattering speeches 
 and graceful perorations, lie invariably re- 
 turned to the original question "Then 
 what amount will you settle upon your 
 daughter? " 
 
 " At length, alter as many wily turns and 
 fine xmnding phrases, " signifying nothing,' 1 
 a^ would lia\e done credit to a Vienna note. 
 Lord St. Leger was beaten. Brought io 
 tin- actual point but. still with an attempt at 
 dignity the. answer came out. " In the 
 t -i.iie df the country the dilliciihy 
 of getting rent- ami some slight, em 
 <>{ his own, which would, he, ti 
 
 soon be over, he could give his daughter- 
 nothing." 
 
 " Very well, my lord," said Miles, with 
 one of his pleasantest smiles, and carefully 
 replacing his unsullied paper in a portfolio ; 
 " t en I believe our conversation is at an 
 end. I had proposed to settle the same sum 
 as yourself upon your daughter; I will do 
 so now, and it rests with you that the 
 amount is so small. With regard to my 
 nephew, I have long since made my will, 
 and at my death he will inherit all my prop- 
 erty. His marriage should the projected 
 union still be carried out will not alter my 
 intentions towards him, poor fellow ! and 
 during m y life-time, I shall allow him what 
 I consider sufficient not more. It is well 
 that he should also depend upon his own ex- 
 ertions." 
 
 Lord St. Leger rose, his face livid with 
 rage at his utter failure, but his presence of 
 mind still not forsaking him. At that mo- 
 ment of supreme disappointment, he felt 
 that it were better to marry his daughter to 
 Philip, although without settlements, than 
 not to marry her at all ; and, taking Earns- 
 eliffn's hand, he expressed with dignified 
 composure his regret that he was not able 
 to act as he himself wished on the solemn 
 occasion of his only child's marriage', thank- 
 ing him at the same .time lor his generous 
 intention of making settlements equivalent 
 to his own upon Clara. And so, with still a 
 calm exterior, but in his bosom a very hell 
 of hatred towards his future connections, he 
 left the room. 
 
 " I knew how it would be," muttered 
 Miles, after he was gone. " They are sell- 
 ing their nobility for my money and poor 
 Philip is just to be thrown in, as the least 
 important part of the bargain. Hang the 
 fellow ! with his white, deceitful face, and 
 glib words. He was as difficult to be brought 
 to speak as an attorney. And his promises, 
 and his grand words, and his inquiries about 
 my health my health ! ho, ho ! when he 
 would like to see me drop down dead on the 
 wedding-day! However, I will say one 
 thing for him he behaved like a gentle- 
 man." 
 
 It is not necessary to speak much of Phil- 
 ip's courtship. Having got into the entangle- 
 ment, he trier! hard to make himself believe, 
 that lie had done so wisely, and of his own 
 free will. He consequently endeavored to 
 be in love; and then, finding the task some- 
 what, tedious, only wished the whole thing 
 were o\er. He xvas young and hopeful, and 
 life li>r him held out so xvide a field of am- 
 bition, he saw before him such long years of 
 success in the world, that his marrrige did not 
 i p pear an all- import ant event, lie had nc\ cr 
 felt anything of love beyond mere box ish fan- 
 ihat vague yearning for ideal beau- 
 x', which is part of a pO6?fl temperament ; 
 uid anv idea of domestic happiness had in-xer 
 his mind. He was loud of' society, 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 23 
 
 where he shone supreme those refined cir- 
 cles of the great London world, to which he 
 had universal entree; but he also delighted 
 and who does not at twenty ? in another 
 society, far more brilliant and less restrained, 
 that of artists and actors those delightful 
 petits soupers, after the opera, where all was 
 mirth and laughter, and of which he had not 
 yet learned to weary ; the rehearsals, the 
 pretty faces that smiled upon him ; in short, 
 all the mimic but exciting life of the green- 
 room. It would have taken a passionate 
 love, a most sweet and winning wife to con- 
 vert Philip Earnscliffe, at twenty, into a do- 
 mestic husband. And he married Lady Clara 
 St. Leger. The preliminaries of the marriage 
 were speedily got over. There was no re- 
 luctance of the bride, no tearful wishes for 
 delay on the part of the bride's mother ; and 
 the bridegroom, if not ardent about his mar- 
 riage appeared extremely anxious for the 
 termination of his courtship. Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe, after all, made the young couple a 
 handsome allowance, and they took a fur- 
 nished house in Park Lane for the coming 
 season. 
 
 By tacit consent neither of them spoke of 
 any tour after their marriage. Their honey- 
 moon was to be passed at the estate in York- 
 shire, whither Miles and Philip had talked 
 of going previous to his engagement, and 
 afterwards they were immediately to return 
 to London. Philip seemed suddenly to have 
 given up all his intentions of solitude and 
 improvement, and to think more of society 
 than ever; and Clara remained passive 
 whatever was planned for the future. 
 
 The wedding-day came, and they were 
 married. Lord and Lady St. Leger showed 
 the proper amount of feeling at the touch- 
 ing event, although the bride was cold and 
 tearless. There was a profusion of silver 
 and orange flowers, school-children with bas- 
 kets of fady- looking green leaves, and pret- 
 ty bridesmaids, and meaningless young men, 
 and pompous old relations. Speeches were 
 made and healths drank ; and the bride's 
 mother kissed the bridegroom, who appear- 
 ed uneasy and nervous, as though he were 
 just beginning to realise the meaning of what 
 he had been about. Old Miles, in a blue 
 coat and gilt buttons of antique workmanship, 
 looked exceedingly out of his place, and 
 made sarcastic remarks to everybody. And 
 so the happy morning went off; and the 
 bridal pair departed, and the guests after 
 them ; and the f ither and mother were left 
 alone, to think over their daughter's mar- 
 riage. Miles drove back to his house about 
 ten miles from ttfvvn the house in which he 
 had first received little Philip and the re- 
 mainder of the day hung heavily upon him. 
 He walked about his gardens with less inter- 
 est than usual, and at six he sat down to his 
 lonely dinner. It was, of course, a thing 
 of frequento ccurrence for him to dine alone, 
 but then he always knew that Philip was en- 
 
 joying himself in the world, and thought of 
 all the good stories he would tell him at 
 breakfast next morning ; for Philip knew the 
 pleasure this gave his uncle, and never failed 
 in being punctual at the morning meal. 
 Now it was different ; his life was again to 
 be lonely, and for ever. Philip might come 
 as his guest but that was all ; he was mar- 
 ried, and every other tie would be broken. 
 
 After dinner he sat long by the fire ; and, 
 as he watched the red logs sparkle, his mem- 
 ory recalled that winter evening when the 
 little, bright-haired child first appeared at his 
 lonely hearth. He traced all his young life 
 since then ; his childhood, which had made 
 the silent house so joyous with his shouts, 
 and laughter, and thousand affectionate, 
 winning ways ; his holidays, made happy at 
 Christmas with his skating and sledging, and 
 noisy in-door games ; even happier at Mid- 
 summer, when Miles took him to the sea- 
 side, and used to sit on the beach, watching 
 the boy swimming, delighted, over the 
 smooth summer sea. Then he thought of 
 the unexpected outbreak of Philip's genius 
 his success in the world his own gratified 
 pride in his nephew's distinction ; and he felt 
 he had never known how much he loved him 
 till now. 
 
 " And I let him marry that idiot's pale- 
 faced daughter ! " he exclaimed bitterly, 
 aloud, " for her rank and birth, as though 
 they would make his home happy, when I 
 might have prevented the whole thing by 
 one word of disinheriting him. Married, 
 and not yet one-and-twenty ; my poor boy ! '* 
 
 He remained long looking vacantly at the 
 fire ; and, at length, tears gathered slowly 
 in the old man's eyes. They were the only 
 ones shed on Philip's wedding-day. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ALONE in the country, in the depth of 
 winter, Philip found his honeymoon amply 
 long enoguh to awaken him to a true sense 
 of the error he had committed. He soon 
 saw that he had allowed himself to be drawn 
 into marriage with a woman to whom he was 
 indifferent; while, before he had been mar- 
 ried many days, doubts had already dawn- 
 ed upon his mind as to the real motive of 
 Clara in becoming his wife. When he was 
 relieved from the necessity of constantly 
 acting love himself, he had time to observe 
 her more closely ; and he was forced to ad- 
 mit that her cheeks were just as pale, her 
 spirits as dull, now that she was his wife, as 
 they had been six weeks before, when her 
 mother represented her as pining under a 
 hopeless attachment. 
 
 Was it possible, he asked himself, that she 
 had acted with duplicity, and married him 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 without love, only because he was his uncle's 
 heir ? The thought filled him with ineffable 
 disgust. He was far too proud to recriminate 
 or demand an explanation, so he remained si- 
 lent ; but, in these first days of married life 
 so rarely ruffled by suspicion a feeling 
 of estrangement had already risen in Philip's 
 heart towards his wife. Besides this, he was 
 in the very brightness of life and youth ; 
 and there was something excessively irksome 
 to him in Clara's cold, silent companionship. 
 For what had appeared gentleness in a cou- 
 sin was very insipid in a wife. She could 
 neither warm into admiration at his conver- 
 sation which, to all others, had so rare a 
 charm nor share in his enthusiastic visions 
 for the future. A monosyllable, a quickly- 
 fading smile, was her usual reply ; and the 
 bridegroom soon longed impatiently for the 
 termination of those endless thirty days, 
 which, according to the laws of English so- 
 ciety, it is necessary for newly-married per- 
 sons to spend in banishment. 
 
 " Are you fond of the country, Clara?" 
 he asked, the night before their journey 
 homewards, as the long winter evening 
 passed slowly by. 
 
 He had been reading she gazing in the 
 fire (it was a peculiarity of Lady Clara's that 
 she never worked) ; and a sufficiently long 
 time had elapsed without either of them 
 speaking a word. 
 
 " I, when I was quite young" how the 
 expression jarred upon Philip's ear " I 
 
 f reatly preferred the country ; I think, then, 
 should have liked to remain for ever among 
 the Highlands of Scotland, which I happen- 
 ed to visit when I was about seventeen" 
 her face grew soft, for a moment, at the re- 
 collection "but after that I returned to 
 London ; I Avas presented, and since, I have, 
 of course, been so continually in society, 
 that I have never had time to think of a 
 country life ; for, even in the country, at 
 Chri.-tmas, one has as much gaiety as in 
 town." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 ' Now ? Oh, of course, you prefer being 
 in London, do you not? " 
 
 "Hut for yourself?" 
 
 "For myself, I am indifferent." And the 
 conversation closed. 
 
 She 7/vt.s- indifferent to almost everything 
 now. With her marriage had ended even 
 her old friendship for Philip; she knew well 
 that he did not love her, and she could not 
 forget the unworthy manner in which IK- had 
 been won. It was a perpetual wound to her 
 pride, and she eared not that, her manner be- 
 trayed the. coldnen of her feelin-s; indeed, 
 
 fdic pref.-rred her husband should no longer 
 believe her more attached to him than she 
 was in reality. It was a relief to both when 
 they returned to London. The train arrived 
 late in the evening, and Philip hailed the I.,-, 
 and Miidke. and I'.abcl-sounds which greeted 
 Lim, as so many familiar friends, lie, waa 
 
 quite in good spirits during dinner, and 
 laughed and talked -vith all his old manner. 
 They had found scores of invitations await- 
 ing them ; for himself, notes from his old ac- 
 quaintances, theatrical announcements, com- 
 munications from his publishers ; he seemed 
 to have returned to life. 
 
 "You look tired, Clara, after your jour- 
 ney," he remarked, kindly, when they re- 
 turned to the drawing-room, " and are not 
 equal, probably, to the fatigue of going out; 
 otherwise, there is a new opera to-night." 
 
 "Shall you go?" she asked, with a faint 
 indication of surprise. 
 
 " Well, dearest, I have so much news tc 
 hear, that I must just go down to the club." 
 Although only married a month, a marital 
 intuition made him feel that it was as well to 
 suppress, *' and to the opera afterwards." 
 
 "Then good night." she answered, with 
 abrupt coldness ; " I am tired, and shall re- 
 tire to rest at once." 
 
 She left the room without another word. 
 One look of entreaty if she had thrown her 
 arms round his neck, and whispered, "Ah! 
 Philip, do not leave me so soon," he would 
 have stayed; but her cold, almost insulting, 
 manner of wishing him good night, stung 
 him deeply. 
 
 " She wishes to treat me like a boy," was 
 his thought; and he went off to his club. 
 
 Clara heard the street door shut loudly af- 
 ter him, while she was still slowly ascending 
 the staircase. She felt really weary and sick 
 at heart, and when she entered her room, 
 did not ring for her maid. She wished to be 
 alone, and seating herself before the dress- 
 ing-table, she gazed long at the reflection of 
 her own face in the glass ; she looked pale, 
 tired, and not youthful. 
 
 " And thus begins my new life ! " she 
 said, at length, aloud. " Married to a mere 
 boy, who took me from pity, and, after a 
 month, leaves me alone to seek his former 
 amusements on the first night of our return ; 
 without love in my own heart, and loathing 
 myself for having married him ; these are the 
 conditions of my uxistance my prospects 
 for the future. But you succeeded, mother; 
 you have married me to Miles Earnscliffe'l 
 heir. 
 
 She nerved herself proudly, and, turning 
 from the glass, walked up and down the 
 room, while her lips trembled, and occasion- 
 al her hands clenched involuntarily. Few 
 who knew her in tin; world would have be- 
 lieved her Capable 6f passionate emotion like 
 this; but though worldly and selfish, she had 
 still some of a woman's deepest feelings lelt. 
 Little as she eared for her husband, his care- 
 le.>sness to her, on the lirM e\ennr; ol their i e- 
 turn home, had aroused all her pride, and with 
 it the never-dving thoughts of her firs I lover 
 that recolleetion which was the avenging 
 ghost of the youth and love she had so |.iti- 
 
 .-dy crushed in her own bosom. She -a\v 
 hcr>clf as she was her ambitious plans sue- 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 25 
 
 cessful, married to a man whom every girl in 
 London had been anxious to win ; and then 
 thought what she might have been, had she, 
 eight years ago, followed the honest dictates 
 of her heart. It was a bitter thought. 
 
 Suddenly she paused in her hurried walk, 
 and unlocked a case which stood upon the 
 dressing-table. Within lay a perfect mass 
 of jewels diamonds, pearls, emeralds the 
 costly wedding presents, mostly given her by 
 her husband and his uncle. They only re- 
 minded her that for them, and the wealth 
 which bought them, she had married Philip; 
 and she pushed them aside with disgust, 
 paused a few seconds, and then touching, 
 with a somewhat faltering hand, the spring 
 of a hidden drawer, drew from it what appear- 
 ed, from the care with which it was preserved, 
 to be a treasured relic. It was only a little 
 sprig of mountain heather, now colorless and 
 withered with time, but worth more to the un- 
 happy woman than a thousand such glittering 
 heaps as lay before her. For it had been pluck- 
 ed by Harry Douglas on the first day he had 
 ever spoken to her in love, in that lonely 
 Highland glen, whose rocks and heath-cov- 
 ered banks she had never been able to for- 
 get ; and. once more she heard the throstle 
 singing, and the wild bee humming past her, 
 as on that very summer morning. She 
 looked long at it, with that eager recalling 
 look, such as a mother may bestow upon 
 some relic of the babe she lost in her youth ; 
 but yet she did not raise it to her lips, or 
 utter one pleasant word. She tried to re- 
 member that she had herself discarded him ; 
 and was now the wife of another man ; and 
 at length with a supreme effort, but still 
 tearless eyes, returned it to its hiding-place. 
 
 Then she seated herself in a chair before 
 the fire, and covered her face with her hands. 
 She remained long so, thinking again and 
 again that humiliating thought, " He took 
 me from a feeling of pity, not of love, and 
 forsakes me already." She traced clearly 
 her future position in the world unattrac- 
 tive, sick (her health was delicate), without 
 interest in anything, and married to a man 
 five years younger than herself in reality, 
 but a whole life-time in feeling a man sought 
 for by all London brilliant, fond of excite- 
 ment and society, all that she had wearied 
 of and outlived. She remained long motion- 
 less, then rang for her maid, and retired to 
 rest composed, but tearless. But when mid- 
 night passed, and she heard the early morn- 
 ing hours strike, one by one, and still Philip 
 did not return, her calmness at length for- 
 sook hsr, and she burst into a long and 
 passionate flood of tears. 
 
 Philip found a warm reception every where. 
 At the club he made a dozen engagements, 
 most of them to bachelor parties ; although 
 he at first said, laughing, he could not think 
 of accepting them now that he was a married 
 man ; heard all the newest town gossip ; and 
 then went off with some of his friends to the 
 
 opera, where they were still in time for the 
 two last acts. As he took his accustomed 
 place in the stalls, he was greeted with smiles 
 irom all quarters of the house, for his mar- 
 riage had only spoilt him in the eyes of a 
 few manoeuvring mothers and their daughters, 
 and, with this exception, all his fair friends 
 were as delighted to see him as ever. 
 
 A new dancer was to make her first ap- 
 pearance that evening, so Philip had not the 
 courage to leave before the ballet, as he had 
 otherwise intended. He thought he would 
 just wait to see her, and then return home. 
 The debutante was charming, and Philip's ap- 
 plause unbounded ; he forgot time, and home, 
 and Clara, while watching the exquisitely 
 graceful movements of this young girl, who 
 was of surpassing loveliness ; and he almost 
 started when, at length, the ballet terminated 
 in a flood of rose-light, and he was reminded 
 that it was long past midnight. Of course, 
 now that all attraction was over, Philip at 
 once prepared to be off; and he was at- 
 tempting to pass quickly through the crowd, 
 when in the lobby one of his friends ap- 
 proached, and shaking Earnscliffe' hand, 
 gave him a little, delicately-folded pink note. 
 
 " In your old luck, Phil ! " he whispered. 
 "Upon "my word, it is ratber soon for a 
 bridegroom to receive such wicked-looking 
 missives. I suppose La Thionville spied you 
 out from behind the scenes, for she wrote 
 this note in great haste, and begged me, with 
 tears in her eyes, to deliver it to you without 
 fail. However, you may set your conscience 
 at rest; there is nothing wrong in it, for 
 Celeste read it to me as she wrote." 
 
 The note was written in a small, rather 
 illegible, hand, in French, and was as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 " CHER M. EARXSCLIFFE, Although you 
 are married, I suppose you will not desert all 
 
 your old friends. Lord B , Neville, and 
 
 a few others will sup with me to-night ; we 
 shall only want our poet to be complete. 
 Do come to us. Votre amie, CELESTE." 
 
 Philip hesitated. "Not to-night," he 
 said. "Make my excuses to- Celeste; 
 another time " 
 
 " Nonsense, 11 returned Neville; he was a 
 rising young artist, and an old school-friend 
 of Philip's. " If we once allow you a pre- 
 cedent, we shall be always losing you, on the 
 score of your new duties. Celeste tells me 
 that she has got F , and B , and lit- 
 tle Fridoline herself. We shall be a delight- 
 ful party not one stupid person and you 
 know you are not obliged to stop late." And 
 taking Philip's arm, he led him off it must 
 be confessed a not unwilling victim. They 
 drove in EarnsclifFe's cab to La Thionville's 
 pretty house in the Regent's Park, where all 
 the guests were already assembled. 
 
 " I know I am welcome," said Neville, on 
 entering the drawing-room, " but not for my 
 own sake. I have brought back an old friend 
 to the land of the living." 
 
26 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 The Frenchwoman gave a theatrical start 
 
 on seeing EarnsclifFe ; then welcomed him 
 
 with real delight. She took his arm as they 
 
 went down to supper, and said in a low tone, 
 
 " Ah, Philippe ! I am so surprised and glad 
 
 to see you. With all your English ideas, I 
 
 feared we should not have y.m among us 
 
 again, for a year at the very least. 11 
 
 The party was brilliant; but Philip could 
 not at first feel quite at his ease. He knew 
 that it was not the sort of society fo.r him to 
 make his first appearance in as a married 
 man ; and the remark of Celeste had unin- 
 tentionally strengthened this feeling, so for 
 a time he remained silent and constrained. 
 But he was among people who would not let 
 him long continue so. After trying in vain 
 to make him talk, Celeste laughed malicious- 
 ly, and asked if he was mentally composing 
 a poem on the happiness of married life, to 
 account for his silence. 
 
 ** If he is," cried little Fridoline, in her 
 pretty English, " Monsieur Earn sclifFe's face 
 is quite proof enough of his theory, without 
 troubling himself to finish the poem ! " 
 
 Celeste, then, looking at the time-piece, 
 inquired till what hour he was permitted to 
 remain, as she would not suffer him in her 
 house to stay one second longer ; and it soon 
 ended by Philip, who tried in vain to be dig- 
 nified, becoming as merry as his two fair 
 neighbors. 
 
 It must be allowed that his position was a 
 somewhat dangerous one. Celeste, on whose 
 right he sat she always reserved this place 
 of honor for Philip was a sparkling, ani- 
 mated brunette, of some age under thirty. 
 She was not a first-rate singer ; but her act- 
 ing was excellent. She was always natural 
 except off the stage never over-strained 
 never vulgar indeed, it was said Celeste 
 was, by birth, a lady ; or, at least, in her 
 early youth, had moved in good Parisian so- 
 ciety. She had lived long in Italy while 
 studying her profession, before she appeared 
 in England ; but she was French by birth, 
 and had all the liveliness of her country- 
 women, softened down by a slight shade of 
 romantic sentiment, which, as she said, she 
 had " learnt" in Italy. Doubtless, she had 
 only " learnt " it; but it became her might- 
 ily; and when her naturally laughing lips 
 trembled a little, or her dark eyes filled with 
 te:irs, Oleste was unquestionably fascinating. 
 She always ap;":uvd well-off, and piqued 
 herself greatly upon her house, her parties, 
 and, above all, her wine, which, wonderful 
 to say for an actress, was really good. She 
 liked to collect, at her little suppers, all the 
 d'-vre>t men in London; for, though she 
 never read aiivthing herself but her /'' ^. she 
 liked to be >|ti)ken of ;is p it romping genius; 
 and, having once discovered that authors 
 preferred talking of anything else Letter than 
 of each other's books, >he w.i> never al'r.iid 
 again of being bored with their conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 Among books, however, she made one ex- 
 ception. She read Philip's. Perhaps she 
 understood them; more probably she did 
 not, for her knowledge of English was very 
 superficial but, at all events, she read them. 
 She had made him write her name on the 
 title-page of each, always had them lying on 
 her table with many of the least remarkable 
 passages marked in pencil; and once or 
 twice she told Philip she had " much weeped " 
 over parts he had rather intended to be the 
 witty ones of the story. Celeste had always 
 cherished a very romantic sentiment for the 
 young author, and was quite cut up at. his 
 marriage, thinking that her parties would 
 probably lose their best lion by this event, 
 through some of those " detestable British 
 prejudices." His re-appearance, however, 
 so soon at her house put her in the highest 
 spirits ; arid Celeste had never been more 
 charming than she was that evening. 
 
 On Philip's other side was " little Frid- 
 oline," at that time a very celebrated actress 
 and one whose mysterious appearance, and 
 subsequent career, had beco.ne a subject of 
 universal interest in London. The success 
 of this girl in one year had been, indeed, al- 
 most fabulous. Coming, no one could say 
 whence very young -without friends, or 
 even acquaintances she had been engaged 
 at the French plays to act minor parts. But 
 her extraordinary conception of character, 
 and the original coloring she threw over the 
 most trivial role she played were such, that, 
 in a few weeks, hundreds crowded every 
 night, merely to see Fridoline acting as a 
 soubrette. The manager saw that he had had 
 a lucky find, promoted her at once, with a 
 good salary, to first-rate characters, and her 
 success in one season nearly made his for- 
 tune. Although her French was excellent, 
 and her pronunciation of it so true as to be 
 sweet even to a Parisian ear, she was not a 
 Frenchwoman. Some said she was (rerman, 
 some Danish, some Russian. When asked 
 herself, she invariably answered that, she had 
 not the least idea that she had no country. 
 no relation, no other name than Fridoline; 
 and the utmost perseverance could win from 
 her no further reply. 
 
 In person she was small an 1 fair, with .1 
 prolusion of waving golden hair, and large 
 eyes of the deepest ha/el, with very black 
 eyelashes. She was too singular-looking to 
 be exactly beautiful, although it WNU a lav 
 I ni'i-t peculiar and lasting attraction ;l 
 face that, once seen, could 11 -\ e r a r lin bo 
 forgotten, but haunted lh" nr-ni n-y Uk<9 one. 
 of those old pictures which ( a mo- 
 
 ment, in MUM dark gallery, or in t!i- dim 
 
 ;iMe ol' :i f.r.'i.ri, church, a .1 I \\-\T lo>e, 
 again. She lived alone, at some d 
 from town, in a cottage of her own; and 
 free, .-uid strange, ;iu.l nntiuged with any 
 all'cct.-ition of propriety . > iduct, 
 
 no breath had ever been rai- her, n% 
 
 man's name was ever nientioir-d with ; 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 27 
 
 little Fridollne ! She seemed more calcula- 
 ted to awaken extreme interest and admira- 
 tion, than any wanner feeling ; and there 
 lurked something in the mocking expression 
 of her great, dark eyes, that would, uncon- 
 sciously, make any man feel himself ridicu- 
 lous, who attempted to speak to her of love. 
 She went seldom into the society of other ar- 
 tists ; La Thionville's being almost the only 
 house at which she ever appeared. For Celeste 
 had seen at once, with her natural quickness 
 in discerning talent, that Fridoline would one 
 day be distinguished ; and this and per- 
 haps some kindlier feeling had made her 
 hold out her hand to the friendless girl, when 
 she first began her London career, and show 
 her many little attentions which Fridoline's 
 ignorance of English life rendered most ac- 
 ceptable ; once, even , attending her in an 
 attack of sudden illness. Now she was am- 
 ply repaid. To say " Little Fridoline has 
 promised to come," was sufficient inducement 
 to make every one else come also ; and any 
 party was sure to go off brilliantly when she 
 could be persuaded to attend. For Fridoline 
 possessed a fine and subtle wit ; the most 
 cutting powers of sarcasm ; and, at times, 
 but rarely, an unexpected and passionate pa- 
 thos, which made her conversation unlike 
 all others. And in her society grave men 
 of genius were silent, in admiration at the 
 ever-changing fancy and brilliant language 
 of this gifted little being. 
 
 She liked Earnscliffe ; perhaps, because 
 he had never attempted to pay her any of 
 thefadts compliments which she detested; 
 perhaps, because although kngwing no 
 more of her history than did others some- 
 thing in his own heart recognised Fridoline's 
 high and extraordinary nature, and made 
 his manner to her, while perfectly respectful, 
 kind and sympathizing beyond that of mere 
 acquaintance. This evening she was in her 
 liveliest vein ; every word that fell from her 
 lips was sparkling ; every idea seemed un- 
 usually fresh and original, even from her ; 
 and Celeste, without in the least imitating 
 Fridoline, was scarcely less brilliant; even 
 more desirous to shine. Her green-room 
 stories of the last two months her excellent 
 repetition of the bon-mots of others her de- 
 licate mimicry and her art of hitting off a 
 character in about six words, had never ap- 
 peared so amusing to Philip before. No 
 wonder that, in such society, he felt like a 
 peraen suddenly descending from th$. frigid 
 Simplon into sunny Italy, after his courtship 
 and icy honeymoon ; and that the hours 
 struck unheeded, which should have-recalled 
 him to his bride. He had, himself, regain- 
 ed all his usual spirits ; and when, at length, 
 the new dancer was discussed, grew anima- 
 ted in hi> praises of her exceeding beauty. 
 
 " T am slightly acquainted with Miss Elms- 
 lie (for, with all her grace, she is an English- 
 woman)," said Celeste; "and shall invite 
 her some evening, next week, to my house. 
 
 Of course, I need not ask you to meet her ? " 
 she added, maliciously, to Philip. 
 
 "Certainly not," he replied; "I shall 
 need no invitation." 
 
 Celeste looked very bright. "And you, 
 mademoiselle," she continued to Fridoline, 
 " will you also meet the young debutante ? " 
 
 Fridoline assented, after a slight hesita- 
 tion ; and then inquired if any one knew the 
 particulars of Miss Elmslie's history before 
 she went on the stage ? " 
 
 "I do," answered Neville; "she comes 
 from my own country ; although not from 
 the same neighborhood. I think I have 
 heard that her father was a clergyman ; he 
 was, at all events, a professional man, and, 
 dying suddenly, left this girl, then about four- 
 teen, quite alone in the world, and without 
 money or protectors. Her extraordinary 
 beauty and grace I remember once seeing 
 her when she was a child were exactly of 
 that order best suited to the stage ; but. into 
 whose hands she fell, and how she came to 
 adopt dancing as a profession, I have never 
 found out indeed, it is only a few days since 
 I discovered that the 'rising star,' about 
 whom we have all heard so much, was no 
 other than little Rose Elmslie." 
 
 Fridoline seemed greatly interested in 
 these few words of the girl's history. " Yes," 
 she said, turning to Celeste, " I shall be 
 glad to meet her. What evening are we to 
 come ? " 
 
 Celeste considered. "Well, after ' Fi- 
 delio,' on Tuesday, if you are free. I know 
 she does not perform that night." Fridoline 
 was also disengaged, and Neville and the 
 two or three chosen friends, " honored " by a 
 place at Celeste's table, were invited and ac- 
 cepted. Lastly, she turned to Earnscliffe 
 " And you," she said, " will you really 
 come again so soon ? " 
 
 Philip had a vague recollection that on 
 Tuesday was to be a grand entertainment at 
 some of his wife's relations ; but to meet 
 Fridoline, and the lovely Rose Elmslie, and 
 half-a-dozen of his own intimate friends, at 
 Celeste's house, was to him temptation irre- 
 sistible and he accepted. 
 
 At an hour of the morning not to be men- 
 tioned, Neville drove home with Philip to his 
 house in Park Lane, and noticing his friend's 
 timid knock at his own door, congratulated 
 h.mself, as he went, off, that he was still a 
 bachelor. The sleepy servant looked rather 
 surprised, as he admitted his newly-married 
 master at such an hour ; but Philip was too 
 much occupied with his own reflections to 
 notice the man's face. Taking a light, he 
 proceeded up-stairsas noiselessly as he could, 
 hoping Clara was long since asleep, and 
 would not hear him come in. 
 
 When he entered the room all was quiet- 
 she lay motionless ; the fire had long since 
 burnt out, and the whole room seemed dark 
 and silent. Shading the light with his hand, 
 he approached the bedside, and glanced at 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLiFFE. 
 
 his wife. She was not asleep; but long 
 and bitterly though she had wept the mark 
 of tears were now carefully effaced from he 
 cheeks, whose ghastly whiteness formed ; 
 striking contrast to his own face, all flushed 
 and animated. " Clara not asleep? " 
 
 " Not asleep. Mr. Earnscliffe; yet, I be 
 lieve, it is past four o'clock ! " 
 
 " Clara, I am indeed sorry; I was detain 
 ed by so many old friends the club " 
 
 "Stop, sir!" and, as she rose a little, 
 her face grew exactly like that of her father's 
 in its expression. " You are, of course, a 
 liberty to choose your own companions, your 
 own hours ; stay out as late as you like 
 live as you will I am indifferent to it all 
 but do not, at least, stoop to the meanness 
 of a falsehood. You have not been at your 
 club until four o'clock in the morning. *No, 
 allow me to continue," for she saw the 
 indignant words were ready to burst from 
 Philip's lips. * Another time, you will, per- 
 haps, have the goodness to sleep in your 
 dressing-room, after remaining out half the 
 night. My health is feeble, and will not ad- 
 mit of my being thus disturbed ; " and she 
 turned away from him. 
 
 In those few minutes she had completed 
 their estrangement for ever. Philip stood 
 one second irresolute then turned, and, 
 without a syllable in reply, left the room. 
 
 When he came home, he felt that he had 
 acted unkindly towards Clara, in leaving her 
 thus on the first night of their return ; and 
 at the sight of her pale face, kind words of 
 excuse were rising to his lips, but her harsh 
 reception of him had undone all. She had 
 accused him of meanness of falsehood, and 
 had herself made the proposal that they 
 should, in future, occupy separate apart- 
 ments ; his pride was galled to the very 
 quick. From that moment he knew that an 
 eternal barrier was raised between them, and 
 a bitterer feeling than, in all his young life, 
 he had yet experienced, arose in his breast. 
 He threw himself down on his dressing-room 
 sofa, and with a strange calmness, reflected 
 what their future existence would be. He 
 felt that love even if its shadow had ever 
 existed between his wife and himself was 
 entirely over now. Onlv four weeks ago 
 they had stood together before God's altar, 
 and taken those solemn oaths of love and 
 truth, "till death should part them;" and 
 already both had failed iti their contract. 
 Clara had openly acknowledged her indiffer- 
 ence to him that night, and he, ado/en times, 
 had liitterly repented his marriage, and al- 
 ready chafed impatiently under the yoke.. 
 
 " I will live fiir the world onlv, then ! " he 
 exclaimed, at length. " She has offered me 
 my life, apart, and my freedom, ami I accept 
 it. In the society of Celeste and Fridoline, 
 I am not likely to miss that of my frigid 
 wife " and he laughed, but with a forced, 
 unnatural sound. 
 
 With all his faults, Philip had, unfortunate- 
 
 ly for himself, a deep and affectionate heart, 
 and he felt an aching void when he recalled 
 Clara's harsh, unforgiving words, and con- 
 trasted them with old Miles 1 * kindly greetings 
 at the break fast- table, and ready excuses of 
 his late hours. 
 
 The lights, the laughter, the gay voices of 
 Celeste's party were' still whirling in his 
 brain ; but a look of inexpressible sorrow 
 stole over his young face, as he felt that for 
 him the word " home " had henceforth no 
 meaning. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 PHILIP and his wife did not meet the fol- 
 lowing morning. Clara afterwards went to 
 spend the day with her mother; and, in the 
 afternoon, Philip rode down to see his uncle. 
 It was a fine winter day, the air ringing and 
 elastic ; and, as he cantered on at a quick 
 pace, his spirits rose under the influence of 
 exercise, and the pure, healthy atmosphere. 
 
 He found Miles at home, occupying him- 
 self, as usual, about his grounds. His face 
 grew radient when he saw Philip in the dis- 
 tance, riding up the long avenue which led to 
 the house. He had not hoped to see him on 
 the first day after his return, and advanced to 
 greet him with as earnest a welcome as 
 though they had not met for years. 
 
 " It was kind of you, Phil, to remember 
 me so soon. I wanted you especially to-day. 
 That idiot of a head-gardener has positively 
 proposed that I should throw down the old 
 wall by the kitchen garden, and extend the 
 shrubbery as far as the stables on the other 
 side, shutting out the distant view of the 
 river. You don't think it would be an im- 
 provement?" He spoke quickly, and Philip 
 knew well that he had branched off into 
 another subject only to conceal his pleasure 
 at seeing him. 
 
 14 We will talk it all over, uncle," he re- 
 plied ; " for if you will have me. I intend 
 remaining to-day, and dining with you. 1 " 
 
 1 If I will have you, boy? 1 am onlv 
 surprised at 'having you so soon. As a rap- 
 turous bridegroom, I never expected you 
 
 would remember me, However, I must say, 
 hat even in your honeymoon you were not 
 orjrrtful of me. You write capital letters, 
 
 Phil." 
 
 A servant now came up and took his horse; 
 ind Miles, linking his arm in Philip's, walked 
 i!m oil' to see the projected improvements, 
 ind hear his opinion upon them; and thus 
 ngaged, the short winter afternoon p 
 mlv too ojiiicklv to the old man. 
 
 Philip did n>t ap|>ro\e entirely of the 
 
 gardener's plan, hut proposed another, l>v 
 
 vliich the shruliliery could lie extended with- 
 
 nit interfering with his uncle's favoriie view 
 
 f the river; and he promised tu draw the 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLTFFE. 
 
 29 
 
 plans, and come down and superintend the 
 work himself, as soon as the weather was 
 favorable for commencing. 
 
 " I knew Duncan was wrong," said Miles, 
 " although I could not improve upon his plan 
 mvself. I wanted your taste and quick eye, 
 Phil." 
 
 " I am afraid I shall lose my old gardening 
 tastes now," replied Philip. "London will 
 henceforth be my home, with the exception 
 of three months 1 shooting in the Highlands, 
 or an excursion abroad every autumn ; and I 
 shall forget all the familiar lore of planting, 
 and planning, and grafting, that I have 
 studied in this o'd garden, under Duncan, so 
 many years. You cannot tell how pleasant 
 it seems for me to return here, sir ; although 
 I have been only away four weeks, I feel like 
 a wanderer returning home. 11 
 
 '* And how often shall I see you, Phil ! " 
 asked Miles, abruptly, when they sat together 
 in their old places, after dinner, just as they 
 had done for more than fifteen years. " I 
 suppose, with all your grand friends, and 
 your parties, and your wife, I shall stand a 
 poor chance. 11 
 
 ** You do not really mean that, 11 returned 
 Philip. " As far as engagements go, they 
 cannot be much more numerous now than 
 they were before I married; and, doubtless, 
 my wife will be able to spare me a few hours 
 occasionally, when I wish to visit you. 11 
 
 Something in his tone, as he said the words 
 " my wife, 11 made his uncle look at him more 
 closely. Then he noted that Philip, without 
 being either paler or thinner, or in any way 
 altered in feature, looked already much older. 
 In a few weeks, the indescribable expression 
 of youth was gone, and his face had already 
 the look of a man who has lived and suffered. 
 It was a painful thought for Miles ; and, 
 changing the subject, he inquired if Philip 
 was writing anything ? 
 
 "Not at present, uncle. You remember 
 our plan of going into the country, for me to 
 think and breathe before beginning another 
 book well, I believe my new life will work, 
 although in a different manner, a somewhat 
 similar result. After a few months of matri- 
 mony, I shall take up my pen." 
 
 " Oh ! where is Clara, to-day? " 
 
 '* Clara? well, I believe she is at home 
 no I recollect, at Lady St. Leger's." 
 
 "Indeed! Well, what do you think of 
 my Yorkshire property, Phil ? "* 
 
 " It is a beautiful place. I wonder you 
 have not been there more frequently your- 
 The time of year was unfavorable for 
 
 self. 
 
 seeing it to advantage; but I was never 
 tired of wandering about with my gun, over 
 the moors, or among those wild hills, and in 
 the deep recesses of the forest, covered al- 
 though it all was with snow." 
 
 " Warm work for a honeymoon ! " mutter- 
 ed Miles. 
 
 Then they began speaking of other things ; 
 old interests in which both were connected 
 
 old scenes old times; Philip's literary 
 projects for the future. They seemed, by 
 tacit consent, to avoid any mention of the 
 present; and Philip, especially, turned away 
 from all subjects that bore upon his mar- 
 riage, or the St. Legers. 
 
 When eleven o'clock came his horse was 
 ordered round, and he was preparing to wrap 
 up for his cold ride, when the old butler 
 came in, and said it was a fearful bad night 
 for the young master to ride up to town. It 
 had thawed, and then frozen again in the 
 course of the evening, and the ground was 
 like ice ; while the first flakes of an ap- 
 proaching snow-storm were beginning to fall. 
 
 " I don't like taking the horses out at 
 night, when lean help it, Phil, as you know," 
 said Mr. Earnscliffe ; " but I will order the 
 carriage round, sooner than that you should 
 run any risk of breaking the mare's knees. 
 Marcus and Anthony are so steady, they 
 would not fall on ice itself. Besides, you 
 are not half warmly enough clad to be ex- 
 posed to such weather." 
 
 Philip saw that his uncle never even 
 thought of asking him to stop all night ; and 
 he rather hesitated at making the proposal 
 himself, though he knew Clara would not be 
 anxious at his absence (after the manner of 
 most young wives), and he really preferred 
 remaining where he was, to riding through 
 
 snow-storm. 
 
 "Well, the fact is, uncle, I should not 
 like to take out your horses ; and it is cer- 
 tainly not a night for my skittish Gulnare. 
 If my old bed-room 11 
 
 " Why, of course, boy. I am only too 
 glad to keep you ; but I thought your wife 
 would be anxious, and I did not like to pro- 
 pose it." 
 
 " Oh, I dare say Clara will guess where I 
 am." 
 
 So Philip's old room was prepared for 
 mm ; and, as he was tired after his last 
 night's vigil, he soon bade his uncle good 
 night, and went off to bed. 
 
 " For 'the thousandth time in my life I 
 thank Heaven that I never married," said 
 old Miles, devoutly ; when the door closed 
 after his nephew. " Here is another speei- 
 nen of wedded bliss, and after only four 
 weeks 1 experience ! When I think of all the 
 talk there was of his honor and her happi- 
 ness for life, I repeat it," he added, with in- 
 creasing fervor; "thank Heaven, I never 
 married ! " 
 
 When Philip returned home at noon, next 
 Jay, he found Clara reading in the drawing- 
 room. She laid down her book on his en- 
 ranee, and greeted her husband with the 
 same polite ceremony she would have shown 
 to a stranger. Her manner at once pre- 
 vented Philip from volunteering any explana- 
 tions of his long absence; nor was she like- 
 y to ask him any question after their recent 
 scene on his return from Celeste's party. 
 
 " Are you engaged to-day? I have an 
 
30 
 
 PHILIP EAKN T SCLIFFE. 
 
 invitation for you to accompany me to my 
 father's to dine." 
 
 The St. Legers, according to the usual 
 plan adopted by people who are utterly ru- 
 ined, were giving a whole series of expen- 
 sive entertainments. Philip hated all grand 
 dinners ; and he felt that those of his pom- 
 pous father-in-law would now be more than 
 ever distasteful to him. He took out his 
 note-book, determined not to go. 
 
 " I am sorry I have an engagement for to- 
 day ; it is one of long standing a dinner 
 
 given to B , by some of our members, 
 
 that it would be impossible for me to miss." 
 
 Clara's lip curled. 
 
 " The Duke and Duchess of C , the 
 
 Marquis of W , Prince N , and a 
 
 dozen others, will dine with us," she said. 
 
 *' It is almost a kindness in Mr. Philip 
 Earnscliffe to give up his place ; for the 
 dining-room in Grafton Street is so unfortu- 
 nately s mall." 
 
 The sarcasm was meant to hide her wound- 
 ed feelings ; but her lips quivered a second 
 when she thought of appearing for the first 
 time, as a bride, without her husband. She 
 knew that a club dinner was really no en- 
 gagement, and that Philip's answer was but 
 a tacit acceptance of the liberty she had her- 
 self offered him. 
 
 "How brilliant you will be!" he re- 
 marked, sauntering towards the door. " We 
 
 shall have only L , and T , and 
 
 D ," naming some of the most distin- 
 guished literary men in London. " Pray 
 remember for me a few of the Duke of 
 
 C 's best bon mots, and a little of the 
 
 caustic wisdom of the noble marquis ; and, 
 in the meantime, au revoire," 
 
 He siniljwfc gaily as he left her ; and she 
 felt that thSo* actual life had begun in earn- 
 est. 
 
 Clara dined alone at her father's ; Philip 
 at his club. But, as is usual in such cases, 
 he was in high spirits, and enjoyed the eve- 
 ning immensely ; while his wife had a mar- 
 tyrdom to encounter in the half-pitying looks 
 of her dearest friends, and the still more try- 
 ing after-dinner questions of her own female 
 relations. A man feels no slur upon his 
 pride in the world's thinking that he is not 
 particularly happy at home; but to every 
 woman the inert! suspicion of being neglect- 
 ed in In i- marriage is in itself a humiliation. 
 
 " W< II, my dearest Clara," said one .,f 
 her eon-ins, as she sat in her bridal satin, 
 turning over li>tli--ly the leavos of some an- 
 jni;il- : " I am glad to see you looking so 
 bright and well. But where is Mr. Farns- 
 HifTi-? Surely he mu-t be here; and yet I 
 have not happened to see him." 
 
 " Philip wa- engaged to aliterary dinner," 
 answered Clara, shortly. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! Well, one cannot expect au- 
 thors to be, like, other men ; these great 
 p-nin-.es are so seldom fond of home, and 
 Air. Earnscliffe Is 90 young." 
 
 "Your married happiness has at least, 
 then, been spared the trial that is in store for 
 mine, dear," replied Lady St. Leger's daugh- 
 ter, smiling calmly. " If genius is required 
 to make a husband undomestie, Sir llarrv is 
 undoubtedly safe ; " and she glanced at her 
 cousin's husband a stupid, heavy-looking 
 young man, with elaborate whisker?, and a 
 very small head, but who, nevertheless, had 
 not the reputation of being excessively fond 
 of his wife's society. 
 
 The lady colored scarlet, and Clara felt 
 her small triumph. She began talking with 
 more animation to the people around her, 
 listened with apparent interest to Prince 
 
 X 's bad English and worse wit, and the 
 
 inane dullness of the Duke of C , and 
 
 gradually her spirits rose with her desire to 
 appear happy. But, when it was all over, 
 and she was driving back to her lonely home, 
 her cousin's words recurred to her in more 
 than their first bitterness. She felt that num- 
 berless similar remarks upon her appearing 
 alone must have been made that evening ; that 
 at every succeeding party to which she went 
 without her husband these remarks would bo 
 confirmed and multiplied ; and the pride of 
 her nature revolted angrily against such an 
 existence. Lady Clara forgot that this was 
 but the commencement of the life of liberty 
 she had herself offered to Philip that, in all 
 the flush of his youth and popularity, her 
 harsh words had thrown him back upon his 
 old world his old associates merely be- 
 cause her own pride had revolted at one eve- 
 ning's absence. 
 
 ' And this forever!" she thought, as she 
 entered her sleeping-room, and looked round 
 at its costly luxuries, which seemed to mock 
 their solitary possessor. "Oh, that either 
 of us could die ! " But people do not die in 
 this world because they have made foolish 
 marriages, or the human race would not be 
 long in diminishing sensibly from the face of 
 the earth; on the contrary, the fact of their 
 having done so generally appears to add 
 some years to the natural term of existence. 
 Philip" and his wife lived on just as they would 
 have done had they been any happily assort- 
 ed couple ; and weeks and months passed by, 
 while each in its course only deepened their 
 mutual estrangement, and lessened any pros- 
 pect of their re-uniou. It had become an es- 
 tablished thing for Philip to BMOCUkte, as 
 usual, with all his old bachelor friends ami 
 lor Lady Clara to appear without him at tho 
 opera, or amoiiLT her own circles: for, .since 
 his marriage, Philip had cared far I 
 halls and dinner parties, and more for that 
 society in which it was imp<>ssil>!.- io meet his 
 \\ ile or her relations. 
 
 lie had conceived a feeling elosely border- 
 ing upon hatred (or both the St. I. 
 Of the way Lady St. Le-er had l>e;:ui!ed him 
 
 into his marriage with her daughter, M.rely 
 
 for his nude's wealth, he had no longer any 
 doubt; and for that good deed he lelt 
 
PHILIP EAENSCLIFFE. 
 
 31 
 
 ly the amount of gratitude which was natural 
 
 towards his mother-in-law ; while in his sen- 
 timents for her husband was mingled a proud 
 contempt that he was scarcely able to con- 
 ceal. Lord St. Leger had, from the first, 
 treated him with a sort of fawning affection, 
 which coming from such a man, Philip knew 
 could only cover some latent design; and 
 very shortly after his marriage its nature had 
 been revealed. St. Leger tried to borrow 
 money of him. Philip affected the first time 
 to treat it as a mere joke, saying he had not 
 ten pounds of his own in the world ; but 
 when a few days having elapsed, St. Leger 
 again assailed him Philip having in the 
 meantime attained his majority and en- 
 deavored, with a great deal of soft plausi- 
 bility, to induce him to endorse some bills 
 (knowing well that any paper bearing the 
 signature of Miles Earnscliffe's heir would 
 be readily discounted by those among the 
 fraternity of Hebrew money-lenders who al- 
 ready looked with suspicion upon his own 
 noble autograph), Philip turned away from 
 him with disgust. 
 
 " You are altogether mistaken in me, Lord 
 St. Leger," he replied, haughtily. *' I have 
 no property whatever of my own ; and it is, 
 therefore, impossible for me to become secu- 
 rity for others. The allowance made me 
 since my marriage, by my uncle although a 
 most liberal one is not more than sufficient 
 for my own use. I shall consider it right to 
 give it up entirely when I am enabled to live 
 upon the fruits of my own exertions ; and, 
 in the meantime. I must entreat of you not 
 to place me in the painful position of having 
 to refuse you again. 1 ' 
 
 When he was stern, Philip's face could as- 
 sume an expression not unlike that of Miles ; 
 and in his dark eye and compressed lip, St. 
 Leger read a cold, unalterable determination. 
 He was foiled a second time by the nephew, 
 as he had already been by the uncle ; and, 
 from that day forth, made no more affection- 
 ate demonstrations to his son-in-law. They 
 detested each other mutually. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 FROM his wife's relations, and the world 
 in which they moved, Philip turned with un- 
 disguised pleasure to his artist friends, and 
 the easy, unrestrained intercourse of their 
 life. Especially between himself and little 
 Fridoline, a feeling of friendship had of late 
 arisen that soon bordered upon intimacy. 
 
 The world in general scoffs at the posibil- 
 ity of mere friendship between a man of 
 Philip's age and a young girl, especially if, 
 like poor Fridoline, she chance to be an ac- 
 tress ; and, in the generality of cases, the 
 world would be right. But Fridoliue was so 
 
 entirely apart from everybody else, in her odd, 
 secluded life, and undisguised avo\val of her 
 preference, that even she was allowed to 
 have Earnscliffe for a friend, and no tongue 
 be found to whisper an idle word against 
 her. He constantly met her at rehearsal of 
 a morning, and when the weather was fine, 
 and Fridoline walked, would accompany her 
 home. She lived in a cottage on the very 
 extremity of Harnpstead Heath, an extreme- 
 ly inconvenient distance from the theatre, 
 but which she had chosen from her love for 
 the country, and because it was away from 
 the noise and smoke of London. She could 
 walk any distance without fatigue, and sel- 
 dom took a cab in the daytime, when the 
 weather was at all fine. One day, after the 
 rehearsal of a new and difficult part, of a 
 more tragic nature than she generally per- 
 formed, Philip volunteered his escort home, 
 and was, as usual, accepted. She was flush- 
 ed when they left the theatre, but by the time 
 the interminable streets were traversed, and 
 they had gained the open heath, her cheeks 
 became very pale, while her step flagged 
 and she looked wearied. Some felled trees 
 lay by the road-side, and Philip proposed 
 she should sit down and rest awhile. She 
 did so silently, and he took a place by her 
 side. It was a sweet, breezy day early in 
 June, and the country was covered with ten- 
 der green. A few fleecy clouds flitted slow- 
 ly over the blue sky ; the swallows, newly 
 returned, wheeled round in playful circuits, 
 and the air was sweet with the scent of vio- 
 lets from a neighboring garden, mixed with 
 the hawthorn-blossoms of the hedges. 
 
 "The world is fair," said Fridoline in a 
 low voice, and as if addressing herself more 
 than her companion, " but stained and blot- 
 ted out with sin ! " 
 
 " Of which you, at least, have known lit- 
 tle," added Philip gently. 
 
 " Of which I have known much," she re- 
 plied, turning round her wearied face to his. 
 " Much," she went on, almost vehemently 
 " more than any other girl of my age ; or, 
 at least, I have felt it more than any other 
 can have done have had it crushed down in 
 all its hideousness upon myself; ay ! upon my 
 own flesh and blood until the whole earth 
 has seemed to me a black and festering mass 
 of corruption " 
 
 "How old are you, Fridoline?" interrupt- 
 ed Philip, with a feeling almost of horror at 
 the girl's unnatural manner. 
 
 " Nineteen," she replied ; " and to-day ia 
 my birthday." 
 
 'Philip took her hand, touched at the hum- 
 ble, mournful tone of her voice, and pressed 
 it, as he wished her some kindly birthday 
 congratulations. She scarcely heeded him, 
 though she tried to smile. 
 
 " Nineteen," she went on ; " and to know 
 all that I do ! I cannot believe I am so 
 young. It is only four years since I woke 
 from my childhood, and knew what I was, 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 and the terrible darkness of my life ? Oh, 
 come away ! " she rose hastily, and as 
 though suddenly recollecting that she was 
 thinking aloud " come home ! I have need 
 of my home and rest. 
 
 He gave her his arm, for she trembled 
 violently, and they walked on during the re- 
 mainder of the way in silence. Philip felt 
 that, in her excited state, it was useless for 
 him, ignorant as he was of her former his- 
 tory, to attempt anything like consolation ; 
 and Fridoline, pale and agitated, never 
 opened her lips. She seemed scarcely con- 
 scious that she was not alone. 
 
 They stopped before a pretty cottage one 
 of the old country cottages that, a few years 
 ago, were still to be found on Hampstead 
 Heath ; this was Fridoline's home. Roses 
 and creepers grew almost entirely over the 
 front, and covered the little entrance porch 
 of rustic wood, where, happy in the sun, lay 
 a rough, wiry terrier. He started np with 
 an angry snap at his own sleepiness, when he 
 heard approaching steps, but bounded for- 
 ward the moment he saw his mistress. She 
 stooped to pat him, and the creature looked 
 up into her face with an expression of such 
 love as, for the first time, brought tears into 
 her eyes. 
 
 " You are glad to see me, poor old Karl ! " 
 said Fridoline ; and she entered the little 
 garden . 
 
 Philip had before accompanied her to the 
 gate, but she had never invited him further, 
 so he prepared now to take his leave. 
 
 "No; come in!" she cried. "You 
 shall be my birthday guest." 
 
 Her manner was so earnest, that Philip 
 saw she really wished it, and they walked to- 
 gether towards the house. 
 
 Karl looked with extreme suspicion at 
 the first male intruder he had ever seen in 
 his mistress's domains ; and, as he followed 
 them up the path, suddenly relieved him- 
 self of these feeling by giving an angry 
 bark, and seizing the skirts of Philip's coat 
 in his teeth, shaking the cloth from side to 
 side with great ferocity. As he did so, he 
 was almost lifted from the ground, and his 
 hind feet scratched angrily in the gravel. 
 Philip naturally turned at the unexpected 
 assault, so did Fridoline ; and, in a second, 
 by one of those instantaneous transitions pe- 
 culiar to her temperament, the sense of the 
 ludicrous mastered every other feeling. The 
 expression of old Karl, snarling and scratch- 
 ing, and rolling his .sharp ryes with rage, yet 
 still holding fust, while, Philip, with great 
 dignity, attempted in vain to shake him oil', 
 was too much for little Fridoline, although 
 her eyes wen; actually sufl'iisi-d with tears at, 
 tht- moment, and she burst into peals of 
 laughter; not one merely, but. peal after 
 peal of a clear, ringing," childish laughter, 
 that at length brought the- solitary maid-ser- 
 vant to the door, to sec. what it was all about. 
 She was a dark, foreign-looking woman of 
 
 middle, age, and harsh features ; and her ex- 
 pression was not pleasant on seeing Philip. 
 However, when she perceived how matters 
 stood, she darted out at once to his relief, 
 and by dint of pulling and threats, and, at 
 length, a few vigorous blows, Karl was mas- 
 tered, and carried off, to vent his remaining 
 fury in captivity. Little Fridoline only 
 laughed the more at this conclusion of the 
 contest, and when, at length, she was able to 
 speak, and apologise to Philip for Karl's in- 
 hospitable mode of welcome, her usual 
 spirits had completely returned, and every 
 trace of emotion disappeared from her sun- 
 ny face. 
 
 " We are so unused to visitors in my mk- 
 nage" she said, " that you must forgive poor 
 Karl. He looks upon all intruders as his 
 natural enemies ; and I see I must be more 
 careful in introducing you to the other mem- 
 bers of the household, for I have two large 
 cats and a tame hawk, who could all be for- 
 midable if they chose." 
 
 " You are fond of pets, Fridoline." 
 
 " Yes, I am fond of Karl, and he loves rne 
 the others are my amusement. It makes 
 my greatest distraction to collect the animals 
 together, and watch them, when my head 
 aches after learning some long role. The 
 cats are friends in appearance, but not in re- 
 ality, except as regards their hatred to Karl 
 principle, perhaps, of many a human alliance ; 
 and it does me good to see the hearty spite 
 with which they occasionally give vent to their 
 feelings, and claw each other's ears. Karl 
 looks down upon them with sovereign con- 
 tempt, as if aware of his power ; but in an- 
 other quarter, he is a mere hen-pecked cow- 
 ard. My hawk, Old Bess there she is, 
 making rushes after worms on the grass-plot 
 is his household virago; and, by making 
 unexpected descents on him from behind dark 
 bushes in the garden, and peering fiercely 
 down and hissing from impossible places 
 when he thinks he is just going to have a 
 quiet, noonday nap, makes his life a constant 
 uneasy watch. The canaries are, compared 
 with the others, stupid things ; but even their 
 rage, when the sparrows dare to come near 
 their cage in the garden, and pick up their 
 discarded dainties, is almost human. 11 
 
 And all this little nonsense, in Fi idoline's 
 foreign Fjiglish, and told in her own lively 
 way, sounded pretty. She led Philip into 
 her small drawing-room, and the simple, 
 good taste of its appearance struck him at 
 once, compared to the glittering grandeur 
 with which Celeste, like most act: 
 loved to be. surrounded. The furniture was 
 all in the cottage style, and the curtains of 
 plain white muslin; but, altogether, it had 
 the air of a room inhabited by some young 
 and innocent girl. A small piano Mood 
 open; work, and books that looked well 
 read, lay on the table; and bouquet^ of fresh 
 
 (lower- were rvrrvwh' 
 
 " Poor Hulila brought me all these flow- 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 33 
 
 ers for my birthday," said Fridoline, " and 
 told me, as she had no taste, I must arrange 
 them for myself. She loves me as her own 
 child, and has been with me all my life." 
 
 It was the first time Fridoline had ever 
 made so distinct an admission of belonging 
 to humanity, and Philip thought he might im- 
 prove upon the opportunity. 
 
 " Your servant does not look English, from 
 the slight glimpse I had of her," he remark- 
 ed. 
 
 " No, Mr. Earnscliffe," said Fridoline, sli- 
 ly, "she is not; neither is Hulda an Eng- 
 lish name. 1 ' 
 
 " Her face is not French." 
 
 " She is not a Frenchwoman." 
 
 "Nor German? " 
 
 " Nor German, nor Danish, nor Swedish." 
 
 He was silent. Fridoline 1 s eyes laughed, 
 though her lips did not. 
 
 " What do you think of my house? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " It is a charming little place for the sum- 
 mer. How do you like it in winter, when 
 the snow is on the ground ? " 
 
 " Ah, that is not the question. You 
 should say, rather, in those long months of 
 mild, drizzling rain which make up your 
 English winters. Well, I must confess, it is 
 not so pleasant then as in June, though I am 
 always too occupied to be dull. When we do 
 have fine, hard frost and bright sun, and the 
 trees and bushes bend under their load of 
 snow, I love it!" (she looked animated) 
 " I wish it would last for months. It re- 
 minds me of our real, long, glorious north- 
 ern winters " Here she stopped short, 
 
 and looked rather afraid she was going too 
 far. 
 
 "Long, glorious winters!" said Philip; 
 " but not those of France or Germany. 
 Fridoline, I shall find out your secret soon!" 
 
 She rose laughing, and cried, " I know 
 your thoughts well ; but I shall have no pity 
 upon your curiosity; and, to punish you", 
 you shall remain alone while I take off my 
 bonnet, and ease Hulda's mind as to your ap- 
 pearance in my house, for I am afraid, at 
 present, she is rather of Karl's way of think- 
 ing on the subject." 
 
 When Fridoline had left the room, Philip 
 approached the table, and began to examine 
 the numerous and well-read books, in all lan- 
 guages, that were scattered there. With the 
 exception of,a few volumes of poetry a 
 Dante, Goethe's "Faust," some of OehU-n 
 Schlager's smaller poems, and a volume of 
 Shakspeare all the books were of an ab- 
 stract and somewhat gloomy nature. No 
 works of lighter literature, no modern fic- 
 tions, such as the generality of girls of her 
 age would delight in, were there ; but abun- 
 dance of subtle philosophy upon human na- 
 ture, and devotional books of the sternest, 
 most austere description, such as might be 
 fittingly placed in the hands of a criminal 
 tained. with the blackest guilt. She seemed 
 3 
 
 to have chosen all that bore on the darker 
 side of our existence, or that analysed deeply 
 the enigma of the human heart under the in- 
 fluence of sin, as though her young life could 
 already need the solution which few care to 
 seek for till they have themselves tasted ful- 
 ly of the bitter-after fruits of passion. 
 
 One large book seemed particularly well 
 read, and Philip opened it. It was in strik- 
 ing contrast to all the other the illustrated 
 edition, in German, of " Grimm's Fairy 
 Tales." He turned over the pages so loved in 
 his own childhood ; saw Hans once more, sit- 
 ting under the rock with a lump of gold as big 
 as his head ; the musicians of Bremen defend- 
 ing, with their unearthly music, the lonely 
 house against the robbers ; the happy eleves 
 trying on their nether garments, made by 
 the shoemaker's grateful wife ; the mayor and 
 burgomaster jumping into the pond after the 
 reflection of the Clouds, which they take for 
 flocks of sheep ; and at last Philip grew so 
 interested that he seated himself, and began 
 the perusal of some of his old friends with 
 much zest. 
 
 In the meantime Fridoline had changed 
 the dark morning-dress, in which she always 
 went to rehearsal, for a little white muslin 
 frock, and re-arranged her luxuriant golden 
 hair. Then she ran off to Hulda, in the 
 kitchen, and explained to her that Mr.,Earns- 
 cliffe was to be looked upon with no mis- 
 trust, being a poet, and unlike other men, 
 and a very kind friend of her own ; during 
 all of which Hulda continued her cooking 
 with great sternness of expression, and did 
 not look the least convinced in her own mind. 
 Then Fridoline added, " And he will stay to 
 dine with me, dear Hulda ; so I shall have a 
 guest on my birthday, and you must give us 
 one of your best dinners." 
 
 After this she went out with Karl, whose 
 temper was somewhat restored, into the gai> 
 den, to look after a very early moss-rose she 
 had been r watehing for some days past. The, 
 bud had just half-broken into blossom ; and 
 Fridoline plucked it, and ran up to the glas* 
 door which led from the garden into her sit- 
 ting-room. She saw Philip reading, anc^ 
 entering noiselessly, stole up, and leant over 
 his shoulder, before he was aware of her 
 presence. 
 
 "Oh, wise philosopher!." she cried, sud- 
 denly. "With a table full of deep aii'l 
 subtle works, I find you poring over Hans, 
 and Gretchen." 
 
 " Well," returned Philip^. " the- wonder i.% 
 not that I should read them, but that a per* 
 son like Fridoline should permit such child- 
 ish stories to. repose among her sage books." 
 
 Her face grew grave directly. 
 
 " It is strange that I should like anything 
 belonging to the innocence of children," she 
 answered; " but, though I cannot care for 
 novels, it delights me to read those wild 
 German stories that I have known all my 
 life. They have the same effect upon me as 
 
34 
 
 PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 my animals ; they take me altogether from 
 the world, and the people I belong to ; while 
 novels are still mitnie representations of our 
 existence only seen through falsely-colored 
 glasses. No ! if I read of human beings 
 and human hearts, let me study them as they 
 are, in their stern, unaltered reality; and 
 then, when I want amusement, turn to the 
 honest love of Karl, and the innocent vices 
 of the cats, or the dwarfs and fairies of old 
 Grimm. 11 
 
 44 What an early rose-bud, Fridoline ! " 
 
 "It is for you." She placed it in his 
 button-hole. " For two birthdays I have 
 had no companion but Hulda, and I am so 
 glad, to see you here to-day, and to offer even 
 a poor flower to some one who will accept it 
 on my birthday. 11 
 
 44 And I have nothing to offer you, Frido- 
 line," replied Philip. 44 You should receive, 
 not give, presents on your birthday." 
 
 44 You can give me something I should 
 like," she returned. 4< Write me a few lines 
 not like those you write to Celeste, full of 
 compliments and sentiments you don't feel 
 but the simple expression of some feeling 
 connected with this sweet June day some- 
 thing that I can keep to remind me of my 
 nineteenth birthday, in England, when I have 
 returned to my own country." 
 
 44 It is difficult to write lines, addressed 
 ' To Fridoline, on her nineteenth birthday, 1 
 without being complimentary," Philip an- 
 swered, looking up into her earnest face as 
 she leaned over him ; 44 however, I will try. 
 But you must promise not to look at me as I 
 write, or 4 those deep, dark eyes 1 will be 
 sure to be introduced, much to your indigna- 
 tion." 
 
 The slightest flush rose in Fridoline 1 s 
 cheek as she stepped back from his side ; 
 and, seating herself by her work-table, she 
 took up some half-finished embroidery that 
 lay there. But, as Philip began to write, 
 the work fell from her fingers, and she watch- 
 ed him intently until he finished watched 
 his mobile features, that lit up with every 
 rapidly-succeeding image of his own fancy 
 his high, fair brow his careless, poet-like 
 attitude,; and thought what did poor little 
 Fridoline think ? 
 
 "It is done, Fridoline ; but I am afraid 
 j^ou will not like the lines. They arc very 
 common-place, after all. Shall I read them ? " 
 
 "No; I would rather read them for iny- 
 elf." 
 
 Sin- took the paper, and, turning towards 
 the window, read the contents eagerly. 
 Could 1'hilip have seen her face, he would 
 lia\e <ii-i-o\iTcd a .-light .-hade, of disappoint- 
 ment, when she finished; however, she turu- 
 -d quickly towards him again, and said, with 
 a .-mile, " the lines were beautifully written, 
 and that she should value them much," plac- 
 ing them, as she spoke, in a writing-'' 
 the table. 
 
 4 'And the sentiment," said Earnscliffe 
 4 ' does that not please yon ? " 
 
 44 Yes only you alluded to my theatrical 
 success you could not, even for to-day, for- 
 get that I am an actress. Come out. "now," 
 she added, 44 and see the extent of my wide 
 domain. It is too fine to remain "within 
 doors." 
 
 They went out together into the garden, 
 and sat down under a pink hawthorn in full 
 flower on the little grass-plot. Fridoline's 
 borders were redolent of early sweets, for 
 Hulda was a good gardener; and, with di- 
 rections from her mistress, kept everything 
 in perfect order. She was a remarkably 
 plain woman, and had always had an extreme 
 dislike for the stronger sex, even in her own 
 land ; and this feeling, when extended to 
 Englishmen, amounted to open enmity, that 
 afforded Fridoline much amusement. So no 
 man was ever admitted upon the premises, 
 except for those needful operations of cutting 
 and pruning, which were beyond Hulda's 
 powers ; and, in the early summer mornings, 
 she even rose and mowed the lawn, to the 
 great risk of cutting off her own feet, and 
 the unbounded pleasure of all the small boys 
 who gathered round the gate, however early 
 she began, and, thrusting their snubby noses 
 through the bars, made remarks detrimental 
 to the 44 blessed old . furriner's " science. 
 
 There was a hay-field close to the garden ; 
 the scent of the new-cut hay mingled pleas- 
 antly with that of the flowers, and Philip and 
 Fridoline sat talking in the fresh air until 
 three 'oclock, when Hulda appeared and 
 waved her hand at the porch ; this Fridoline 
 understood to be a signal for dinner, and 
 they entered. Philip did ample justice to 
 the simple meal, and never enjoyed a grand 
 dinner party half as much as his Me-a-tete 
 with Fridoline, who chatted and laughed 
 merrily, but did the small honors as grace- 
 fully as though she were a countess. When 
 dinner was nearly over she said " I am 
 sure Hulda must have taken a fancy to you, 
 for she has given us two of our national 
 lishcs, and nothing is a stronger mark of 
 favor." 
 
 44 I should think the attention was more 
 probably paid to your birthday than to your 
 visitor,"" returned Philip. "Tin- lc\v -lances 
 I have caught her giving me have certainly 
 not been loving ones. It is a pity she un- 
 derstands so little Knglish, as I have no op- 
 portunity of paying her any compliments on 
 her excellent dinner." 
 
 Fridoline conveyed this -|ieeeh to I Hilda 
 in a whisper, whereupon, without any reply, 
 she walked stilllv out of the mom, .-hutting 
 the door very loudly in her retreat. 
 
 " She is quite delighted," said her mis- 
 tress, 44 but that is her peculiar mode of 
 showing it ; I know her so well, pour crea- 
 ture ! Is il not strange how any one can live 
 ill a country for months and mouths, as she 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 35 
 
 has done, without learning to speak? T 
 could make myself understood when I had 
 been in England six weeks. 
 
 " But every one has not the talent of little 
 Fridoline " 
 
 " Fi done ! Monsieur Earnscliffo. You 
 must bethinking of Celeste, or Miss Elmslie, 
 to-day, or you would not pay compliments. 
 You forget you are talking to me/ 1 
 
 " Indeed I do not, mademoiselle." 
 
 A stranger might have thought this long 
 dy, spent in each other's society, rather a 
 dangerous one for them both; but Philip, 
 much as he admired and was interested in 
 Fridoline, could never entertain anvthing 
 but a friendly feeling towards this wild, un- 
 certain little being, so mlike all other wo- 
 men ; and every thought of hers was too 
 strained upon one deeply-engrossing object, 
 for her to run any risk from human love. At 
 least, Fridoline believed so. 
 
 " I have still another room to show you," 
 she said, after dinner. " This one has a 
 western aspect, and when the summer is 
 over, it is cold and dark in the morning; so 
 I have fitted up one up-stairs for my winter 
 study, where the early light shines fuller, 
 and I have a pleasant view over the com- 
 mon." 
 
 She led the way up the old-fashioned stair- 
 case, warning Philip to beware of the pro- 
 jecting beams over head, and showed him 
 into her winter study. It was almost a pret- 
 tier room than the lower one more light 
 and cheerful ; and though very plainly fur- 
 nished, made artist-like by some plaster casts 
 from the antique, and one or two excellent 
 engravings on the walls. Philip asked, as 
 he examined them, if she was fond of pic- 
 tures. 
 
 " I love them beyond everything," she 
 replied. " Painting is the noblest branch of 
 art after all, and must be by far the sweetest 
 to follow. Authors must toil with pen and 
 paper, and bring out their glowing thoughts 
 through the cold medium of words, which, 
 you know, are not understood by everybody ; 
 untaught people and little children, for m- 
 stance, the two classes I should like best to 
 please, only see that books are printed pa- 
 per. But the painter's words are like those 
 of God : the sky, and flowers, and trees ; 
 and he speaks to all. How could the touch- 
 ing truths of religion ever have been realised 
 to the common people before printing was 
 invented, but for painting? The abstract 
 idea of Christ as a teacher, delivering les- 
 sons of wisdom and morality, could never 
 have been brought home to them ; but they 
 saw Him ministering to the poor healing 
 the sick giving life to the dead ; saw Him 
 suffering crowned with thorns dying on 
 the cross ; and they loved and believed." 
 
 She spoke in her usual rapid manner ; but 
 her eye dilated, and Philip saw that it was a 
 
 vorite subject. 
 
 " Poets and painters each have the same 
 high mission," he answered: "to embody 
 those true and beautiful thoughts that lie in 
 the hearts of most men ; but which they re- 
 quire another, peculiarly gifted, to express 
 for them." 
 
 "Yes; but poets have more power ot 
 making you feel with their feelings, and see 
 with their senses, than painters, and that is 
 why I prefer painting. A sunset of Claude's, 
 a Madonna of Raphael's, is only a faithful 
 representation of the highest earthly beauty, 
 from which each mind may derive its own 
 unassisted delight, as it would do from Na- 
 ture herself." 
 
 "I am convinced," said Philip, "that 
 painters themselves are the happiest of men. 
 Writers of all kinds, or, at least, the large 
 majority of them, soon grow hardened by 
 rough contact with the world, harsh criti- 
 cism, and literary jealousies. But an artist 
 has little of such discipline ; he dwells 
 abroad with Nature, or in his studio with 
 Art, hanging over his darling picture with 
 the love of a mother over her first-born, 
 with far tenderer feelings than an author 
 ever felt for the blurred, unsightly manuscript 
 he is committing .to the printer. His work 
 is so exclusively the painter's own ; he has 
 watched it from the first moment of its con- 
 ception, through all the dawning shades of 
 development, until its perfection ; and he 
 feels that that individual picture will exist 
 and speak of him long after the hand that 
 painted it is cold. And however poor the 
 work, this golden delusion is the same. No 
 disappointment, no poverty, ever mars the 
 love of the worst painter for his pictures. 
 But your own art, Fridoline," he added, 
 gently ; " let us speak of that also." 
 
 "Mine!" she answered, mournfully; 
 " oh ! you know well that the greatest singers 
 have only their one ' crowded hour of glorious 
 life,' and are then forgotten ; while all other 
 genius leaves some permanent creation for the 
 future. An artist, who can live only through 
 his physical powers, has no future existence 
 our memory dies quicker than the flowers 
 flung at our feet on a farewell-night. Mine 
 is the lowest art of all. I doubt if the first 
 actor who ever lived, real!}' ennobled human 
 nature, or raised one fallen spirit through his 
 genius. Everything about the stage is so 
 false ; the light and the paint, and the actors 
 themselves, who are scarcely off the scene 
 before they sink down again from the noblest 
 character into their own debased lives. Why, 
 the very air of the theatre has something un- 
 natural in it an association of mid-day 
 darkness and tinsel splendor at night, that I 
 can never shake off. Do you know, Mr. 
 Earnscliffe," she went on, wandering from the 
 original subject, " I never seem to breathe 
 after rehearsal or performance, till I feel my- 
 self again in the fresh air of the country ? " 
 
 " You have chosen a pleasant spot," said 
 
36 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 Philip, as he seated himself at the open win- 
 dow ; * one well suited to your simple natural 
 tastes." 
 
 She took a low stool and placed herself 
 near him. Are you perfectly happy ? " she 
 inquired, at length, after a pause, and lifting 
 her eyes earnestly to his face. 
 
 " Is any one so ? " he replied, while a slight 
 shade crossed his features. " I am certainly 
 not less happy than the generality of men. 
 I have plenty of interest in life ; I enjoy 
 society have ambition to fulfil bright pros- 
 pects for the future. 1 ' 
 
 Fridoline shook her head. She had heard 
 rumors of Philip's hasty, ill-assorted mar- 
 riage, and his reply told iier that his pleasures 
 were not in his home." 
 
 " 1 see," she remarked, and asked no more 
 questions. They went on quietly conversing 
 upon subjects unconnected with themselves, 
 and, at last, among other names, that of 
 Celeste was mentioned. 
 
 " Poor Celeste ! " said Fridoline. 
 
 " Why do you thus pity her?" returned 
 Philip. 
 
 *' She seems so perfectly contented so 
 really happy in her life. You smile at my 
 reason, but you do not know Celeste as I do. 
 When I was utterly friendless in London, I 
 was taken ill, a few days after my first ap- 
 pearance, with an inflammation on the chest 
 the effect, I suppose, of excitement and 
 exposure to night air. Celeste heard I was 
 alone, and visited and nursed me, and gave 
 up her gay parties to make my sick-room 
 cheerful. Then I found out what a good 
 heart and kindly feeling lie beneath all her 
 little false affections ; and I am sorry now to 
 t'uink that Celeste should, after all, be so per- 
 fectly contented with the life of an actress." 
 
 " Celeste is very entertaining," said Philip. 
 " How charming she was the night we first 
 met Miss Elmslie, at her house ! " 
 
 "Oh, how do you kike Rose Elmslie?" 
 cried Fridoline, suddenly, scanning Philip's 
 face as she- spoke. She thought she detected 
 a slight change of color there. 
 
 " Then- can be but one opinion," he re- 
 plied : " she is surpassingly lovely." 
 
 " Of course do you like her? " 
 
 "Really, Fridoline, I cannot say that I 
 dislike Miss Elmslie. Poor thing ! one must 
 regret that, voting and beautiful as she is. 
 *he has chosen a life so full of temptations as 
 
 " Temptations ! " echoed Fridoline, scorn- 
 fully. " Yen, you are right. Our life bus 
 temptations to such as Hose Elmslie, though 
 to me they are horrors. Well, as you will 
 not he candid, I will. I was interested in 
 that irirl's story, and wished to know her ; but 
 the m Muent we met I felt an 4 tfi>it/nrin<-iif ' - 
 J don't know your word in BngHflh to\unls 
 Iier. that I have never lost. Her beauty is 
 extraordinary; but when I look at her fixed- 
 ly, she grows hideous to me. Either what 
 
 she is, or what she will be, makes me shrink 
 away from her." 
 
 Philip thought Fridoline harsh, and could 
 not at all agree with her opinions of the poor 
 little dancer, and gradually their conversa- 
 tion turned again to other things. Fridoline 
 talked of her childhood (an unusual confi- 
 dence for her), in a quiet old country house, 
 where they had seven months of bright in- 
 tense winter, and five of summer and flowers ; 
 and where, until she was fifteen, she had 
 never known more of the world than going on 
 Sunday to the village church, three miles dis- 
 tant; or more gaiety than the midsummer's 
 night festival among the peasants in the 
 mountains. Then she made Philip tell of 
 his own childish days ; and her eyes glistened 
 when she heard him regret that he could only- 
 just remember his mother. 
 
 " You are happy," she murmured, " very 
 happy in that remembrance of her. Would 
 God I had the same ! " 
 
 " Have you no mother, Fridoline? " He 
 was sorry for the question, when he saw the 
 spasm of agony which suddenly contracted 
 her features. 
 
 " None," she replied, with a hoarse voice 
 and bloodless lip. " Let us speak of other 
 things ; ' I know not why I spoke of home, or 
 of my childhood." 
 
 And, with a wonderful effort over herself, 
 she began speaking upon some indifferent 
 subject; and, in a few minutes, had regained 
 her usual lively strain. The hours passed 
 by unheeded; for no one ever remembered 
 time in the society of Fridoline. All that in 
 usual conversation is tame and common, van- 
 ished away in the light thrown over the most 
 trivial subjects by her brilliant fancy her 
 wit her quick insight and the natural elo- 
 quence, which, even in a foreign language, 
 could find words always expressive always 
 ready. And Philip, who detested what are 
 generally styled clever women, forgot, that 
 he was listening to one in little Fridoline. 
 At length the western sun threw long, slant- 
 ing shadows across the heath, and he began 
 to think that he ought not to trespass longer 
 on her time, of which every moment was so 
 valuable. lie was just preparing to say so, 
 when a sudden noise arose in the household, 
 and Fridoliue sprang to her feet. 
 
 " Excuse me for a minute, 11 she exclaimed; 
 " Ilulda is distributing some of her hourly 
 injustice among my creatures, and 1 must in- 
 terfere. She sits at work in the kitchen, and 
 hears a low, ominous sound under the table, 
 without deigning to notice it. The sound 
 deepens then comes Iles>'s well-known hiss 
 then screams from the cats and when tlio 
 hawk is flapping his wings with pa>sion tho 
 cats locked in a perfect embrace of hatred 
 and Karl flying round and round, gnashing 
 lii^ tei-lh at everybody, I lulda ri>es, and, with 
 the nea.'-c>t weapon that come* to hand, 
 eliu.iliseb them all round, and then turns them 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 into the garden. But I never permit it when 
 I am at home ; for it is impossible they are all 
 wrong and they know when they are punish- 
 ed unjustly." 
 
 She ran lightly down stairs, and Philip 
 soon heard hr in high discussion with Hul- 
 da, in some foreign language, which, spoken 
 by Fridoline, sounded musical. Then the 
 voices became fainter, as they went off into 
 the back-garden probably, after the ban- 
 ished creatures and, finally, Fridoline re- 
 mained away so long, that Philip thought he 
 would himself go in search of her. There 
 were two doors, both on the same side of the 
 room, one leading into the passage, the other 
 to Fridoline's sleeping-room ; and, not hav- 
 ing noticed at which he entered, Philip acci- 
 dentally opened the wrong one. He instant- 
 ly drew back ; but the momentary glance he 
 caught, was of something so white and fresh, 
 that he held the handle of the lock irresolute, 
 and, finally, took a fuller view of the little 
 room. It was plain as her sitting-room, and 
 as unlike the apartment of an actress. There 
 were no untidy remains of finery no cheval 
 glass no filigree bottles no signs of theat- 
 rical costume. On the dressing-table a cup 
 with violets in it was the only ornament : on 
 the other side of the glass lay a large clasped 
 book. A white French bed stood in one 
 corner of the room, and immediately oppo- 
 site, so that it was the first and last object 
 upon which the eyes of the young actress 
 must daily rest, hung an exquisite copy of 
 one of Guido's pictures : the head of a dying 
 Christ. 
 
 Philip felt strangely moved ; and, impell- 
 ed by a feeling that he could not withstand, 
 hu walked softly to the dressing-table and 
 unclasped the book, which bore marks of be- 
 ing better read than any of those down stairs. 
 It was a New Testament, and on the title 
 page was written, in French, " Fridoline 
 on her tenth birthday." A slight knowledge 
 of northern languages enabled Philip to dis- 
 cover that the Testament was written in 
 Swedish, and printed at Christiania ; so Nor- 
 way, after all, was Fridoline's country. A 
 black book-marker worked at one end with a 
 cross, was in the book, and Philip turned to 
 the page where it was placed. It was the 
 story of that repentant Magdalene from whom 
 He, in His perfect purity, (fid not turn 
 away, and the leaf was actually worn and 
 blistered with tears, as though daily read and 
 wpt over. Philip closed the book, and 
 quickly retreated from the poor girl's room, 
 with a feeling of compunction at having thus 
 unwittingly discovered one of the secrets of 
 her liie then he descended to join her in the 
 garden. But in those few minutes his inter- 
 est in her was increased tenfold, for he knew 
 that, whatever had been her history, what- 
 ever her knowledge of vice whose recol- 
 lection still seemed to weigh so heavily upon 
 her Fridoline was now a pure and sinless 
 
 When the sun had set, and the moon was 
 just rising over the trees, Philip bade her 
 good night at the little garden gate. 
 
 ** May your next birthday prove as happy 
 to you, dear Fridoline, as this one has been 
 to me," were his last words when they part- 
 ed. 
 
 She stood long watching his figure till it 
 was lost in the deepening shadows of the 
 heath. Then she prepared to enter ; but the 
 cottage looked very dark. 
 
 " To work," she said, and an almost stern 
 expression came over her features. " To 
 work ; I have nothing to do with such feel- 
 ings. My life has henceforth only one ob- 
 ject to work, and toil, and win money." 
 And all the youthful beauty was gone from 
 her face, as she entered, and passed quickly 
 into her study. Long after midnight the 
 light still shone from Fridoline's window, 
 while she walked up and down the room, with 
 her eyes heavy, and her whole frame wea- 
 ried, but still patiently learning her long role 
 for the morrow. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE London season drew to a close that 
 sweet time of early summer, when Nature .s 
 in her youngest beauty, and every hedge 
 and field laden with freshness, but which 
 English people choose to spend in town. 
 
 Philip was going on in his usual life : he 
 was, however, thinking earnestly of begin- 
 ning another work, and was undecided how 
 and where to spend the summer. He longed 
 for quiet to be away from the St. Lexers, 
 and even from his own friends for a time ; 
 but still he hesitated what plan to adopt. He 
 always treated his wife with courtesy, and 
 would himself make no proposal of actual 
 separation, although their life together had 
 virtually long been one ; and the most deadly 
 of all, a separation under one roof. A cir- 
 cumstance, however, occurred at this time 
 which rendered him and Clara both more in- 
 dependent. Although the earl was himself 
 irretrievably ruined, in a younger branch of 
 the St. Leger family there was no lack of 
 wealth. It had entered it by the marriage of 
 one of their house, some years before, with 
 the daughter of a retired manufacturer, and 
 was now enjoyed by a cousin of Lord St. 
 Leger a widower, with an only son of about 
 fourteen. It was in the power of the pos- 
 sessor to will the property to whom he chose ; 
 and this circumstance, as well as the two 
 young, strong lives which stood between him 
 and the succession, had prevented Lord St. 
 Leger from ever speculating on any contin- 
 gency that could affect himself. He \vstb not 
 on good terms even with his cousin, and the 
 latter had a whole host of his wife's relations 
 
88 
 
 PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 ready to become his heirs in the event of 
 the death of IHS own son. 
 
 One morning, however a few days be- 
 fore the time when Lord St. Leger had 
 fixed, in his own mind, that exposure conld 
 no longer be avoided, nor angry creditors 
 kept at bay he found, on his breakfast ta- 
 ble, an ominous-looking letter, with im- 
 mense black edges, and directed in a lawyer- 
 like hand. As his eye glanced at the post- 
 mark, a strange, nervous tremor came over 
 him, and he could scarcely break open the 
 envelope. Like all gamblers, he was su- 
 perstitious ; and an unusual run of luck at 
 hazard the last few days gave him a forebod- 
 ing that his good star was in the ascendant. 
 lie was not mistaken. The letter was from 
 his cousin's solicitor, informing him of the 
 melancholy death of his two relations, who 
 had been drowned together by the upsetting 
 of a boat on one of the Highland lakes; and 
 it went on to state that his cousin, having 
 made no provision for an event like the fear- 
 ful one which had just occurred, Lord St. 
 LciMT as heir-at-law, inherited the whole of 
 the property. The father, in his will, had 
 left everything to his son, with the pi'oviso 
 that, should the latter inherit, and die be- 
 fore attaining his majority, the money should 
 then be divided between several of his late 
 \vife ? s relations, who were named. The ca- 
 tastrophe, however, which ended both lives, 
 had been watched by a knot of spectators 
 from the beach; and there was ample testi- 
 mony to prove that the boy disappeared, 
 never to rise again, on the first upsetting of 
 the boat, while his father, who could swim, 
 was seen for several minutes vainly battling 
 with the waves, which at length overcame 
 him. The son, there-fore, had never inherit- 
 ed ; and through this slender point of law. 
 Lord St. Leger found himself, at the very 
 moment when his reputation was about to be 
 blasted to the world, suddenly possessed of 
 a large, unincumbered property. 
 
 Karnscliffe, without any latent thought 
 for himself, was uridisguisedly glad at this 
 sudden turn of 'events, lie had long known 
 that ruin and disgrace were hanging over 
 his father-in-law, and this had made him 
 considerate to Clara far beyond what her 
 open ai;d almost insulting coldness towards 
 himself de.-er\ed. But with this new acces- 
 sion of wealth in her family, everything was 
 changed, and, with no feeling of sell-re- 
 proach, he might now see his haughty wife 
 j-'-tiini to the protection of her parents. 
 < laia's pride, however, still revolted against 
 I ny open separation; and. miserable ;i< was 
 her married life, she could not dfnermine 
 
 lipoli so grave a -lep ;is herself proposing to 
 lca\e IHT husband's house. Soon alter their 
 <<.M-III'S death, the St. Lexers determined 
 upon going abroad to spend the remainder 
 of the summer and autumn, and her mother 
 invited Cult to accompany them to some ol 
 the (lerinan baths lor Lord St. Lexer's 
 
 first use xif his wealth was, if course, to re- 
 new his acquaintance with Ilomburg and 
 Baden-Baden. With so plausible an excuse, 
 for her health was really delicate, and being 
 under the protection of her own parents, she 
 felt that the world, or even her friends, 
 could say nothing about this temporary sepa- 
 ration, and she really longed for any relief 
 from her present life. Accordingly she made 
 the proposal to Philip, and read in his bright- 
 ening face his ready acquiescence. 
 
 " I trust, you will derive benefit from the 
 change, Clara," he replied. " My own au- 
 tumn will be passed in some quiet spot, 
 where I can enter undisturbed upon my new 
 work. In the winter we shall meet again." 
 
 They parted coldly, but as friends; and 
 when Philip heard the last sounds of the 
 carriage- wheels which bore away his wife 
 and her parents, he gave a sigh of intense 
 relief, and felt " I am free." 
 
 In the afternoon he went to call on his 
 friend, Neville. He found the young artist 
 in unbounded spirits ; his large picture in 
 the exhibition was sold, and he had, that 
 very day, received orders for two more of 
 similar size. 
 
 " Congratulate me ! I am now on the 
 high-road to fame, EarnsclifTe ! " he ex- 
 claimed, as he shook Philip's luyul heartily. 
 "In another year I shall have realised 
 enough money to enable'me to go to Rome ; 
 two vears I shall remain and studv there, 
 then return to England, and, I firmly believe, 
 be one of our first landscape painters." 
 
 Philip warmly entered into his sanguine 
 hopes, and sat long with his friend, who, 
 with his accustomed energy, was already 
 sketching the outline for one of his new pic- 
 tures. 
 
 " Yours is a happy life, Neville." 
 
 "Yes; some of my lonely hours, when I 
 have been working at my pictures, and my 
 recent ones of success, I would exchange 
 with no man. But 1 have had years of toil 
 bitter toil and disappointment before at- 
 taining to even my present liune. There is 
 so much mere mechanism for a painter to ac- 
 quire before he can express his ideas. Look 
 at yourself now: you are five or six \ears 
 younger than I am, but your first book 
 written, as yon have told me. without an ex- 
 ertionmade you celebrated." 
 
 The remark reminded Karnsdifl'e of Frid- 
 
 oline, and he repeated some of her obsi rva- 
 tions on art to Neville. 
 
 " She is a gifted little creature," he re- 
 plied : "but Eewaf of these long, lonely 
 conversations, Phil. A woman like Frido- 
 line would be the very devil to have in lovo 
 with one." 
 
 " There is no risk." said Philip, gravely. 
 " Fridoline is not a "jrl to inspire any light 
 sentiment, nor likely herself to fall in lovu 
 wil h a married man."' 
 
 "Ah, true! I beg both your pat. Ions. 
 The fact is, 1 never remember that \mi art 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 39 
 
 married. How is your domestic bliss getting 
 on? 1 ' 
 
 Philip mentioned the departure of his wife. 
 
 " And what are you goin<* to do with your 
 summer and your freedom ? " asked the ar- 
 tist ; " not waste them, by staying at country 
 houses, I hope." 
 
 Philip said he wished to live in perfect soli- 
 tude for some months while he worked at his 
 new book. 
 
 " Then I have it all," exclaimed Neville, 
 throwing down his pencil, and seizing both 
 Philip's hands; "we will go together, old 
 fellow. I will take you to my wild quarters 
 among the Highlands, where I spent last 
 autumn ; and if you do not find them retired 
 enough, you must indeed be fond of solitude. 
 You can write I sketch and both forget, in 
 the mountain air, and with nothing but Na- 
 ture round us, our feverish town life, our 
 friends, wives, aye, and Fridoline herself!" 
 
 " I am ready," returned Philip. And 
 they entered so eagerly into their new plans 
 that Neville soon abandoned his pencil, and, 
 after changing his painting-blouse for a coat, 
 proposed that they should walk out together 
 in the Park. It was a hot, bright day, and 
 all London seemed there. Carriages and 
 equestrians crowded past in an unbroken 
 stream ; and Earnscliffe'sbat was off repeat- 
 edly. 
 
 "Hold it in your hand, at once," said 
 Neville. " How can you be at the trouble 
 of uncovering every second, for all these 
 people ? " 
 
 " It is one of the evils of society, I ad- 
 mit," said Philip; "but, still, unavoidable. 
 Let us turn into one of the side-walks, where 
 we shall be less disturbed." 
 
 At that moment a very dashing little equi- 
 page,' with two showy black ponies, came 
 along, clearing its way dexterously among the 
 interminable labyrinth of wheels by which it 
 was surrounded. It was driven by a lady, 
 whose perfect sang froid, and dress, and re- 
 markable beauty, drew every eye upon her. 
 She was unaccompanied, a diminutive page 
 only sitting behind, but did not seem the 
 least disconcerted at the admiration she at- 
 tracted. 
 
 " Rose Elmslie, by Jove ! " said Neville. 
 " Well, she is getting on. Who paid for all 
 that, I wonder, Phil ? Count B , I sup- 
 pose, out of his Derby winnings." 
 
 Philip's eye marked her coldly, and he bit 
 his lip, without answering. When she was 
 quite close she perceived them, and colored 
 scarlet, as she bowed. Philip took his hat 
 off to the ground ; Neville nodded. 
 
 " Well, hang it, Phil ! salute your own 
 friends if you will, but I cannot understand 
 taking off your hat to a woman of that kind, 
 as though she were a duchess." 
 
 " I am only just beginning to think that 
 she is a woman of that kind," said Philip, in 
 a low voice. 
 
 "Why, what should she be? poor, love- 
 ly, and a dancer bah ! " 
 
 Earnscliffe took his friend's arm, and they 
 walked on to a retired part of Kensington 
 Gardens, where they sat down to discuss 
 their plans for the summer quietly. The ar- 
 tist continued in excellent spirits, but Philip 
 seemed somewhat depressed, and even more 
 anxious to get away from town than his friend. 
 
 " Are you ' thinking of an absent 
 spouse ? ' " remarked Neville, at last. " You 
 seem to be very much out of spirits all at 
 once ! " 
 
 " Not I. I am in remarkably good spirits, 
 on the contrary." 
 
 " If it were possible but no; the sight 
 of that worthless young thing cannot have 
 had any effect upon you." 
 
 " If you mean Miss Elmslie by your po- 
 lite term, undoubtedly not. Miss Elmslie is 
 nothing to me." 
 
 " And will continue so, I trust. She is of 
 a worse description than Fridoline, or even 
 Celeste. Tell me what your next book is to 
 be about. Do you sketch the entire outline 
 before commencing, as one does for a picture, 
 or write on where your fancy leads you ? " 
 
 "Oh! I shall write very differently this 
 time. My two first books have succeeded as 
 much from accident as merit as much from 
 their vices as their virtues. Now I must 
 begin writing for real fame for solid criti- 
 cism." 
 
 And the afternoon passed by while they 
 talked over their mutual hopes and projects. 
 They dined afterwards at Philip's club, and 
 in a few days were en route for Scotland. 
 The remainder of the fine weather passed 
 happily to them both. Each pursued his own 
 occupation, absorbed and uninterrupted ; but 
 they had the companionship of kindred 
 thought when they needed it, after work, and 
 would wander for hours together among the 
 mountains in the calm summer evenings. 
 On Philip the change was most beneficial. 
 He had a softer and more pliant nature than 
 his friend, and his mind had lost more of its 
 tone during its contact with the world, from 
 the ready way he fell into the life of those 
 around him. But this difference was merely 
 one of temperament. He had more real 
 genius than the artist ; and after a few weeks- 
 spent among this grand, still nature, Philip- 
 wrote with a fervor and inspiration far sur- 
 passing that in either of his former works. 
 
 Neville studied fore-ground, noted atmos- 
 pheric effects, and thought, as his sketches 
 multiplied, of the pictures they would form, 
 and of his own fame. He had exactly the 
 organisation of a man who is to succeed in 
 this world. Sufficient genius, untiring indus- 
 try, energy that no failure could damp, an 
 iron frame, and a boundless ambition. With 
 Philip, to gaze at a golden sunset or moun- 
 tain storm, was to unloose a flood of uncon- 
 scious poetry in his heart; and afterwards 
 
40 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 he simply wrote down his thoughts as they 
 existed, without labor, often without a single 
 alteration, and always forgetful of himself or 
 his own success. With him the artist was 
 lost in the art, and both at times in the source 
 from whence come poet and inspiration alike. 
 With Neville this was never the case. Pos- 
 sessing an exuberant fancy, he was not for 
 one moment himself under the influence of 
 his own imagination. He could conceive 
 wild and beautiful pictures, and for his art 
 had a really passionate love, but it all seem- 
 ed unconnected, as it were, with his own 
 personal existence ; and the artist ever re- 
 mained a consistent, practical citizen of the 
 world. He was the best friend and adviser 
 possible for Philip, who, although he had 
 conformed nvuch more than Neville to the 
 life of society, plunged into numberless fol- 
 1'es, from which the other had continued free, 
 was yet a very child at heart, compared to 
 the artist, and still possessed a hundred illu- 
 sions which Neville had lost in his boyhood. 
 For instance, bitter as had been his own 
 short experience of married life, Philip had 
 still a firm belief in the existence of pure 
 and faithful love ; a point on which his friend, 
 if not sceptical, was cold and sarcastic, and 
 in his new works wrote with enthusiasm on 
 this subject, in spite of Neville's criticisms. 
 And often, when they walked silently under 
 the starry summer night, he felt the myste- 
 rious workings of youth and love that were 
 FO strong within his own heart, and asked him- 
 self if the) were never in this world to be sat- 
 isfied while he wrote of love and imagined it 
 for others, was his own life to be spent only 
 between the world, and the cold, dull tedium 
 of his loveless marriage ? But this was a 
 theme he never entered upon with Neville. 
 
 The autumn passed quickly away. The 
 hills, from bright golden, had become brown, 
 and the purple was gone from the heather ; 
 but at the beginning of November the 
 friends still lingered in their Highland cot- 
 tage, endeared to them both from the glowing 
 thoughts of pen and pencil which had there 
 had birth, and neither of them was anxious 
 to return to town. The days were, however, 
 now very short, and the weather so uncer- 
 tain, that they at length unwillingly depart- 
 ed : Neville to his London lodging, and 
 Philip to pay his uncle a long-promised \i-it. 
 The St. Legers had not yet returned to Eng- 
 land. 
 
 J hiring the autumn Philip had received oc- 
 casional notes from his wife. They were, 
 like herself, cold, abrupt, and uninteresting, 
 and he did not rend them twice; but in the 
 one which awaited him on his arrival at 
 Miles Karnscliil'e's, the first lines arrested 
 his at tent inn at once. Lady ( Mara announced 
 that they would all be in London during the 
 OOnfM of the month, and reminded 1'liilip, 
 at the expiration of the pre>i-nt term, to take 
 on their house in Park Lane lor the coming 
 
 season. So his wife had still no wish for an 
 open separation ! 
 
 CHAPTER XT. 
 
 AGAIN the London season was at its 
 height. 
 
 Philip and Clara had met with a tolerable 
 show of friendliness, on her return from Ger- 
 many, but he had soon merged airain into his 
 old life ; and Clara, whose health appeared 
 little improved, became more gloomy ami 
 taciturn than ever. Her father's unlooked- 
 for accession of wealth had only added to the 
 bitterness which rankled in her heart about 
 her marriage. She felt that, as the heiress 
 of an immense fortune, she might have been 
 spared the humiliation of stooping to win 
 her young cousin, for the sake of his mer- 
 chant-uncle's money ; and her mother came 
 in for the full share of thanks, which she 
 merited, as principal promoter of the mar- 
 riage ; and had to bear many a cold taunt 
 from her daughter on the subject. 
 
 In time, Clara went rarely even to her own 
 parent's house, more rarely still into society. 
 She shrank, with a morbid feeling, from the 
 scrutiny of her old friends; and her life was 
 passed in hugging to her heart her disap- 
 pointment and loneliness. She had no child 
 to break the tedium of her long hours, and 
 open the one warm spring of happiness left 
 to many a deserted wife ; few mental re- 
 sources ; no religion, beyond that of appear- 
 ing in her pew every Sunday, to listen to 
 some fashionable preacher; while, week alter 
 week, she became more fully sensible of hoc 
 husband's indifference, a'-d the life of eter- 
 nal dissipation he was leading. His new 
 work was in the press, and great things were, 
 expected of it. Philip himself I'. -It that it 
 was far superior to either of his former ones, 
 and his own opinion was confirmed by the 
 friendly criticisms he had received on the- 
 manuscript, lie had much to do in correct- 
 ing proofs, and so on: but still found ample 
 time for society, especially that of the <'<ili$- 
 .sv.v, which now appeared to possess a renew- 
 ed and powerful fascination to the young 
 author. 
 
 Neville, meantime, was working, during 
 everv moment of daylight, on his pictures, 
 lie gave up parties of all kinds, and scaiv- 
 Iv even went to the. theatre, that his head 
 might be more clear, his hand more steady, 
 for his morning's work; and every aliernoori 
 after dusk he look long walks into flic cmiu- 
 trv, for the. sake of his mental ami bodily 
 health. Everything he did was subservient 
 t(i one object he must complete his two 
 pictures before the exhibition, lie paid for 
 them, and start for Homo; and not e\cry 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 41 
 
 pleasure in London could have drawn him 
 aside from the steady execution of his plans. 
 He had not seen very much of Philip since 
 their return from Scotland. He had himself 
 no time for visiting; and every moment of 
 Earnscliffe's life was so taken up with some 
 new excitement, that his visits to his friend's 
 quiet studio were far less frequent than for- 
 merly. Besides this, Neville, on the plea 
 of his seniority, always gave Philip quiet 
 lectures about the way he was frittering away 
 his time, which the latter did not at all relish, 
 especially as he himself well knew the truth 
 of these remarks. 
 
 One evening, Neville was returning from a 
 long, quick walk on Hampstead Heath, his 
 step firm, his head erect, and his arms folded, 
 as was his wont, \Vhen he saw a figure some 
 fifty yards ahead. He thought he recognised 
 the slight form, the slow, graceful walk, and 
 quickened his pace. It was Earnscliffe. 
 
 " Good evening, Phil." 
 
 44 Hallo ! Neville what, you here ? " 
 
 *' Ave, ' qiie diable faites vous dans cefie 
 gaUre ? ' I suppose you mean to say. Well, 
 1 have been doing as you should walking 
 alone on the heath to cool my head, after the 
 day's work. And you ? " 
 
 *' I ? I have just been walking home with 
 Fridoline," answered Philip, hesitating a lit- 
 tle. He did not much like talking about her 
 to Neville. 
 
 44 Oh ! how is she getting on, by the way ? 
 I have no time for theatres and actresses, and 
 such things now." 
 
 " Fridoline is, as usual, working hnrd at 
 her profession, looking paler and older, I 
 think, and more strange and lonely in her 
 life than she ever was." 
 
 " Only diversifying it by twilight walks on 
 the heath with Philip Earnscliffe," added the 
 artist. " Poor philosophic little Fridoline ! 
 Well, I don't think you are in any danger 
 from that quarter, whatever she may be." 
 
 "In danger from her! none/I should 
 trust," returned Philip, with a short laugh, 
 and seemingly quite disposed to change the 
 subject. 
 
 " I hope not, I am sure. But, indepen- 
 dently of Fridoline who is about the best 
 of them you are wasting your fine energies 
 among all these people, when you should be 
 thinking of your art alone. That worthless 
 young Elmslie, now " 
 
 44 Neville " 
 
 44 Don't be in a rage, Philip, or I shall 
 really think badly of you." 
 
 44 1 am not the least in a rage ; but I will 
 not hear you speak in those terms of poor 
 Rose. She was brought up to a life she now 
 hates, when a mere child ; she is lovely, 
 young, surrounded with temptation, and 
 therefore you condemn her." 
 
 44 Not in the least. I think her conduct is 
 excessively natural, and like that of every 
 other dancer in the world. I made use of 
 the word 4 worthless' only because, for her 
 
 \ age, she possesses a really unusual amount 
 of deceit, in addition to her beauty, and 
 temptation, and sorrow for the life she leads. 
 Well, it is wonderful how these women all 
 pitch upon you for the repository of their 
 pious compunctions, and how you believe 
 them. First Fridoline, now young Elmslie; 
 I suppose we shall have Celeste herself next 
 upon your list of penitents. What an absurd 
 world we live in ! " 
 
 Although Philip defended Rose Elmslie so 
 warmly, it pained him to hear his poor little 
 friend Fridoline classed with her. He felt 
 that the distance between them was im- 
 measurable ; but feared provoking' Neville's 
 sarcasm by saying so. 
 
 44 How is Rose deceitful? " he asked, after 
 a pause. 
 
 4 ' Only in talking sentiment, and regretting 
 her life with you in morning, and receiving 
 
 bracelets from Count B in the afternoon, 
 
 while she really laughs at you both with 
 somebody else afterwards. But think as you 
 like, you know ; I shall certainly retain 'my 
 opinions too." 
 
 Earnscliffe got rather angry, and again be- 
 gan defending Miss Elmslie with all the vehe- 
 mence of a champion who really doubts the 
 right of his cause ; but Neville interrupted 
 him. 
 
 44 Let us change the subject, Phil ; you are 
 a perfect boy, still, and cannot learn experi- 
 ence as quickly as I did ; however, you will 
 buy it at last and, in the meantime, do not 
 quarrel with one friend for all the actresses 
 in creation. Towards the end of May, I 
 think I shall start for Switzerland, and shall 
 then remain two years in Italy ; so I shall not 
 see much more of you. But write sometimes, 
 and tell me how all this life of yours ends, 
 and which was right you or I." 
 
 Philip's annoyance was quickly over, and 
 Neville was soon talking eagerly of the prog- 
 ress of his pictures. Then he* inquired ho\y 
 soon the new book would appear. 
 
 ' 4 In about a month," returned Philip. 
 44 It is far better written than either of my 
 former ones ; consequently, I ought to have 
 good hopes of success ; and yet 1 know not 
 why I have a sort of foreboding that it will 
 be, not, perhaps, a failure, but, at all events, 
 very differently received to the two first." 
 
 Neville tried to reason him out of this feel- 
 ing, and they parted, with their accustomed 
 friendly shake of the hand, at the Regent's 
 Circus, where their roads separated. Neville 
 went off, happy, to his dark, comfortless 
 lodgings, and Philip returned home to din- 
 ner. By some extraordinary chance he 
 dined tete-a-tete with his wife, almost for the 
 first time since their honeymoon, and they 
 both felt strange in each other's society. 
 
 4 * Have you an engagement for this even- 
 ing, Clara? " he asked, during the couise of 
 dinner. She looked up astonished. 
 
 44 None. You know I have almost given 
 up going out, now that my health is so bad." 
 
42 
 
 PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 " You will not go to the opera, then ? " 
 
 *' Certainly not." She felt positively be- 
 wildered at this sudden interest in her move- 
 ments. 
 
 " Well, you are right. It is a stupid 
 } opera this evening, and there is no ballet ; 
 1 though, perhaps, you do not care for that." 
 
 Clara made no reply ; and her husband, 
 after one or two languishing attempts at con- 
 versation, became silent also. 
 
 After dinner Philip's cab came round al- 
 most immediately. Clara was in the draw- 
 ing-room, and happened to be standing at 
 the window, which she had just opened to 
 place a bouquet of flowers on the balcony, in 
 the fresh air, at the moment when Philip left 
 the house. She saw him jump in, and then, 
 without any intention of listening, accident- 
 ally heard him say to the servant, " Oh, just 
 go back for the latch-key, I have forgotten 
 it; and no one need sit up, of course. The 
 opera will not be over till late." The groom 
 returned directly, and, a second afterwards, 
 the cab drove off. Clara then drew in her 
 head and closed the window ; there was a 
 slight tinge of color in her cheek. "So he 
 is going to this stupid opera without a bal- 
 let !" she thought. "I wonder what gave 
 him such an extreme wish to know if I 
 intended being there." She inherited a good 
 deal of Lady St. Leger's sharpness in draw- 
 ing unfavorable conclusions from a word or a 
 look ; and, after considering a few rnimutes 
 by the fire, felt certain that Philip had some 
 hidden reason for his inquiries. She rang 
 the bell. " I shall require the carriage in 
 half an hour," she said to the servant who 
 entered ; " I am going to the opera this eve- 
 ning." Then she went up into her dressing- 
 room, and ordered her maid to dress her 
 quickly, as she was going to the theatre. 
 Her plain toilette was soon completed, and 
 in less than half-an-hour she was again in the 
 drawing-room, walking up and down with an 
 agitated impatience, that she could not have 
 explained to herself, for the announcement 
 of the carrriage. 
 
 The second act was just beginning as Clara 
 reached the theatre. She was dressed plain- 
 ly in a high pearl-colored silk, without orna- 
 ment, or i lowers in her hair, and looked alto- 
 gether wo like an invalid, that her entrance 
 was unnoticed, and no glass directed a second 
 time to her fae. Only a few of her old 
 friends, when they happened to remark her, 
 said " How awfully dear Clara was changed !" 
 And one or two of her husband's acquaint- 
 ance who knew her by sight, exclaimed, 
 " (ioo-1 heaven-; can that pale woman, 
 WTctehed-lookiiig woman be \oiing Karns- 
 Cl life's wile?" 
 
 :ly opposite to her was the S' 
 ers' box, ami ('Lira saw her mother, all 
 diamonds and pink satin, and looking c|iiile 
 voting and smiling, as she talked to Prince 
 K , who wo* by her side. A bitter 
 
 came over her of the contrast between Lady 
 St. Leger and herself, and she thought, " It 
 would be better for me if I had been like 
 her. With her jewels, and dress, and Prince 
 
 N , and all the world seeing her, my 
 
 mother is perfectly happy ; though her hus- 
 band is playing away his very life at the 
 hazard-table, and her only child made miser- 
 able, by her own plans. I hope she may not 
 see me to-night! " For, sensitively alive to 
 her own deserted position, and her pale, worn 
 cheeks, Clara shrank almost with a feeling of 
 shame from recognition. 
 
 Her eye glanced stealthily among the 
 stalls, where she had generally seen her hus- 
 band, but he was not in his accustomed place. 
 
 " I shall see him by the side of Lady N T n 
 
 she thought; and she swept with her glass 
 the long tiers of boxes brilliant with flow- 
 ers, and toilettes, and fair faces ; still, she 
 
 saw him nowhere. Lady X , in all her 
 
 jewels and beauty, was quietly talking, won- 
 derful to say, to her own husband ! and at 
 length wearying of the vain search, Clara 
 gave it up for the present, and directed her 
 attention to the scene. Philip had called the 
 opera a stupid one, but it contained some of 
 Meyerbeer's most wild and spiritual thoughts ; 
 and Clara, who had a natural love for music 
 (though, like everything else, it had been as 
 much crushed as possible by " education' 
 and having to practise on the piano for four 
 hours a-day during eight years of her life), 
 now forgot herself for awhile, in listening to 
 the notes of the great master, and the sweet- 
 est of all human voices that of Mario. 
 
 The second act terminated ; and, in the 
 interval, Lady Clara again sought her hus- 
 band among the crowds of faces which 
 thronged the vast building. She thought 
 every one in the theatre seemed unusually 
 smiling and gay, and that she was the only 
 neglected woman there. As she looked, one 
 by one, at the young men in the pit stalls, 
 thinking that, Philip might perhaps be among 
 them, although he was not in his accustomed 
 place, she observed that numbers of glasses 
 were upturned to one stage-box the oppo- 
 site side of the house, and on so high a range 
 that Lady Clara had not even ihou-ht of 
 lifting her aristocratic eyes in its direction 
 and that many smiles and significant looks 
 seemed to lie called forth by its occupants. 
 A feeling of curiosity made her rai.-e her 
 own glass to this box. where she saw a fare 
 of such surpassing loveliness as even arrested 
 her own cold admiration a face which, in 
 all that crowded house of high-boi n beauty, 
 had no peer. After .scanning I he features 
 for a few seconds, it occurred |o her that she 
 had seen them belore ; and she then remem- 
 bered thai they were those of .Mi-- Klinslie, 
 the new (ZanMUM, Whom she h,i<! lui 
 perform. .Mi-s Kim-lie wa- talking gaily to 
 some one be-ide her, but her head concealed 
 
 the face <ii her companion from ('lara. Miu 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 43 
 
 felt her graze Strangely fascinated to this girl's 
 box although not connecting it in the least 
 with her search for Philip and waited pa- 
 tiently to catch a glimpse of its other occu- 
 pant. Rose was dressed in pale blue, with 
 camelias and silver in her bright hair, and a 
 little white silk opera-cloak falling back over 
 her shoulders. She was, at this time, about 
 twenty, but scarcely appeared so old her 
 slight form, delicate features, brilliant com- 
 plexion, and large blue eyes being all of that 
 cast which generally give an appearance of 
 extreme youth. She held a profusion of rare 
 hot-house flowers in her hand, and appeared 
 very animated smiling and blushing, and 
 repeatedly hiding her face in her rich bou- 
 quet at her companion's remarks. Sudden- 
 ly she half stood up to look at something in 
 a distant part of the house, and, after a min- 
 ute, reseated herself with some slight change 
 of attitude, so that the face of her compan- 
 ion was left fully visible to Lady Clara. It 
 was her husband. 
 
 So this was the cause of his inquiries about 
 Clara's movements ! She had long known 
 that Philip was more than indifferent to her, 
 that his life was the careless and dissipated 
 one of most young men of his age ; but that 
 was all. Now she saw him publicly in the 
 company of a dancer and to be an actress 
 of any kind, was, according to her ideas, for 
 a woman to be utterly worthless with all 
 the world seeing him, and remarking, as she 
 thought, with malicious pleasure, upon the 
 scene. At that unfortunate moment some 
 people in the next box began talking about 
 Earnscliffe. They were perfect strangers to 
 her, of course, and probably not even no- 
 ticed their pale, sickly-looking neighbor. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " said an old gentleman of the 
 party, in answer to some remark she had not 
 heard ; "he married a daughter of Lord St. 
 Leger, and dearly she must pay for her 
 folly in marrying a genius. Such a dissipa- 
 ted life as he leads always among actors 
 and those sort of people ! There, he is at 
 this moment sitting by Miss Elmslie, the 
 dancer, while his wife, poor creature ! is 
 probably watching it from an opposite box." 
 
 "Oh, where is he? where is Philip 
 Earnscliffe?" asked a young girl, leaning 
 forward; " I should like so much to see 
 him." 
 
 The gentleman pointed out Earnscliffe, and 
 some o:.e remarked on Rose Elmslie's great 
 beauty. 
 
 "And how handsome he is! and how 
 animated he looks ! " said the young voice. 
 *' Is his wife pretty, I wonder? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " answered another lady. " I 
 saw her once at a concert. Quite a pale, 
 passee-looking woman, and such a very dis- 
 contented expression of face ! " 
 
 The blood seemed to grow like ice at 
 
 t Clara's heart, and her cheeks were white 
 
 with wounded pride, as she listened. But 
 
 she did not leave the house ; she sat through- 
 
 out the whole remainder of the opera, unno- 
 ticed, alone ; with her cold hands clasped 
 tightly together, and her eyes fixed upon 
 Philip's handsome, animated face. She 
 watched his attentive manner, his attitude, 
 and could fancy the very words he was say- 
 ng ; and then but with a less deep setfrn 
 she scanned the exquisite features of his 
 companion, and the half-averted, half-smiling 
 way she listened to him. 
 
 The performance went on. The fullest 
 horus, and the whole united strength of the 
 orchestra, were joined in the finale scene ; 
 but Clara heard it not. Those few hateful 
 remarks which she had caught, alone rang in 
 her ear ; and among all the hundreds of hu- 
 man beings around her, she only saw two 
 faces Miss Elmslie's and Philip's. No wo- 
 man ever went through a truer martyrdom 
 than did Lady Clara, during that evening. 
 
 To do Philip justice, he was incapable of 
 willingly outraging his wife's feelings ; and, 
 had he seen Clara, would that second have 
 quitted Rose Ehnsjie. But he believed her 
 at home as she had told him she would be, 
 and had never even glanced towards the box 
 she occupied. And Rose was in her most 
 charming, winning mood, talking so prettily 
 and innocently, and saying she detested 
 
 Count B , and how much she wished she 
 
 could leave the stage for ever. No wonder 
 Philip's attention was fully taken up, and 
 that he forgot all Neville's odious suspicions. 
 He was looking on one of the loveliest forms 
 ever given to a woman, and trying to believe 
 t,hat it inclosed a similar soul. 
 
 The opera concluded without Clara being 
 aware of it, and as there was no ballet, 
 every one rose to leave. Then she saw 
 Philip help Miss Elmslie to draw her little 
 dainty cloak over her white shoulders,' and 
 hold the bouquet for her while she fastened 
 her glove paying her all those nameless at- 
 tentions which are more galling to a jealous 
 woman when actually witnessed, than it 
 would be merely to hear of some open dere- 
 liction on the part of her husband. Finally, 
 they both left the box together, and she was 
 reminded that she too must leave and go 
 home. She stood up ; but her head was 
 giddy, and her limbs felt weak. An elderly 
 person, who had once been her governess, 
 and still lived with her as companion, had ac- 
 companied Lady Clara to the theatre, and 
 she was forced to lean upon her arm for sup- 
 port ; but she trembled so that her attendant 
 inquired if she were ill. 
 
 " Let us wait here until the crush is over," 
 Clara answered, reseating herself where the 
 shadow of the box prevented her from being 
 seen. "The heat has overcome me, and I 
 am not well this evening. 
 
 They remained for nearly a quarter of an 
 hour, while Clara called all her pride to aid 
 in the struggle to nerve herself; and then, 
 when there was less chance of meeting any 
 one she knew, she drew the hood of her 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 cloak over her face, and with a firmer step 
 entered the lobby, which was now nearly va- 
 cant. She got to her carriage unnoticed, 
 and drove home. On their way she spoke to 
 her companion about the opera in a cheerful 
 voice, and her hand no longer trembled. 
 Kvery sign of weakness was over. When 
 she reached the house she went up to the 
 drawing-room, and ordered tea to be brought, 
 with her usual calm manner; and when the 
 servant re-entered, he found his mistress 
 seated at the table, reading. She drank a 
 cup of tea, and attempted to eat, but the 
 food seemed to choke her ; and, after a 
 sufficiently long pause had elapsed, she again 
 rang the bell. Then, when her attendants 
 had finally left her alone, she placed herself 
 near the fire and warmed her death-cold 
 hands, while she brooded over the cruel 
 shock her pride had sustained. 
 
 That she would leave him never remain 
 another day under Philip's roof was her 
 first fixed resolution. Many wives, even where 
 previous affection existed, might, in all their 
 heat of wounded feeling, have resolved the 
 same. But Clara's was not a nature ever to 
 swerve from a determined course ; and as 
 she sat thus alone, and thought of all the re- 
 marks that Philip's open devotion to an act- 
 ress must have excited among her own friends 
 that evening, her feeling towards him 
 strengthened into actual hate, and her lips 
 grew blanched and rigid in their stern ex- 
 pi ession. 
 
 At length she went up to her own room, 
 and rang for her maid to undress her, as us- 
 ual ; but when the girl had left the room, she 
 rose again from her bed, and, quietly lock- 
 ing the door, lit her candle, and partially 
 dressed herself in a loose morning wrapper. 
 Then she began opening her drawers and 
 cases, and drew from them, one after anoth- 
 er, even-thing of value that she could con- 
 sider as in any way belonging to, or con- 
 nected with, her marriage. 
 
 One or two notes from Philip, written dur- 
 ing their courtship, a locket containing his 
 hair, and a miniature of him, she laid toge- 
 tl !-. ;n.i ga/ed at them silently for a few 
 monr-iits. Something softer came over her 
 f i i- a- she recalled that evening when he had 
 generously sacrificed himself for her in the 
 impulse of bovish kindness, and she paused, 
 and thought of her childish days when her 
 cousin had been her only friend. But then 
 siie <'iw hi'ii ai:ain as she had done only an 
 hour before lln>lic(l and animated, and whis- 
 p'-riii'.r to IJnse Klrnsli. and ri>ing abruptly. 
 she Hung all the little relics of his laUe love 
 upon the lire. Tin- flames danced ami 
 cr.ic!;l,.d over them in a second, and she 
 watched with a bitter laii-jli the last sparks 
 lie out in her husband's love-letters before 
 they beeame a mere cloud of grey film. 
 Then she turned to her other work. The 
 bracelets, the tiaras, the rinjrs all the val- 
 uable jewels thai she had received from I'hil- 
 
 ip or his uncle she divided from her OTT 
 trinkets, and, making them into a package, 
 directed them to " Philip Earnsclilfe, Esq.," 
 but without note or explanation of any 
 kind ; and after this she lay down in her be'd 
 and watched. 
 
 In an hour or two she heard Philip's quiet 
 step ascending the stairs, and the door close 
 of his dressing-room. Her face grew a 
 shade whiter as she murmured " Yes for 
 the last time. 1 ' And then she turned her 
 head upon her pillow, and waited for the 
 day. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 LITTLE thinking of all the next twelve 
 hours had in store for him, Philip went down 
 early the following morning to call on his 
 uncle. He had not seen his wife, who was 
 indeed still in her own apartment, ripening 
 the project which she meant in the course of 
 the day to cany into execution that of 
 leaving Philip's roof for ever. When Clara's 
 passions were roused, they were like her fa- 
 ther's. Her jealousy of the previous eve- 
 ning grown even more bitter during the 
 long watches of the night had deepened 
 her former indifference to her husband into 
 actual loathing; and she longed for the mo- 
 ment when she could disclose her scorn for 
 him with her own lips. Still Clara had no 
 wish to play the role of a men- jealous wife; 
 and she had turned over in her mind a dozen 
 different ways of announcing her intention, 
 without fixing upon one that should sutli- 
 ciently wound his pride, yet not lower her 
 own. She shrunk, too, from the idea of 
 again returning to her parent's hou<e and 
 the companionship of Lady St. Lcger, al- 
 though she felt it was the only alternative 
 she could look forward to on leaving her own 
 home, and that oven this was better than re- 
 maining longer with her unfaithful husband. 
 
 Meanwhile Philip rode slowly along into 
 the country. It was a grey cold day ; leaden 
 masses of clouds covered the whole sky, 
 borne slowly along in an English east wind, 
 and the trees and distant country seemed one 
 uniform tint of brown. It may have been 
 the influence of the weather, or perhaps the 
 natural after ilfects of the piv\ ions evening's 
 excitement ; but Philip's spirits were unac- 
 countably dcpres>eil this morning. He 
 seemed unable to throw off tin- weight that 
 was upon him. and did not once ur-e his 
 hoi-M- out <>f a walk until he reached the 
 
 lodu'c of Miles Ivirnselill'e's place, where, for 
 thc'liiM lime, he attempted to rouse himself 
 a little, and cantered up the avenue. Mo 
 found old Miles OOnfitied tO the house. His 
 illness was not serious; but still it wa* 
 enough to make him fretful and impatient. 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 He was so used to a life of activity, that it 
 galled him to remain idle in his easy-chair, 
 instead of being out and busy in his grounds ; 
 and his reception of his nephew was not par- 
 ticularly amiable. 
 
 *' Well, Phil, I thought you were never 
 coming near me again ; every week I see less 
 of you now. But you knew I was ill, and 
 therefore it was your duty to come, whatever 
 your inclination prompted.' 1 
 
 44 I have been really much engaged, un- 
 cle," returned Philip. " My new book, yon 
 know, is in the press, and I have a great 
 deal to do in correcting proofs, and so on ; 
 when it is out I shall have more leisure time." 
 
 " Um well, I hope you are always as 
 profitably engaged, though I doubt it," ans- 
 wered Miles. " I suppose your wife takes 
 up a great deal of your time, too ? " 
 
 " Not much of that, sir. I think." Philip 
 saw his uncle's humor, and prepared himself 
 for a pleasant day of it. 
 
 " Oh, I am sorry to hertr it. As you 
 would marry at your age, you should have 
 tried to make her happy. How is Clara? " 
 
 " Much the same, thank you : she is nev- 
 er very strong, and stays so entirely at home, 
 that she has no chance of getting more spir- 
 its or color." 
 
 44 Philip," said Miles, sternly, and rising 
 himself up grimly on one elbow, as was his 
 habit when in a bad temper, " I believe your 
 wife is a miserable woman, and that it is all 
 your fault. You are just as dissipated, and 
 worse, than you were before you mar- 
 ried. I know more about you than you 
 think, and I tell you frankly, 1 don't admire 
 your conduct ! " 
 
 44 I am perfectly aware of my folly in 
 marrying so young, sir," returned Philip, 
 bitterly. 
 
 After a pause, Miles went on 
 
 " I never saw such a changed face as 
 Clara's. She was never particularly bloom- 
 ing, but now she looks ten years older, and 
 so wan and indifferent to everything. What 
 is the matter with her Philip ? Perhaps 
 there is a prospect of my having a grand- 
 nephew, eh ? " 
 
 44 God forbid!" said Philip, hastily. 
 
 '* Well, a mighty pious aspiration, cer- 
 tainly. People in general are pleased at the 
 idea of having children." 
 
 44 Aye, sir, when there is a home for them 
 to be brought up in ! " 
 
 44 And have you no home, Philip? Do 
 you want a larger house and establishment, 
 or are you too proud to call yours a home, 
 because you merely maintain it upon your 
 allowance ? You know well that my money 
 will be all yours at my death, and that what- 
 ever you or Clara want vou have only to ask 
 for." 
 
 44 No," answered Philip; "you are al- 
 ready too generous. 1 require nothing 
 more in the world that money can purchase. 
 When I spoke of home, I meant that union 
 
 of heart and feeling which never has been, 
 and never can be, between my wife and my- 
 self If Heaven had given me a child, it 
 would have been, of course, brought up by 
 its mother, and taught from its birth to be as 
 indifferent to me as she is herself indeed, I 
 sometimes think Clara's feelings toward me 
 are now those of actual dislike " 
 
 44 And whose doing is all this, Phil?" in- 
 quired Miles. 4 'She maybe cold, I don't 
 deny it ; it is her nature ; and you know that 
 you were marrying the daughter of Lord 
 'and Lady St. Leger. But it is not Clara's 
 fault that, as a married man, you continue 
 your olcl bachelor life, and are always philan- 
 dering about after actresses and such rub- 
 bish, when you should be at home with her, 
 or coming to see me. Hugh ! hugh ! " He 
 coughed dismally, and plunged the poker 
 into the fire, before returning to the charge ; 
 but, greatly to Philip's relief, who did not 
 relish the tone of his uncle's lecture, was in- 
 terrupted by the entrance of the servant with 
 newspapers. 
 
 44 Shall I read to you? " he added, taking 
 up the Times. 
 
 44 Yes. I am getting so blind I csnnot 
 even read for myself now " (he had won- 
 derfully good eyes for his time of life, but 
 could never be prevailed upon to use specta- 
 cles) 44 and try to find something worth 
 listening to." 
 
 Philip accordingly began, and had read 
 the leading-article half through, when Miles 
 interrupted him with 
 
 44 Can't you find anything but that political 
 stuff, nephew ? What do I care about Lord 
 John, or Lord Aberdeen, or which of them 
 gets the head place in the mismanagement 
 of the country ! Do find something of gen- 
 eral interest." 
 
 4 ' The parliamentary report? " 
 
 44 Worse still? There is meaning, at 
 least, in what the Times writes, but none in 
 those endless speeches ; and, besides, I hate 
 all that sickening trash of 4 the honorable 
 member to my right, 1 and 4 my noble friend 
 in the opposition. 1 Read me the city ar- 
 ticle." 
 
 44 Stay, sir, here is the arrival of the In- 
 dian mail," said Philip, as he turned the 
 paper. 
 
 * Well, then, read that, of course. Why 
 did you not find it at once ? " 
 
 Philip glanced his eye rapidly down the 
 column before commencing aloud, and aftor 
 some unimportant paragraphs, some name 
 arrested his attention. He began to read, 
 and his hand trembled a little, then he flush- 
 ed deeply, but, as he went on, every particle 
 of color left his face, and he became deadly 
 pale. 
 
 " What ails you, Phil, that you change 
 color so ? " said his uncle, rising, all his kind 
 manner returning in a moment. 
 
 4 ' You are ill, my boy, u and he advanced 
 toward; him. 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 Philip grasped the paper tighter, as though 
 to prevent the other from reading it, and, 
 looking np in his face, faltered out 
 
 " Unele, there is news bad news from 
 
 Bombay " Here he broke down. Miles's 
 
 faee grew white as his nephew's, and an in- 
 stinctive presentiment flashed across him. 
 But the old man's brave nature did not 
 falter. 
 
 '"' Give me the paper, Philip," he said, in 
 his usual firm voice. * I can read it my- 
 self. 11 
 
 Philip let him take it passively from him 
 and covered his face, while Miles read the 
 fatal paragraph. It was the intelligence of 
 the failui'e of one of the largest Bombay 
 banks, in which the greatest part of Mr. 
 Earnsclrffe's immense capital still floated, 
 and Philip knew that he was comparatively 
 ruined. He dared not look up, but kept 
 hi* face still buried in his hands, without the 
 courage to speak, when a sound made him 
 start in terror to his uncle's side. 
 
 It was a fearful sound half sob, half 
 groan wrung from the bosom of an iron 
 man in his first moment of despair, and 
 Philip prayed that, he might never hear the 
 like again. He looked in his uncle's face ; 
 it was white, and drawn as though paralysed, 
 and under a hideous apprehension, Philip 
 cried "Oh! speak to me one word dear 
 uncle only one word ! " 
 
 "It is all gone," said Miles, in a low, 
 hoarse whisper. " I am a beggar; help me 
 to a chair, and leave me. I would be 
 alone." 
 
 Philip obeyed him instantly. He knew 
 that strong, proud nature would shrink from 
 any eye being upon him in his agony, and 
 having assisted him to his chair, he walked 
 to the deep bay window of the library, and 
 remained there silent for almost an "hour. 
 During all this time Miles Earnscliffe never 
 moved once only did he groan. He sat 
 alone in his ruin, as he had been in the weary 
 road to success, and the iron entered into his 
 soul in silence. 
 
 And Philip in that terrible hour, what 
 wen- his thoughts. His own fall from being 
 Miles Karnscliffe's heir to poverty the 
 taunts in his own household the falling off 
 of friends did all this cross his mind? Not 
 om-e. Even had he cared for money, he 
 could have had no selfish thought then. He 
 only saw the old man's bowed head and 
 clutched hands ; he only thought of his gen- 
 erous protector humbled from his high es- 
 tate, and in hi^ old age brought to the pov- 
 erty he had always loathed ; and slowly 
 large tear- rolled (inwn Philip's pale cheeks, 
 as he >tood silently ga/ing at his uncle. 
 
 Suddenly A.ilcs looked up. 
 
 "Coiue here, boy." Hi- was at his side 
 in a second. "You may well weep, you 
 that were to Ixj my heir. You are ab""Mr, 
 Philip " 
 
 "Oh, uncle! I do not think of myself; I 
 
 think of you only. You have been my pro- 
 tector, my father you have done all for me ; 
 and I would have given my life to save you 
 from this." 
 
 The old man's stony gaze softened a little 
 at Philip's warm and loving expression. 
 
 " Shall you still care for me, lad, in my 
 ruin ? " he said, helplessly. 
 
 Philip was on his knees, .and sei/ing the 
 cold, withered hand, he pressed it to hia 
 lips 
 
 ' As God is my Judge, Twill, sir ! I may 
 have been selfish careless of vou in my own 
 hour of success but you shall now know all 
 my affection for you. You received me a 
 friendless little child " 
 
 "Aye; but I turned from your father, 
 Phil," he interrupted, huskily; " and I have 
 never seen Herbert's face so plainly as in 
 the last hour. I mind well the letter he 
 wrote me in his distress, and how I answered 
 it how I scorned his honest poverty, and 
 insulted him and his wife. Since then, I 
 have shut my heart to the poor in my pride 
 of wealth, and now I am judged." 
 
 " You have not forgotten the poor of late 
 years, sir," answered Philip. " You have 
 built hospitals you have founded schools ; 
 and many a widow and orphan have learned 
 to bless your name. And, oh! whatever 
 self-reproach you may feel with regard to 
 any former action towards my parents, that 
 action is more than cancelled by all you have 
 done for their son. You have given me ed- 
 ucation, and I can now make my own way 
 in the world." 
 
 He spoke so warmly and hopefully, that 
 old Miles's features gradually lost something 
 of their frightful rigidity; and clasping his 
 hands, he thanked Heaven that, amid the 
 wreck of all his worldly fortunes, there was 
 still left to him his nephew's noble heart. 
 
 "God bless you, Phil!" he said very 
 softly. 
 
 They remained long together, talking 
 not of the storm which had just burst over 
 them, but of old happy days ; of the summer 
 excursions they had made together; of the 
 thousand little events of Philip's boyhood. 
 There is a strange proneness in human be- 
 ings to take refuge, under the first shock of 
 any sudden calamity, in the peaceful remem- 
 brance of the past ; as though, in that brief 
 hour, the heart tried to concentrate all that 
 life has known of sweetness, before attempt- 
 ing to confront the stern and present reality. 
 And this is espcei.-illy the ca-e when, as 
 with Miles r'arnselifle, no vision of the fu- 
 ture can oiler anything half so bright aixain. 
 
 Putt tin- pa>*ed. after a time, He r- 
 lap-ed into vacant, silence, and then Marling 
 (hough thetiuth had only ju-t burst 
 in all its fulness upon him, exrlaimed " I 
 will not believe ii ! What . all u r ""e ! the 
 labors of thirty years! Read it again, Phil; 
 it is f-iKc, a newspaper lie; 1 am not a beg- 
 gar. Head it, I say ! " 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 47 
 
 And he fixed a look, almost of fierce hope, 
 upon his nephew, as he again took the paper, 
 which went to Philip's heart. 
 
 " There is no doubt of its correctness, sir, 
 I fear," he replied, in a low voice, after 
 reading the paragraph once more. " And 
 we must not buoy ourselves up on any frail 
 hopes of that kind. But neither will you be, 
 by any means, brought to what the world calls 
 poverty. Your estate in Yorkshire, and 
 this very house, form in themselves a for- 
 tune that to many a man would seem riches." 
 
 " I shall not be an actual beggar, nephew, 
 I know," answered Miles, bitterly. ** But 
 think what I was ; dukes glad to sit at my 
 table ; even royalty smiling at me ; an earl 
 proud to ma,rry his daughter into my family. 
 Good God, Philip ! " he exclaimed, the 
 thought crossing him for the first time, 
 "what will those people say to my ruin? 
 and your wife ! Ah ! there lies the deepest 
 of my humiliation." 
 
 Philip felt this, too, fully as deeply as his 
 uncle ; but he said little on the subject, and 
 merely observed that it was not unlikely 
 Clara's character might shine out in his ad- 
 versity far more brightly than it had hitherto 
 done. " It was woman's nature," he said, 
 " to become more soft and gentle in time of 
 trial ; and after the unvarying kindness 
 shown to her by his uncle, it was impossible 
 for her to entertain any feeling but that of 
 sorrow for him now ; and as to the St. Leg- 
 ers," added Philip, " it matters little to/us 
 what they do or say. They will merely fol- 
 low in the track of the other worldly ac- 
 quaintance who will fall away at the first 
 breath of our altered fortunes." 
 
 Pie stayed long, and his kindly consolation 
 was some comfort to Miles, who gradually 
 became more natural in his manner, less 
 helpless, and more bitter, which, for him, 
 was the best possible sign; and at length 
 the unyielding spirit which, through years of 
 drudgery and disappointment had never 
 flinched, again began to rise with an elastici- 
 ty wonderful in so old a man. By the time 
 Philip left him he was deep in accounts in his 
 study, calculating upon the wreck of his for- 
 tunes, and, with his old business habits, al- 
 ready writing letters to his different agents, 
 and planning for the realisation of the small 
 sum which remained to him. 
 
 ** Well, good bye, Phil ! " were his last 
 words. " And if your wife and grand 
 friends cast you off in our ruin, return to me. 
 I shall still have enough for both of us." 
 
 i CHAPTER XHI. 
 
 IT was dusk when Philip returned to town ; 
 but this time he rode on fast, and lingered 
 not on the road. The storm, whose distant 
 
 coming he had instinctively felt that morning, 
 had burst ; and now, with his head erect, 
 and something of the same feeling in his 
 breast which as a boy had made him love to 
 battle with the waves, he prepared to stem 
 the real sea of life under its new aspect. 
 
 Totally apart from his sympathy with his 
 uncle, it would not be too much to say that 
 Philip's feeling were happy ones. His exist- 
 ence had hitherto been barren of many deep 
 emotions for his age, he had had too few 
 struggles with difficulty all that he had 
 wished for he had won. "Xow," he felt, 
 with a thrill of conscious power in himself, 
 " my life begins in earnest. I am Philip 
 Earnscliffe, the author, not Miles Earnscliffe's 
 heir. I must depend upon myself alone, 
 and fight my own battle." And his eye di- 
 lated at the thought. 
 
 He rode on, and was soon on the streets 
 of London, when the man of fortune, or 
 beggared outcast, become alike, in the im- 
 mense surge of human life, an unnoticed 
 unit; and Philip thought that everything 
 around seemed altered. The yellow lamps 
 struggling through the dense fog the con- 
 fused roar of life in which no one sound 
 predominates the shops with their gaudy 
 windows and sickly apprentices behind the 
 counter; but, above all, the aspect of his 
 fellow-men about him, struck him differently 
 to what it had all done hundreds of times 
 before. He looked at the miserable beings 
 on the pavement the common street-beg- 
 gar, the greasy pickpocket, the black-coated 
 hypocrite with tracts, the drunken lad of 
 seventeen men, lounging idle and desper- 
 ate, who should have been, like himself, in 
 the very prime of life little children with 
 the expression of premature age upon their 
 stolid features, and attempting to extort 
 alms with the whine of already-practised 
 imposture; and, worst of all, girlish faces, 
 where the lingering traces of youth and wo- 
 manhood were all blurred over with bold 
 vice, or sunken in the approach of a hopeless 
 death. And Philip felt" And I, with all 
 these fallen beings around me, and the intel- 
 lect and powers God has given me, how have 
 I fulfilled my mission, or attempted to raise 
 the lot of one fellow-man ? By writing 
 books for society, and verses for albums ! It 
 is indeed time some shock should come, to 
 rouse me from my wasted existence ! " 
 
 Then he looked at another class of men ; 
 clerks from the city, artists from their stud- 
 ios, professors from their lectures, who were 
 all hurrying to their homes through the 
 dusky streets ; and he felt with pride, that 
 he should now be one of them one of those 
 who work, and in some way contribute to 
 the general good of the world. 
 
 The magnificent horse he rode did not 
 seem his own ; when he arrived at the door 
 of his house in Park Lane, he felt that it 
 was his home no longer, and almost rejoiced 
 in the thought. ' I was bom to work," he 
 
48 
 
 PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 said, " and all the false advantages of rich- 
 es and position have been only bars to my 
 success." 
 
 He enquired in a cheerful tone for Lady 
 Clara, and, on hearing that she was in the 
 drawing-room, and alone, proceeded at once 
 up-stairs. But the bravest man in the world 
 is not always so in his own household : and 
 every step that Philip ascended, he seemed 
 to feel his courage ebb in an inverse ratio. 
 By the time he reached the first landing?, he 
 had painted Clara to himself, in one of her 
 coldest, most, cynical moods ; and when he 
 got to the drawing-room door, would sooner 
 have announced his fallen fortunes to every 
 acquaintance in London at once, than in this 
 Ute-a-Ute interview to his wife. 
 
 He opened the door, and saw her. Not 
 cowering before the fire as usual in the dark ; 
 but seated at the table, very erect, very well 
 dressed, and writing; and Philip took this 
 as a bad omen. 
 
 Clara had made all her arrangements dur- 
 ing his absence, and had had a long conver- 
 sation with her mother, after which much 
 against Lady St. Leger's will it had been 
 decided that she should return that evening 
 to her father's house. Lady St. Leger hated 
 the vulgar iclat of such a proceeding, and 
 was also by no means anxious for her daugh- 
 ter's companionship. 
 
 '* You are acting madly. Clara," she urged, 
 ** and will bitterly repent this false step. 
 You say you do not love Philip ; well, I sup- 
 pose you never did, but still he is your hus- 
 band, and some day will inherit his uncle's 
 fortune. Now, you know that you have no 
 settlements, and therefore, in leaving him, 
 ou at once forfeit all chance of benefiting 
 y the old man^ death for it is not likely 
 Philip would ask you to return to him then 
 and besides, all these things are bad in 
 themselves ; anything approaching to a scene 
 or publishing her domestic grievances to the 
 world, should be avoided by a woman of 
 good taste. Your husband's talents secure 
 him a place in society, and your position as 
 bis wife is far better than it will ever be, as 
 Lord St. Leger's neglected daughter. Young 
 handsome, and rich, every one will be on his 
 side ; and to me falls the ridiculous rbh ol 
 chaperoning a married daughter and yoi 
 really have aged terribly lately who could 
 not agree with her own husband. 11 
 
 " You may set your mind at rest, moth 
 er," answered Clara; " I shall never appca 
 in society, or interfere with you in any way 
 I only ask a place in your house, instead ol 
 living alone; at, which the world, I suppose 
 would cavil, old and plain though 1 have lie 
 come. P,nt yon si-em to overlook, entirely,' 
 she added, bitterly, "my reasons for leaving 
 Mr. Etrntcliffis." 
 
 ' Not in tin- least: and it is that whir' 
 makes it more absurd. You see;, our hus 
 band at the opera, in tin- same ho-, with a 
 actress, or dancer, or sonic per.-' n of the 
 
 E 
 
 and, and yon immediately draw all sorts of 
 Conclusions from this trivial circumstance, 
 ind then decide upon the grave step of a sep- 
 iration. What can be more natural than 
 or a young man of his age to lie led into 
 ueh society ? what more usual ? Why, 
 lalf the wives of London might leave their 
 lomes for such a ridiculous cause ; and your 
 not caring about Philip, makes it doubly in- 
 comprehensible to me, why you should be 
 ealous ! If you had gone more into the 
 world, as T advised you from the first, and 
 brmed friendships and amusements for your- 
 self, vou would have been happy without 
 troubling yourself about his proceedings. 
 Look at me, Clara! do you think I shouM 
 ook as I do now, if T had worried myself 
 at every neglect or indiscretion of my hus- 
 band as you do? Yet I was much more nt- 
 tached to your father than you are to Philip ! n 
 Clara did look at her mother's still fresh, 
 well-preserved face ; and she answered with 
 a compressed lip, "Yes, it would have been 
 far better for me to be like you, but I am 
 not ! " 
 
 No arguments of Lady St. Le<rer having 
 prevailed, it was at length derided, much to 
 her annoyance, that, she should expect her 
 daughter that evening; and Clara awaited 
 Philip's return, to communicate her intentions 
 to him personally. He remained away so 
 long, however, that she at length thought he 
 would not return for the day. and luid just 
 begun a letter to him, when she heard his 
 knock at. the door. She felt a momentary 
 tremor at the sound ; but quickly recovered 
 her composure and was completely nerved 
 for the approaching scene, when Philip en- 
 tered the room. The opening of the attack 
 she left to chance, having failed in planning 
 any to her own satisfaction. She had quite 
 resolved he should never know that jealousy 
 of a dancer was the immediate cause of her 
 resolution : and she would therefore be oMi<r- 
 ed to urge it on the general grounds of his 
 neglect and her indifference. 
 
 " Good evening, Clara."' 
 
 She laid down her pen. and looked at him. 
 He was very pale ; and his features were set 
 as though under the influence of some strong 
 emotion* 
 
 "He actually cowers before me!" she 
 thought: and, with a scornful half-smile, re- 
 turned his salutation. 
 
 " If she has any of a woman's he<t na- 
 ture left, she will soften now," thought 
 Philip ; and advancing to her side, he stoop- 
 ed ami kissed her forehead. Rut she turned 
 haughtily from his caress, which to her seem- 
 ed only 'a mean attempt at conciliation, and 
 remarked" Yon look agitated, Mr. K.-mi*- 
 elille: to what am I l< :itlrilmte all this sud- 
 den mitbreak <>f nirccliou M 
 
 The chilling t<>"' <><' the<e words, and the 
 
 look that accompanied them, froze back 
 
 Philip's half-awakened feelings of kii.dness. 
 He seated himself on the other side of the 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 49 
 
 fire and remained silent, considering how lie 
 should best announce his uncle 1 s ruin to his 
 cold, worldly companion. 
 
 " I have been to the Oaks to-day, Clara." 
 She did not answer. " My uncle is not well, 
 and is confined to the house ; he made many 
 kind inquiries for you." 
 
 " Really, I am greatly indebted to Mr. 
 Earnscliffe. And these kind inquiries you 
 were doubtless able to answer fully, as you 
 know so much of my health and life." 
 
 " Oh, Clara ! " said Philip, suddenly look- 
 ing very full at her as he spoke ; "do not re- 
 proach me to-day ; I have had much to bear 
 already." 
 
 " Indeed ! May I ask you not to commu- 
 nicate any particulars of your trials to me ? 
 they must be of a nature in which it is im- 
 possible for me to have any interest ! " and 
 LtJf-ri?ing towards the light, she looked at 
 her watch. 
 
 Philip was stung with this assumption of 
 indifference, and answered " They are of a 
 nature, Lady Clara, in which you must take 
 an interest, and, if not told you by my lips, 
 you will hear them from a hundred others to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " Oh ! perhaps your new book you have 
 been writing one, I believe is a failure ; if 
 so, the event, of course, is not so serious to 
 the world and to me, as to yourself." 
 
 He did not answer : but fixed his eyes 
 more in sorrow than with a harsher feeling 
 upon her face for a few seconds. 
 
 " It is strange," he said, at length, and 
 as though to himself, " that she should have 
 fixed upon this day as a fitting time to de- 
 clare her indifference to me." And, even as 
 he spoke, something in the soft tone of his 
 voice thrilled through her heart. But the 
 better feeling soon passed. 
 
 " As well this day as another," she return- 
 ed. " The fact has long been so why 
 should I conceal it any longer ? As you have 
 thrown off the mask, so may I." 
 
 Philip scarcely heard her words. For the 
 stM'ond time in his married life, the image of 
 his rough, unpolished uncle rose up brightly 
 before him, compared with that of his high- 
 born wife ; and he remembered how, amidst 
 his own anguish, the old man had still spok- 
 en kindly to him. 
 
 " Clara," he resumed, " I have no wish 
 to deny any of my errors, or that you have 
 grave cause for complaint. But remember 
 one tiling, whatever my conduct has been, 
 my uncle has ever felt kindly towards you ; 
 and even this morning " 
 
 " And what have I to do with Mr. Miles 
 Earnscliffe's kindness?" she interrupted, 
 haughtily; "and for what object are you 
 wasting these sentimental speeches upon me ? 
 You mistake me strangely, sir, if you think 
 that I caie for your uncle's regard, or his 
 wealth either ! " ' 
 
 " And you mistake me" cripd Philip, 
 starting to his feet. You mistake me 
 
 strangely if you think that for my own sake 
 I am endeavoring to soften a heari like yours. 
 I was preparing to tell you, madam, of the 
 ruin of an honest man. You need sneer no 
 longer at my uncle's wealth he has lost it. 
 Yes, it is true ; and I, Lady Clara, arn no 
 longer the heir you married, but a poor strug- 
 gling author." And folding his arms, he look- 
 ed her full in the face. 
 
 She turned very pale, and did not answer. 
 For only one second her better nature made 
 her long to fall upon his neck, and return 
 to him in his hour of trial then the impulse 
 passed. She was incapable of judging a 
 generous nature like Philip's ; she had known 
 none but people steeped in worldliness from 
 her very cradle ; and, in his altered manner, 
 she only saw some selfish project upon her 
 father's wealth. Now, she thought, she- 
 could reject him wound him to the very 
 quick without betraying her own jealousy, 
 or lowering herself. And with her most 
 cutting smile she remarked 
 
 " Oh ! then this is the cause of your return- 
 ed affection, Mr. Earnscliffe." 
 
 " Hear me, CLra," said Philip, with grave 
 dignity. " Under my fallen prospects, I feel 
 that, in spite of the cold unnatural way in 
 which it has been your choice that we should 
 live together, you are still my wife. You 
 married me under different circumstances, 
 and for your sake, next to his own, I grieve 
 most at my uncle's ruin. You never loved 
 me ; and it may appear hard that your un- 
 happy married life should be deprived also 
 of the prospect of wealth, under which it was 
 undertaken. These considerations, I confess, 
 gave me a return of warmer feelings towards 
 you which you reject; and if you see in this 
 any subject for ridicule, I can only pitv your 
 own hard nature, not be ashamed of my mo- 
 tives." 
 
 But Clara only heard his allusion to her 
 marrying him for money, and her eyes flash- 
 ed fire. 
 
 " You do well," she cried, " to remind me, 
 now, in your ruin, of my marriage with you ! 
 You do well to remind me of my motives, 
 now that they are rendered fruitless ! Yes !l 
 I married you, as I thought, to save mr 
 father from disgrace although in that, too, [ 
 was mistaken, for I know how you have turn- 
 ed from him in his difficulties. I married you 
 simply and exclusively for money. I never 
 loved you no not in the moment when I 
 consented to become your wife. You hav3' 
 heard it all, now ! " 
 
 " And I, Lady Clara," replied Philip, 
 Stung out of all generosity ; "do you know 
 why I married you ? " 
 
 " Tell me," she answered, her blue eyes 
 filled with lurid rage. But even yet he for- 
 bore. 
 
 "No, madam, I will not; your mother 
 will do so far better than I can. I will say 
 that, even in my marriage, the most bitterly 
 regretted act of my life, I would not ex- 
 
50 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 change the motives which prompted me for 
 your own " 
 
 " Go on, sir," she cried, scarcely knowing 
 what she said ; " go on and tell me that, 
 deluded by my mothers falsehood, you mar- 
 ried me from pity. I will hear all that you 
 have to say, and then then you shall hear 
 me." 
 
 " Clara," returned Philip, and he advanced 
 a step towards her, his face softening once 
 more, " still I ask you to forbear. This is not 
 a time for recriminations ; now, if ever, we 
 should remember all that we have once vowed 
 to each other. I have erred against you I 
 have neglected you and I confess it. For- 
 give me return to me return to me in 
 
 in my poverty and forget the first cold year 
 of our married life ! " and he held out* his 
 hand to his wife. 
 
 She recoiled from him, and, with all the 
 expression of concentrated scorn that could 
 be thrown into look and voice, replied, 
 * Stay, sir, do not degrade yourself by any 
 more mean attempts to conciliate me. I un- 
 derstand your object well, and scorn it and 
 you. Hitherto, in your pride of plebeian 
 wealth, you have not cared to court me for 
 my father's money ; but now, in your ruin, 
 you aye, and your uncle toowill both 
 fawn and cringe, and lick the dust before the 
 very woman whom you insulted yesterday 
 with your neglect. Your uncle " 
 
 But Philip's iron grasp upon her arm arrest- 
 ed her. Every gentler feeling was dead for 
 ever in his breast towards her ; and his dark 
 eyes kindled again with passion at her 
 wonts. 
 
 " Stop, madam," he said, his voice low 
 and ominously calm ; "I command you to 
 Hop and hear me. You have just uttered 
 thoughts that could only have had birth in 
 the heart of Lord St. Leger's daughter ; and 
 you know that your imputation is untrue. As 
 you won, so you discard me with a false- 
 hood ; and it is a worthy ending of our hate- 
 ful union. My uncle, Lady Clara, and my- 
 self, are men of honor, and would both of 
 us sooner starve than accept money which 
 had been tainted by passing through the 
 hands of your father. You can return to 
 him, and to his wealth, at once. From this 
 moment you are no longer my wife, even in 
 the e\es of tin: world; and the day of my 
 f;i II from fortune will be the sweetest of my 
 lile, as the last of my connection with 
 you ! " 
 
 They were the harshest words ever spoken 
 by J'liilij) to a woman, ami could only have 
 been wiimg from him by Clara's insult to his 
 uncle but his blood was on fire, and he 
 heeded not \\hat he said. I'.oth remained 
 Hleni lor -<mie seconds; then Clara rose. 
 
 " I)ii n<>t think, Mr. Larnsi lifl'e, that you 
 are the fir-t to propose this step." >he .-aid 
 " My arrant menfs are already made for 
 quitting your lion-e ; : ml mv parents are 
 prep. in d to receive me this evening. 
 
 I heard of your beggary, I had resolved to 
 separate from you fov ever, and to leave you 
 to your own course of life, and your own 
 associates. In this case" she pointed to one 
 on the table * you will find all the jewels I 
 have received from your uncle or yourself; 
 and if you have any further communications 
 to make to me on business, you will have the 
 goodness to do so through my father's solici- 
 tor. And now, I presume, I can leave your 
 house at once. There can be nothing more 
 for you to say, or for me to hear." And she 
 moved towards the door. 
 
 " Nothing ! " echoed Philip " nothing. 
 Thank God, no child of mine can call you 
 mother ! and that, in this moment, I have no 
 one softer feeling no duty pleading for you 
 in my heart. Go, madam ! return to your 
 parents' house ; you are far fitter to be their 
 daughter than the wife of an honest man ! " 
 And he turned away, and buried his face be- 
 tween his hands. 
 
 In another moment the door closed after 
 her. The carriage, which was ordered to 
 convey her to her father's, was already wait- 
 ing, and in a quarter of an hour she had left 
 the house, and Philip and his wife were 
 parted for ever. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 EARXSCLIFFE little knew, at first, the full 
 extent to which his uncle's losses would af- 
 fect himself. With all the romance of his 
 character, he had pictured his new life as 
 merely freed from the artificial trammels of 
 society, and more like that of his friend Ne- 
 ville's, and had felt a sort of pleasure at the 
 thought. The reality was such as he never 
 Ireamed of. All the world had hitherto 
 been on his side on the point of his domestic 
 grievances. Lady Clara, in her gloomy se- 
 lusion, had had few supporters; while all 
 erer her own relations had smiled on her 
 young, handsome, and rich husband ; and had 
 their separation taken place a month earlier, 
 it is probable that every one would have pro- 
 nounced in Philip's favor. Hut the news of 
 Miles Karnsclille's ruin, and of Clara's return 
 to her father's protection, fell on the greedy 
 ear of the world at the same time; and the 
 feeling awakened by the lir.-t intelligence 
 greatly influenced the verdict upon the latter. 
 
 1'hiiip had so long been the universal fa- 
 vorite the fashion in London that people 
 looked upon hi;; fall from wealth as a sort of 
 insult to their own judgment. The failure 
 f Miles KarnseKtle was a thing the proli.i- 
 ility of which had never l.cen admitted by 
 Ten the mi. -t suspicious; indited, it was 
 generally believed that the old merchant's 
 oitune had been long withdrawn from tho 
 uncertain field of speculation, and vested in 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 51 
 
 English securities. When, therefore, the 
 sudden news of his ruin was made known, 
 the general feeling towards him was one of 
 pity, but indignation. From unfounded re- 
 marks arose reports ; these quickly strength- 
 ened into facts ; and in a few days Miles 
 Earnscliffe was successively pronounced an 
 unprincipled speculator, a man who* original- 
 ly amassed his fortune by fraud, and had now 
 lost it through the discovery of the swindle. 
 For the directors of the' Bombay Bank, 
 whose failure had ruined him, were in truth 
 by no means clear from the imputation of 
 dishonor ; and the world, merely confound- 
 ing the sufferer with the delinquent, decreed 
 that old Miles was not only ruined, but infa- 
 mous ! 
 
 Philip, it was admitted, had nothing to do 
 with this ; but he was a coxcomb, a parvenu, 
 and a bad husband ; while, by a natural con- 
 clusion, Lady Clara was soon elevated to the 
 position of an injured woman, long suffering 
 angel, and a martyr. And Lady St. Leger, 
 who had so strongly opposed her daughter's 
 separation from Philip, was agreeably sur- 
 prised at suddenly finding herself quite the 
 fashion in consequence of this event. 
 
 Clara, however, received the advances 
 of her friends with even more than her ac- 
 customed coldness. She would go into no 
 society, and kept as much aloof from her 
 own mother as was possible ; above all, she 
 hated to hear her husband's name, or that of 
 his uncle mentioned before her. In her own 
 heart she had felt, after the first burst of 
 passion was over, the falseness of the accu- 
 sation she had made to Philip. Now that 
 they were actually parted for ever, she be- 
 gan tardily to acknowledge to herself the 
 real nobleness of his character ; and with 
 strange, yet not uncommon inconsistency 
 half believed she loved her husband, now 
 that it was too late. She remembered his 
 youth his generosity in marrying her how 
 unsuited her character, in its utter vvorldliness, 
 must have been to his own and she framed a 
 thousand excuses for his love of more conge- 
 nial society ; and even for that last open dere- 
 liction which had been the immediate cause 
 of their sepai^ation. 
 
 In her long sleepless nights she recalled 
 their parting interview, and saw herself 
 harsh, unwomanly, unforgiving ; taunting 
 him on his uncled affliction, and imputing 
 sordid motives to himself, while he had for- 
 borne so long, and still tried to reconcile her. 
 She thought of him now, the world turning 
 from him as it should have done from guilt, 
 not misfortune, and her proud, misguided 
 heart which might have been a gentle and 
 loving one, had she been differently educa- 
 ted throbbed for Philip in his loneliness, as 
 it had never done in his popularity and suc- 
 cess ; and often in tears and self-reproach 
 she longed to be at his side. But he never 
 knew this. Clara would have died sooner 
 than reveal to human ear that she repented 
 
 her own act ; and through all her after-life 
 Philip Earnscliffe never heard again from his 
 wife. 
 
 The house in Park Lane was, of course, 
 given up at once, and Philip returned to his 
 uncle's for the present, until the future plans 
 of both should be decided. Miles, though 
 no longer a millionaire, was after all, very far 
 from being a ruined man ; and on the pro- 
 ceeds of the sale of this Yorkshire estate, he 
 found that he might still continue to live in 
 his present house a great consolation to the 
 old man, to whom his home was endeared 
 by all the recollections of Philip's childhood. 
 His tens of thousands had been reduced to 
 hundreds ; but he had an income even now, 
 which, although poverty in the eyes of the 
 world, would to his brother Herbert have ap- 
 peared riches. 
 
 " I shall not have to lessen your allowance 
 more than half, Phil," was one of his first 
 remarks after the winding-up of his affairs. 
 But the burning flush which rose in Philip's 
 cheek, as he refused to receive one farthing 
 more in the way of assistance from his un- 
 cle, was too sincere a proof of his sentiments 
 for Miles to press the subject. 
 ' I am fully able to work for myself," he 
 answered. " And for my own sake, I am 
 thankful that it is my lot to do so. I abhor 
 the very mention of riches, as I do the peo- 
 ple who have cringed to us for them so long." 
 Philip had heard more of the evil reports 
 about his uncle than had come to the old 
 man's own knowledge, and his disgust was 
 consequently bitterer against the world where 
 they were circulated. He shrank with almost 
 morbid sensitiveness from any mention of 
 money ; and innocent though he felt himself, 
 conscious of his uncle's entire integrity- 
 through his whole lifetime, he yet could not 
 bear to be seen by his old associates, while 
 the imputation of dishonor was upon their 
 name, avoiding even the society of the few 
 friends he possessed, who really sympathised 
 with him in his trial. Poverty would have 
 been nothing to Philip, but the falsehood 
 which was now current in the world was so 
 unexpected a blow, that he staggered and 
 felt powerless under the shock. It was his 
 first great trial, and he felt it with all the 
 keen and passionate grief of youth. But 
 there was still more awaiting him. 
 
 His new book was now ready, and he de- 
 termined that it should come out at once, 
 though his friendly publishers, with a truer 
 knowledge of the world, and a real regard 
 for his interest, entreated him to delay its ap- 
 pearance until another season, or, at least 
 till the present tide of public opinion had 
 somewhat turned. Philip firmly refused to 
 do so. " What have my private affairs to 
 do with my writings?" he argued. "Or 
 how can it affect the merit of a book, that 
 the author has suddenly become a poor man, 
 and that his wife and friends have chosen to 
 leave him ! No, it shall appear, and stand 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 or fall upon its own worth. I am sick of 
 success that I have not really won for my- 
 -eelf." And the publishers were forced to 
 comply. 
 
 The book did appear, and was a dead 
 failure. Only the few grave and honest 
 critics who had warned the young author of 
 the faults in his second work, acknowledged 
 the real genius and increased powers of his 
 present one, and encouraged him to proceed. 
 The fashionable papers, by one accord, and 
 also many of the literary journals, abused 
 the book without measure. It was stupid, 
 frivolous, impertinent ; without talent and 
 without principles ; and one evening paper 
 went so far as to say, " The work was only 
 what might have been expected from such a 
 pen, and was literally unfit for a drawing- 
 room table. 1 ' 
 
 Philip read all these criticisms, of course; 
 it was his principal employment to do so in 
 his loneliness and dispppointment ; but when 
 lie glanced over the one last alluded to, a 
 bitterer expression than usual escaped his 
 lips. He remembered the two columns of 
 fulsome praise upon his second book, which 
 had appeared in this very paper, at the time 
 that he was in the zenith of his popularity 
 praise which then had disgusted him, from 
 its excess, and total want of discrimination 
 and contrasted them in his mind with the 
 few lines of malevolent abuse bestowed now 
 upon his last and far superior work. " It 
 is well," thought Earnsclilfe, as he laid down 
 the paper. "These gentlemen are doing 
 me a far greater service than even the few 
 kindly critics, who have tried to stem, in my 
 favor, the tide of fashionable opinion. My 
 next book will be one that shall seek its suc- 
 cess in the world. It shall be written, not 
 for the flimsy praise of May Fair, or the ap- 
 plause of evening papers, but for the people 
 the working and honest people of whose 
 wrongs, I will become the advocate, while I 
 expose that society whose leaders have now 
 cast me oil'." And Philip fulfilled his words. 
 
 lie took an obscure lodging not far from 
 Ms friend Neville (for he had a longing to 
 IK- perfectly alone), and began working with 
 a fervor and perseverance astonishing to tin- 
 artist, who had hitherto only seen in Philip a 
 gentle, indok'iitboy, with genius, but scan-c- 
 iv ambition enough to become really great. 
 Now, in a lew weeks, he seemed transformed 
 into a hard- working, untiring, practical man. 
 II s style altered with his character. It lost 
 the old carele>s diction, thestmny enthusiasm, 
 the !/oitt/if'ulnf>.w, which had constituted the 
 peculiar charm of his earlier writings, and 
 became earnest, manly, more forcible. The 
 M-iiis o| sarcasm, that merely ran lightly 
 through his first works, and scarcely tinged 
 them, had now grown can-tic and bitter, col- 
 oring IIM whole thoughts. He. showed up, 
 vith no sparing hand, the vices and foibles 
 of those few hundreds of persons in Ilelgra- 
 via why call themselves the world, sketching 
 
 many a well-known character with a few terse 
 words of ridicule that yet, rendered the like- 
 ness to perfection, and were more biting 
 from their brevity. Above all, he laid bare 
 that hideous Mammon-worship which lies at 
 the very heart of English society, making 
 the fairest and first-born among us bow down 
 with smiles before a railway schemer, who 
 has succeeded through dishonesty, or a pro- 
 fligate Eastern monster, whose atrocities are 
 as well known as the number of his lacs of 
 rupees. It was a subject on which Philip felt 
 keenly, and about which although with 
 some pardonable excess of bitterness, .and 
 slight exaggeration he wrote well. But it 
 was not one to win back his lost popularity 
 among his former friends. In his second 
 volume he turned to another class of English 
 people, and dwelt eloquently upon the long 
 sufferings, the patient-abidings, the wrongs 
 of the laboring poor, whose masses make up 
 the real bulk of society, and from their ranks 
 the main characters of the story were taken. 
 It was emphatically a book of, and for the 
 peoplo ; and not all the critics in London 
 could have prevented its becoming popular. 
 But, if it had appeared with anothar name, 
 few could have suspected that its author, and 
 the author of the graceful tales and ballads 
 which had adorned so many a silken boudoir 
 was the same. 
 
 Neville watched his friend's progress with 
 undisguised pleasure. He had always re- 
 gretted the kind of life into which Philip 
 had been so long drawn by his position ; and 
 he would now frequently say, " Ah Phil ! the 
 best day in your life was that when your un- 
 cle's smash came, your great friends with- 
 drew, and your wife was good enough to 
 leave you. It was really far better luck than 
 you deserved." Philip always tried to agree 
 with him ; but every week he looked more 
 worn and old. Although energetic when 
 under tho influence of some strong excite- 
 ment as was now the case his tempera- 
 ment was not suited for battling with disap- 
 pointment and rebuffs, like the artist's, lie 
 had no natural "genius for plodding," as 
 Neville called it; and while his book pro- 
 ceeded rapidly, he grew paler in his confined 
 lodgings, and sometimes wondered within 
 himself if he, really were born for this kind 
 .I' life, as on the first evening of his changed 
 fortune he had decided. 
 
 Meantime. Neville's pictures were finished 
 and sold ; and as lie had nothing more to 
 detain him in town, his small arrangements* 
 were speedily made for his departure to the 
 Continent. Philip went to his lodgings tin; 
 
 evening before he was to leave, and found 
 him, as usual, in his close room, his one port- 
 mautcaii and his painting-box standing park- 
 ed miller the table, and the artist himx-lf 
 sealed at the solitary window which over- 
 looked a sultry back street and a greengro- 
 cer's shop, but with a more ladiant. expres- 
 sion than Philip luul ver remarked upon his 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 53 
 
 face among all the glories of a Highland sun- 
 set. 
 
 " Here you are, Philip ! " he cried, gaily, 
 as his friend entered. * I thought I should 
 see you this last evening ; and, by Jove ! I 
 only wish you were coming away with rne to- 
 morrow that is, of course, if you were as 
 free as I am. I am not much given to bursts 
 of enthusiasm, as you know, but I do feel 
 singularly happy to-day, and should like to 
 think we were to spend the coming summer 
 together, as we did the last." 
 
 "You look happy," said Philip, as he 
 possessed himself of the artist's other chair, 
 and gazed half enviously at his bright coun- 
 tenance. " The world goes well with you, 
 Neville." 
 
 " Yes, I make it do so ! It is no surprise 
 at unlooked-for success which makes me in 
 good spirits this evening, but merely a feel- 
 ing of contentment at finding how things 
 turn out precisely as I intended they should ; 
 how singularly -we can rule our own destiny ! 
 You know how I have slaved for the last sev- 
 en months upon those pictures; they are 
 now completed and sold exactly at the time 
 I had fixed ; and to-day, the thirtieth of June, 
 as I thought, I am sitting for the last time in 
 this room, where I have worked for four up- 
 hill years, and am closing the first period in 
 my life. My old easel I have presented to 
 my landlady for firewood ; and to-morrow I 
 start (without a regret, Phil, except that I 
 shall not see you again for two years), and 
 shall spend the summer sketching in Switzer- 
 land ; next winter in Rome." 
 
 " Yours is a happier organism than mine," 
 replied Philip. * I should feel a regret at 
 sitting at my window for the last time, and 
 giving up my easel for firewood, after it had 
 been my friend during four years." 
 
 Neville laughed aloud. " It is not in my 
 nature to create sorrows," he answered. " I 
 am not a poet, and have no poetic tendencies 
 whatever ; and I am happy to think that you 
 are fast losing yours. Just retain as much 
 sentiment as is wanted for the tender part of 
 your books, and discard all the rest from 
 your own life ; you will find quite enough to 
 regret in the world, without wasting your 
 sympathies on old easels. By-the-bye, what 
 are Fridoline, and Rose, and all those peo- 
 ple about? Have you given them up, as 
 well as the grand world ? " 
 
 "They at least have not given me up," re- 
 turned Philip. " I have seen little of Frid- 
 oline lately ; indeed, I have had time for 
 nothing but writing, but I hear she is pro- 
 gressing wonderfully in her profession, and 
 receives an enormous salary at St. James's. 
 You would scarcely believe, Neville, how 
 much feeling some of ' those people ' as you 
 call them, showed when I lost my expecta- 
 tions of wealth and my literary reputation at 
 one blow. Celeste, poor thing, shed tears 
 over the criticisms in some of the papers, 
 
 which she managed to understand, and Frid- 
 oline " 
 
 "And Rose?" interrupted Neville, in his 
 old tone. 
 
 " No, Neville, thank you," said Philip, 
 reddening; "we will not broach that sub- 
 ject if you please. You know that I am not 
 a fit person to listen to Rose Elmslie's de- 
 tractors ; and also that I have too few illusions 
 left to be desirous of sacrificing any more. 
 Against my own senses, I shall retain my for- 
 mer opinion of Rose, and therefore would 
 rather not speak to her of you." 
 
 " Well, taking that view of it, you are 
 acting rightly," returned Neville. " Like 
 the nobleman who paid his valet three hun- 
 dred a year to cheat him openly, you say to 
 yourself that you are a happy man, and shut 
 your eyes when you see Rose driving in 
 
 Count B 's pony carriage. How far have 
 
 you advanced in your book ? " 
 
 "Oh! it is half finished. In a month I 
 shall go off to the seaside, and complete it 
 there, for I am actually ill in this hot, close 
 air of London. It will be published by next 
 winter, and I will write and tell you of its 
 success 511 or good." 
 
 " Do so. No one will be more interest- 
 ed in it than myself, and I shall be delighted 
 if you would join me in Italy afterwards." 
 
 " I shall like it extremely if I were able, 
 but " 
 
 " Well, I don't see what there is to keep 
 you in England. You say you hate parties 
 and theatres now. Your wife is certainly no 
 longer the attraction : surely you will not 
 begin writing another book directly. It 
 would be much better for you to give your 
 brain a rest, and come to Italy for a stock of 
 new ideas. I am positive the artist-life in 
 Rome would suit us both." 
 
 "Yes " said Philip, hesitating. "It 
 would be very pleasant; but you see I have 
 ties to England. My uncle is an old man, 
 and has none belonging to him but me ; for 
 his sake I feel myself in some measure 
 bound " 
 
 " A convenient excuse ! " exclaimed Ne- 
 ville. " I wish it were the real reason. 
 However, the longest road has some turning, 
 and I am sure your present weakness can- 
 not be eternal. When that is over, you will 
 find that you can make up your mind to leave 
 your excellent uncle for a year, or even two, 
 without the separation breaking anybody's 
 heart ! " 
 
 " But you forget that I am a poor man 
 now. It is an expensive thing travelling in 
 Italy." 
 
 "Oh you always talk as though you were 
 actual beggars, when at this moment Mr. 
 Miles continues to live in a house I consider 
 a palace, and you have nearly finished a new- 
 novel, for which you will have six or seven 
 hundred pounds, at least." 
 
 " Or half, or a quarter the sum," inter- 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 rupted Philip. *' After my last dead failure 
 publishers will be rather shy of offering to 
 purchase my works." 
 
 " Then publish on your own account ; your 
 new book must succeed." 
 
 Thev talked together until past midnight. 
 Then Philip, after a hearty farewell, took 
 his leave 5 and by five o'clock next morning 
 Neville was driving along through the inter- 
 minable, streets leading to St. Katherine's 
 Wharf, where he embarked for Rotterdam. 
 
 Philip felt a heavy sense of loneliness 
 when he was gone. He missed Neville's 
 cheerful face more than he had expected 
 his friendlessness oppressed him. There 
 were long weary hours when his brain refus- 
 ed to work, and his eyes were hot and hea- 
 vy ; and then he longed most for youthful 
 companionship, and so gradually took refuge 
 more and more in the society of poor Rose. 
 She was always ready to smile upon him. 
 Without much real depth of feeling, the in- 
 nocence of her country life gave her a tone 
 unlike other women of her class she was 
 gentle, often sad : for the sentiment she 
 really bore to Philip (the only approach to a 
 true one in her whole existence) made her at 
 times hate herself and her life, and when she 
 was with him her eyes would fill with tears, 
 and her voice tremble. In an hour after he 
 had left, the momentary impulse was gone ; 
 
 and in the society of Count B , or at the 
 
 gay suppers after the ballet, Rose was again 
 the light, reckless, high-spirited actress. 
 IJnt while her softer mood was upon her (and 
 that was as he always saw her) it gave her a 
 charm in Philip's eyes greater even than her 
 beauty, and every day this fascination in- 
 creased. / 
 
 Still, Earnscliffe did not love her. There 
 was something within him which instinctive!) 
 made him shrink from loving any woman in 
 her position. His natually refined taste, anc 
 poetic notions about what woman should be, 
 had made him from his boyhood feel differ 
 cully to other young men on such subjects 
 and he knew that the moment in which h( 
 was forced to see Rose as she really was, lu 
 would leave her for ever. But, in the mean 
 time, her beauty attracted him irresistibly 
 Amid his desolation and disappointment, IK 
 would gaze on her sweet young face, am 
 listen to her low voice, and try to persuailt 
 himself that his Egeria was really found 
 While still, in his own heart, he knew that i 
 was a false one. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 Towu:i>- the middle of October Philip' 
 
 book was finished. lie had spent the MUM 
 IIKT at a quirt waterin^-phl'-. on the soiitl 
 (oast, accompanied by his uncle, who suumui 
 
 mvilling to part with him for a single week. 
 Che loss of his property had strangely solt- 
 jned the hard character of Miles. Nothing 
 now gave him such pleasure as to walk up 
 and down on the beach, listening to the 
 waves, and watching the children who played 
 vith them, and gathered treasures by their 
 ide ; or in stormy weather to sit at the win- 
 low, which overlooked the sea, and gaze 
 )ut at the scene bofore him. He would re- 
 uain thus for hours patiently, while Philip 
 ,vas writing in another part of the room, nti 
 speaking for fear of interrupting him, and 
 seeking no employment for himself; but 
 when Philip at length, would say "Now, 
 sir, T have done work for to-day," the old 
 man's face grew bright in a second ; and 
 kvhen his nephew came and sat by him to 
 'ead aloud something he had written, or talk 
 over old times, he was happy for the remain- 
 der of the evening. 
 
 Philip was glad to see his uncle in this al- 
 tered state of mind, but to himself the quiet 
 monotony of their days was often galling. 
 In the prime of youth and energy, he longed 
 to cast himself again into the throng of life, 
 and, by some new and brilliant success, wipe 
 out the remembrance of his failure, and the 
 stigma upon his uncle's name. It is only 
 after a certain age, that solitude can be wel- 
 come in grief and disappointment ; it is 
 never so in youth. After the first blow, the 
 first shrinking from the world is over, the 
 natural reaction must always be to face the 
 struggle again, and win back the lost object, 
 or forget it in the pursuit of a fresh desire. 
 
 They returned to Miles's house in Novem- 
 ber, and in due time the book appeared; 
 but neither of his earlier productions had 
 met with success such as awaited this one. 
 Philip was himself astonished at it. Edition 
 after edition was called for, and in a few 
 months Philip found his popularity establish- 
 ed upon a far surer base than it had ever 
 been before the general good opinion of 
 the middle classes. He, had become one of 
 the favorite writers of the day. Still, he 
 felt in his own heart that the first pleasure in 
 success was gone, lie had fulfilled his de- 
 sire of brilliantly effacing his literary failure ; 
 and the fickle voice oi the public had al- 
 readv recanted, imdrr the inlluence of his 
 DOW triumph, the former base reports about 
 old .Miles; but the zrst the freshness of 
 life was over. lie did not doubt the sinceri- 
 ty of his friends, but he wished to be tree 
 from them and tin- whole, world. Having 
 achieved the victory, he eared not to wear 
 the laurels; and he began seriously to think 
 of joining N'eville, or, at least, of going 
 abroad for a time. He had often wished to 
 visit the wild pails of western France where 
 the artist had once spent, some months, and 
 which he had described, in all ii^ s.ivagu 
 loneliness, to Philip and he now thought 
 he would like tosprnd the summer in accom- 
 plishing this, and afterward -o to Uo.n I lor 
 
PHILIP EARSTSCLIFFE. 
 
 55 
 
 the winter. The extraordinary success of 
 his last work had supplied him amply with 
 means for travelling, and he felt that a long 
 rest and perfect change would be necessary 
 for his over-worked brain, before writing 
 again. 
 
 Only two objections weighed against this 
 project: the first was leaving his uncle. 
 The delight of Miles at his newly-arisen fame, 
 was far greater than his own. It had cheered 
 the old man more than anything that had oc- 
 curred since his own losses ; and the first 
 tears Philip had ever seen him shed, glisten- 
 ed in his eyes as he read over the different 
 criticisms upon his boy's book. He thought 
 Philip would now be contented and happy, 
 and willing to live quietly with him, as in 
 his young days ; and when one day he dis- 
 tantly hinted at his idea of'going abroad for 
 a year or two, the look of bitter disappoint- 
 ment which crossed his uncle's face, touched 
 Philip deeply, and he resolved to say no 
 more on the subject. But when, day by day, 
 he still looked paler, while his spirits did not 
 improve, Miles himself began to think it 
 might be really well for him to have a change 
 of scene for awhile ; and striving to forget 
 what his own loneliness would be without 
 him, he at length told Philip he thought it 
 would be better that he should go abroad 
 for the summer, at least.- And Philip, not 
 realising to the full the sacrifice these words 
 cost Miles, felt glad that the old man was 
 reconciled to parting with him, and that only 
 one more inducement to remain in England 
 still existed. This inducement, however, 
 was a strong one ; and Philip had wavered 
 again and again before he could resolve 
 upon going abroad, when a circumstance 
 occurred, which, although trivial in itself, 
 had the effect of disenchanting him for ever 
 with his last illusion (as he termed his feel- 
 ing towards Rose when speaking of it to the 
 artist), and indirectly influenced much of 
 Philip's after-life. 
 
 One bright spring morning he went, at 
 his usual hour, to call on Miss Elmslie. She 
 was always glad to see him ; but he thought 
 he detected on this occasion a slight embar- 
 rassment in her manner when he entered, 
 although she strove hard to conceal it. She 
 was seated at an embossed and gaily-colored 
 writing-table, near one of the windows, and, 
 immediately closing the portfolio before her, 
 she rose to meet Philip not however, be- 
 fore a glance had shown him that she was 
 writing one of her familiar little pink-colored 
 notes, which, from another opened envelope 
 and note by its side, appeared to be in an- 
 swer to one just received. 
 
 " I am interrupting you, Rose," he re- 
 marked ; "were you writing to me par 
 hazard ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! how could I possibly have any- 
 thing worth saying to you? I was merely 
 writing to my milliner. * Tiresome creature ! 
 my new dress for to-morrow is hideous, and 
 
 there is scarcely time to make me a new on. 
 Where will you sit? this horrid sun has 
 nearly blinded me ! " and closing the cur- 
 tains, she threw herself into a chair, with her 
 back to the light. " Tell me what you have 
 been doing this last age." 
 
 Philip thought her manner somewhat 
 forced, but replied quickly " I arn glad you 
 consider three days an age, Rose ! however, 
 it is not jny fault that I did not see you yes- 
 terday. I called, and you were engaged. 
 Are you really growing so artificial" he 
 went on *' as to call this bright sun horrid? 
 After all the winter fog, and the yellow glare 
 of gaslight, I should have thought you would 
 like the return of spring." 
 
 " Ah, that is where it is ! " she replied, 
 with a pretty sigh. " I am so accustomed 
 to the false glare, as you call it, of my gas- 
 lit life, that I am losing my pleasure in all 
 old things. The sunshine makes me miser- 
 able, and I hate the smell of violets, which 
 they are selling in the streets ; you know, 
 until I was fourteen I lived in a country vil- 
 lage, and I think I would rather never be 
 reminded of my early life. But you have 
 not seen me in the new ballet ; and I am per- 
 fect in it. Do you know the whole thing 
 was composed expressly for me, and they 
 say the last flying scene is my chefd" 1 ceuvre, 
 
 and little C i is mad with jealousy at my 
 
 success !" 
 
 ** I do not go much to the opera now," 
 replied Philip. " And, besides that, you 
 know that I do not care to see you dance. 
 1 like to think of you as you are now, Rose 
 quiet and lovely, and with me not gazed 
 at, and commented on by half the men in 
 London in your stage dress. In fact," he 
 continued warmly, "I hate ballets 5 I have 
 hated them ever since I knew you. I can- 
 not bear to think of you continuing this pub- 
 lic kind of life for years. Do you think you 
 could be happy if you gave up the stage. 
 Rose could content yourself with the quiet, 
 every-day happiness of an ordinary woman ?" 
 He seated himself by her side, looking very 
 earnestly in her face, as though reading her 
 reply more on her features than in her 
 words. 
 
 Miss Elmslie's color came and went. 
 There was something in Philip's manner 
 which actually made her own heart beat a lit- 
 tle, and, under the impulse of the moment, 
 she would have gladly given up her beauty, 
 success, admiration all that constituted the. 
 sum of her existence to be once more in- 
 nocent, and able really to love, and be loved 
 by, a man like Philip Earnscliffe. At least, 
 she thought so. 
 
 " Give up my profession ! " she replied, 
 averting her face. "Oh, it is too late! I 
 have nothing to return to now I have no 
 friends, no relations and without something 
 to fill my heart and time, I should soon wear/ 
 of quiet, and only long the more to return 
 to the excitement and forgetfulness of my 
 
56 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 present life and it is delightful to be so 
 much admired ! But," she continued, softly, 
 and this time she was really not acting when 
 large tears filled her eyes, " if I had earlier 
 met some one to care for me, to warn me of 
 the dangers of my position, and save me, I 
 should have hated to be a dancer now it is 
 too late ! " 
 
 " Rose," began Philip, in a low, grave 
 voice, " it can never be too late." 
 
 She shook her head; but he persisted. 
 He, too, was carried away by impulse the 
 girl's beautiful face, and touching contrite 
 manner had never so affected him before ; 
 he began talking about a quiet cottage in the 
 country, and a life apart from the whole 
 world ; and, Heaven knows to what further 
 extent Philip was about to commit himself, 
 when, at that moment, a discreet knock came 
 at the door of the room, and immediately af- 
 terwards, his guardian angel in the shape 
 of Miss Elmslie's very diminutive page en- 
 tered. 
 
 " Please, ma'am, is the note ready ? " said 
 the child he ought to have been better train- 
 ed, but Rose had only had him a few days in 
 her service, the former boy having outgrown 
 the fairy-like dimensions of her carriage. 
 " The Count's groom says he has got so 
 many ladies to call on this morning, he thinks 
 he can't wait any longer." 
 
 Her face turned crimson with mingled 
 shame and anger at the boy's stupidity, and 
 Philip, with the feeling of one who has been 
 rudely awakened out of a pleasant slumber 
 over the brink of a precipice, rose to his feet. 
 " Tell him," stammered Rose, " to wait 
 I mean there is no answer no I will 
 send one in the course of the day." 
 
 The page withdrew, to comment on his 
 mistress's odd manner and the young gentle- 
 man's face to the Count's groom, and left 
 Rose and Philip once more alone. But in 
 those few moments an immense space of time 
 seemed to have elapsed. She was the first 
 to speak. 
 
 " It is nothing," she hesitated, " only an 
 
 answer to an invitation Count B , you 
 
 know " Philip said nothing " has a party 
 to-night only a musical party, I believe 
 and and he wished me to join Celeste 
 will be there and but I shall not go," she 
 added, glancing at his face. 
 
 " And you were doubtless writing a refu- 
 sal when I came in," answered Philip. " Or 
 did you say /hat was to your milliner? " 
 ""it really was, I assure you." 
 44 Let me see it." 
 / "Do you not believe me ? " 
 " Let me see it." 
 *' Oh, you are too hard upon mo," six- an- 
 swered, and burst into tears. 
 
 It was her best move;!, Philip never rmil 
 utarid the sight of tears, and bis tone soften 
 ed. 
 
 14 Let me see your reply," he said, again 
 " 1 have surely a right to require that." 
 
 She rose very slowly, and after visible hes- 
 tation, drew a little key from her watch- 
 hain, and prepared to unlock the case. 
 
 " Do not ask me," she said, once more, 
 is she paused irresolutely, her head bent 
 down, and her slight figure leaning in an at- 
 itude of excessive grace against the writing 
 able. 
 
 Philip's eyes were intently fixed upon her, 
 and she was so lovely at that moment, that 
 le could scarcely feel angry with her for any- 
 thing ; but he answered 
 
 " You have deceived me, Rose ; however, 
 as you object to it, I do not ask to see the 
 lote. You have a right to keep your own 
 counsel. For the future, I will not attempt 
 to interfere " 
 
 She flew to his side. " I have deceived 
 you ! " she cried, her cheeks burning bright- 
 y, and her eyes swimming. " I have de- 
 ceived you and I confess it ! I told you I 
 was writing to the milliner when you came 
 n because, I knew you would think me 
 
 wrong to go to a party at Count B 's ; 
 
 jut I really was to go with Celeste, and we 
 30th meant to come away early I am so 
 sorry now so truly sorry only let me write 
 a refusal to that horrid man, and forgive 
 me ! " 
 
 iph 
 
 llusi 
 
 youthful illusions left for him to be willing to 
 part with any of those which still lingered ; 
 and with Rose's imploring eyes and flushed 
 cheeks before him, it must not be greatly 
 wondered at that he did forgive her. He 
 saw the note written and sent, and tried to 
 believe that she had accepted the invitation 
 at first merely through her childish love of 
 gaiety. They were reconciled at once : and 
 Rose made faint attempts to renew their form- 
 er conversation ; but Earnscliffe could not at 
 once get over the shock of this little incident. 
 
 Count B 's shadow had darkened the 
 
 prospect of a country cottage, and he left 
 Miss Elmslie's house in an hour's time with- 
 out having returned to the subject which had, 
 so happily for himself, been interrupted. 
 
 "Come to-morrow, and von will sec how 
 fresh I look after my early hours to-night ! ' 
 were her last, words as her hand trembled in 
 his at parting. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 fc!l in an unsettled mood after he 
 left iJii.se. 1 le hail in> particiil ir en^a^ement 
 for the day; and when he had looked in at 
 his clnl>, and wandered about the streets Ibr 
 a time, he grew wear\ . and directed his steps 
 homeward. The whole nf thi> time hi> mind 
 was dwelling on the occurrence of the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 " Is it possible, after all, that Mv \illu was 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 57 
 
 indeed right? '" he thought. " And is she 
 not merely light and childish but false ? 
 She deceived me so coolly about the invita- 
 tion, when she first saw me. and then after- 
 wards still, I suppose if Celeste is to be at 
 this party Rose might think it a fit one for 
 her too poor child ! He must invite a dif- 
 ferent class of guests now, by the way, for 
 Celeste never used to go to such houses as 
 
 Count B 's ! " He paused. "I wonder 
 
 if Celeste {.? going to-night, after all ? " 
 
 This doubt once awakened, Philip could 
 not rest till it was satisfied. He turned his 
 steps at once in the opposite direction, and 
 an hour afterwards was seated in Celeste's 
 drawin<r-room all perfume, and ormolo, and 
 rose-colored li<;ht and listening to the live- 
 ly little Frenchwoman's affectionate greeting, 
 until he almost forgot the object of his visit. 
 She had not seen much of " cech.er Philippe' 1 ' 1 
 lately, and was enchanted to be able to talk 
 over his recent success. 
 
 " At length they begin to appreciate you," 
 she exclaimed in French, as she made him take 
 a seat beside her, on her dainty satin sofa. 
 " These monsters ! You will be one of the 
 first writers of the day indeed you are so 
 already you are immortal, and I in my 
 humble insignificance I shall always retain 
 the happiness of feeling that I was one of 
 the very first to recognise your young genius, 
 and to give you my small encouragement." 
 Poor Celeste ! she quite thought that her little 
 supper-parties had some way or another as- 
 sisted Philip in the literary world. 
 
 " And I," returned Earnscliffe, kindly, 
 *' shall always gratefully remember your zeal 
 and warm sympathy with me in my failure. I 
 have many to congratulate me now ; but you 
 were one of the few who stood by me through 
 everything." 
 
 Her eyes softened. "Ah, Philip ! you 
 have a long and brilliant career in store for 
 you,'" she cried; "and in your celebrity 
 and your active life, you will have no time 
 to think of old days. * But I shall not forget 
 you. As Fridoline says, you are the only 
 man in the world with whom one can forget 
 that one is an actress ; and, you know, it is 
 pleasant sometimes to think that we belong to 
 the same humanity as your own sisters and 
 wives. Poor little Fndoline ! " she continu- 
 ed ; " do you not think she has been looking 
 pale of late ? " 
 
 Philip, with some feeling of compunction, 
 was obliged to confess that he had not seen 
 her for a long time ; he had been so fully oc- 
 cupied. 
 
 "Yes," interrupted Celeste, "I know 
 all about that. But your book has long been 
 published, and your present occupation is not 
 of a nature worthy enough to make you for- 
 get your old friends ; and Fridoline and I both 
 used to consider ourselves among the number." 
 
 Philip wa- silent. Something in Celeste's 
 tone struck him as more than mere wounded 
 vanity, or feminine jealousy, and it reminded 
 
 him of the object of his visit. He shrank, 
 however, from approaching the subject ; and, 
 after a short kind of laugh, went on inquir- 
 ing for Fridoline. 
 
 " I shall never understand that girl," re- 
 plied Celeste. " Her whole life is a perfect 
 mystery. She works on, as I never could, 
 at her profession ; she improves wonderfully, 
 and receives mon Dieu, quel salaire ! yet I 
 believe every day she hates the stage more 
 and more. Her greatest triumphs only give 
 her a gloomy, unnatural pleasure, which 
 arises neither from gratified vanity, nor any 
 other feeling that I can understand ; and, 
 with all her money, would you believe that, 
 instead of buying toilettes, or ornaments, or 
 a carriage, or giving parties, she still lives 
 in that dull old cottage, with her one servant 
 and her beasts, and will not spend a shilling 
 on a cab in rainy weather ? And yet she is 
 no miser ; for she* will give freely to any un- 
 fortunate being she meets in the streets. 
 She goes nowhere but to the theatre, and to 
 see me ; in short, as I said, her life and 
 herself are mysteries ! " 
 
 " You know more about her than any one, 
 Celeste. What do you really think is her 
 early history ? for, of course, little Fridoline 
 did not actually drop from the clouds, when 
 she first appeared in London." 
 
 Celeste shook her head. " I know noth- 
 ing or next to nothing," she replied. " Frid- 
 oline is like a child in telling me all the inci- 
 dents of her present life ; but, if anything 
 happens to lead her towards the past, she be- 
 comes suddenly silent and confused, and ev- 
 idently shuns the subject. Two things I do 
 know," she added, hesitatingly, " and cer- 
 tainly I would confide them to no one but 
 yourself; however, I know you are so unlike 
 most of the world, that, if I told you, her se- 
 cret as far as it goes would be safe, and also 
 that you would not judge Fridoline by mere 
 appearance." 
 
 " And these circumstances? " 
 
 " Well, they are these." Celeste drew a 
 little closer, and lowered her voice. " The 
 first, perhaps, you may think unimportant ; 
 Fndoline, though she always speaks of her- 
 self as an orphan, has a mother living, and 
 not very far distant. This I know for cer- 
 tain ; for when she was ill and delirious " 
 
 " And you nursed her, Celeste." 
 
 " She more than once spoke of her moth- 
 er, wildly and mournfully, but in terras 
 which showed that she had only lately parted 
 from her. The second clue is dark, and to 
 me incomprehensible ; and often and often I 
 have thought over it, and vainly tried to 
 connect the circumstance, I am about to tell 
 you, with Fridoline as she now is. You 
 shall, however, judge for yourself. When 
 Fridoline had been in London some months, 
 she chanced one day to be sitting with me 
 when an old friend of mine from Paris a 
 relation of my own, in fact, who had just ar- 
 rived in England came in unexpectedly. 
 
58 
 
 PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 The moment he saw Fridoline I was sure he 
 recognised her, and his surprise was un- 
 equivocal; while she, on the other hand, 
 bowed when 1 introduced them, with the 
 perfect sang fro Id and unconcern of a strang- 
 . er, and soon afterwards rose and took leave. 
 : The door had scarcely closed when my re- 
 lation exclaimed, ' Where, in Heaven's name, 
 did you pick up that girl ? ' 
 
 " ' I do not know what you mean by pick- 
 ing up,' I replied. ' She is Mademoiselle 
 Fridoline, the most rising actress in London, 
 and a particular friend of my own.' 
 
 " ' Oh ! ' returned my cousin ; ' so that is 
 little Fridoline. Well, I am glad you like 
 her, and perhaps you can tell me something 
 about her past history.' 
 
 *' I was obliged to confess that! could not, 
 as there was considerable mystery attached 
 to Fridoline, and it was not even known to 
 what country she belonged* 
 
 " Then,' he answered, ' I can give you 
 some slight information on the subject, at 
 all events, of her life in Paris.' 
 
 " ' I never knew she had been there,' 
 said 1.' 
 
 " My cousin smiled. 'My apartment at 
 home," continued he, ' happens to face the 
 house of a certain Russian prince' he told 
 me his name, but it was so hard and hideous 
 that I have forgotten it ' and sometimes, 
 when I am tired after my day's work, I 
 amuse myself a little by watching the visitors 
 of my princely vis-h-vis. As to the men, I 
 have seen, of course, English lords, French 
 peers, German princes, by dozens, enter the 
 hotel ; but the women, bah ! all of one class, 
 and the worst.' 
 
 "'Go on,' I said, impatiently. 'What 
 has all this to do with Fridoline ? ' 
 
 " ' Well, only this. That on three differ 
 ent occasions last winter (and she may have 
 been there scores of times before) I saw thai 
 girl descend from a fiacre, towards dusk, and 
 enter the Hotel Danon.' 
 
 ** ' Impossible ! ' I cried. 
 . " ' But I would swear to it,' he answered 
 ' Iler's is not a face to forget. Twice, cer- 
 tainly, I only saw her from my window, am" 
 I grant that I might have been mistaken ; or 
 the third occasion, however, I happened t< 
 be passing the porte-cochere of the hote" 
 exactly as she was entering, and the ligli 
 falling full upon her fiiee, I saw her us plain 
 ly as I do yon now, and she and your friem 
 are the, same.' 
 
 " His manner was so odiously positive 
 that I was convinced of his truth in spite of 
 my-elf: luit I tried to account for the occur 
 reiice by observing that, allowing it, was true 
 lie Lid M-en her, Fridoline might have som 
 humble friend among the prince's depend 
 ants whom she went to vi>it. 
 
 44 4 Wrong, madam,' he replied (Iliad 
 him I' r li'- molness); 'this young per.x 
 did not stop at the Hotel Danon to vi-it an 
 humble; dependant, a> I will show you. Al 
 
 er my rencontre with her T returned to mr 
 partment, and as it was a fine winter even- 
 ig, I seated myself for awhile at the win- 
 ow and began watching the passers-bv, and 
 be opposite house; but certainly not think- 
 ng of the young girl who had just entered 
 t. I had a particularly good view of the in- 
 crior of one magnificent salon, the curtains 
 ,nd blinds of which were still unclosed, and, 
 ,s the twilight was deepening and the room 
 ighted by a blazing wood-fire, I could dis- 
 ern all the objects within with perfect dis- 
 inctness. My eyes had not been long fixed 
 ipon this window, when a figure, crossing 
 Before the fire-place, arrested my attention ; 
 t crossed and re-crossed, evidently pacing 
 ip and down the room, and I at once rec- 
 )gnised our little friend of the fiacre. She 
 lad removed her bonnet and shawl, so that 
 '. could remark the extraordinary quantity 
 of fair hair which fell round her nock and 
 shoulders, and this, together with her small 
 igure, gave a childishness of appearance 
 ;hat, seeing her in such a place, made me 
 jity her. She was apparently waiting for 
 some one, and in a state of the greatest agi- 
 ;atian, her hands clasped together upon her 
 3osom, her head bent down as she walked, 
 ft struck me at once she was some young 
 girl who had been seduced by the prince, 
 aut of whom he had afterwards tired, and 
 that she had now come to make a last appeal, 
 to his honor or generosity. And this con- 
 viction was subsequently strengthened by 
 the fact that I never again observed her en- 
 ter the hotel. Well, after about ten minutes' 
 waiting, I saw her suddenly stop in her hur- 
 ried walk, and another figure entered and 
 crossed the room towards her. For a mo- 
 ment the girl seemed to hesitate and shrink 
 back ; then she raised her head, and, stretch- 
 ing out her arms, fell upon the neck of her 
 companion, in a long and apparently pas- 
 sionate embrace. After this, the two fig- 
 ures moved away to a darker part of the 
 room, and I saw no more of them, for in a 
 few moments an attendant entered and closed 
 the curtains. I cannot be actually positive 
 that the other person was the prince, it was 
 about his height, and in my opinion it was 
 he; lint I could swear in a court of justice 
 that the young girl 1 saw that night in tho 
 Hotel Danon and your friend are the same.' 
 " I hated my cousin," proceeded Celeste, 
 " for his story, and told him so. However, 
 this did not prevent me from being convinc- 
 ed of the truth of what he siid. lie is a 
 matter-of-fact person, this cousin of mine, :i 
 Paris advocate, and not likely to be deceived 
 by imagination. Hut how deeply it grieved 
 nie 1 cannot tell yon. For a tini" ''Yidn- 
 line\ austere lilt- seemed to me only hypoc- 
 risy with her cottage, ami her (lowers, and 
 her pets, after the life she m:i>t have !ed ill 
 Paris ami I could have hated her for lier 
 pretended innocence. However, perhaps [ 
 was to blame. The recollection ol my cons- 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 59 
 
 in's story gradually wore off, and at last I 
 have ceased to think of it ; or rather, 1 am 
 now convinced that, if Fridoline would, she 
 might explain away this occurrence, mysteri- 
 ous though it appears." 
 
 " And did you never give any hint to show 
 that you were acquainted with something of 
 her history, and thus lead her to speak of 
 it herself? " 
 
 " Oh, no, 1 ' answered Celeste, with true 
 delicacy, which might have done credit to a 
 duchess. " As she wished to conceal her past 
 life, I could not let her know that I had be- 
 come possessed of any clue to it. I have 
 never even asked her if she has seen Paris." 
 
 Philip felt strangely depressed by what he 
 had heard. Though far from believing to 
 the full the evil that had been reported of 
 Fridoline, he was now forced to doubt her; 
 and it seemed to him that he was just begin- 
 ning to discover the falseness of every hu- 
 man being he had ever liked or admired. 
 This thought naturally led him back to Rose, 
 and the immediate object of his visit; and, 
 after a pause, he remarked, with an air of as- 
 sumed indifference, " Well, Celeste, I must 
 confess I have left off attempting to under- 
 stand any of your sex. One after another 
 all my early prejudices are vanishing." 
 
 The actress opened her great black eyes. 
 " (So, he has found Rose out !) I hope "you 
 do not mean that I am changed ? " she add- 
 ed, aloud. 
 
 *' No " replied Philip, "but you have 
 certainly altered in some things : for instance, 
 a year ago I don't think you would have gone 
 to one of Count B 's supper parties." 
 
 " Count B 's supper parties ! I enter 
 
 Count B 's house ! " cried Celeste, in a 
 
 burst of outraged innocence. " And who 
 tell you dat I go near dat monstre ? I enter 
 into his house ! " In her indignation she 
 tried to talk English. 
 
 "Don't be angry, Celeste," said Philip, 
 but his own cheek was very red; " I was 
 told that you were to be at his house to-night, 
 and I believed it. Forgive me." 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! " said Celeste, resuming her 
 own language, * what could induce people 
 to invent such wicked scancal ? I, who am 
 so exacting in my tastes, who unite under my 
 roof all that is worthy and distinguished I 
 go to one of Count B *-'s disgraceful par- 
 ties, with chorus singers and such people ! 
 No, Mr. Earnsdiffe, that is not the society I 
 frequent ; and I did not think so old a friend 
 as yourself would hare believed such infa- 
 mies." 
 
 At another time Philip might have been 
 amused at Celeste's excessive tone of injury ; 
 but he was too much taken up with other 
 thoughts to heed it now. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, rising to 
 take leave. " I little thought of offending 
 you when I made the remark. I am out of 
 spirits, and scarcely know what I am talking 
 about this morning." 
 
 Celeste's anger was short-lived ; and as 
 she held his hand at parting, she looked very 
 full in his face, and said, " Pauvre ami ! I 
 believe I understand your feelings far better 
 than you do yourself." 
 
 The rest of the* day lagged wearily to 
 Philip. Proofs of Rose's treachery seemed 
 to confirm all that Neville had ever said of 
 her, and once or twice he thought: "It 
 would have been better to let her accept 
 
 Count B 's invitation, and break with her 
 
 at once. Rose is not the first that has been 
 false to me, and I could go abroad and forget 
 her." But then, again, her young face in 
 its sorrow for her fault arose before him ! He 
 could not believe her to be worse than child- 
 ish, and almost longed to rush to her house 
 and ask her forgive to him for his suspicions. 
 Philip's own nature was so frank, that he 
 shrank with actual pain from the idea of be- 
 ing deceived ; and he turned away from any 
 thought of another's unworthiness, until it 
 had strengthened into certainty. Confiding, 
 sensitive, and withal somewhat indolent, he 
 was exactly a man to be deceived, not once, 
 but dozens of times in his life, and Rose, 
 with her beauty, and guileless manner, was 
 just the kind of woman most likely to de- 
 ceive him. 
 
 He dined at his club, and spent the even- 
 ing there with two or three old acquaintances. 
 One of them had just returned from Italy, 
 and having seen Neville in Rome, had much 
 to tell Philip about his friend, whose genius 
 and cool eccentricity were creating quite a 
 sensation among the English in the Eternal 
 City. 
 
 " From some caprice," he said, " people 
 want Neville to be the fashion, and a lion ; 
 but it won't do. He says he has gone to 
 Italy to work, and refuses nearly all invita- 
 tions. Some fair Roman, I was told, even 
 fell in love with his bronzed face (he looks 
 like a Spaniard after all his wanderings), 
 and contrived to let him know the tender na- 
 ture of her feelings, but his answer was cha- 
 racteristic, 
 
 " ' Signora, I have no time ! ' 
 
 " Yet there was nothing churlish or selfish 
 about Neville; on the contrary, he is one of 
 the best fellows in the world' One object, 
 one desire, has taken hold of him, and he 
 can never lose sight of it, or be drawn away 
 by pleasure either of the soul or senses. He 
 will be a great artist ! " 
 
 Philip asked if he had done any large pic- 
 tures lately. 
 
 "No, he was only studying, spending the 
 entire days in the different galleries, and in 
 fine weather sketching in the Campagna or 
 among the ruins round Rome. He seems 
 thoroughly happy, your friend Neville, and 
 told me he hoped you would join him by next 
 winter." 
 
 " Perhaps I may," returned Philip. " I 
 am very undecided at present, whether to go 
 abroad for a year or two or not." 
 
60 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 The conversation now turned into other 
 channels ; and about twelve o'clock Philip 
 started to walk home. It was warm and 
 starlight, and he enjoyed the beauty of the 
 night in the cfuiet, undisturbed streets. He 
 sauntered along slowly, but when he had 
 nearly reached his own lodging, a sudden fan- 
 cy made him wish to extend his walk, and 
 scarcely heeding which way he took, he went 
 on towards the Regent's Park. He felt calmed 
 by the influence of the stillness around, and 
 his mind recovering its usual frame, he thought 
 less about Rose Elmslie than he had done all 
 day. Gradually he fell into one of his old 
 reveries, and walked on and on, entirely lost 
 in himself, and thinking of his starlight, 
 walks at Harrow, and the boyish poetic dreams 
 which then filled his heart, until he was sud- 
 denly aroused by loud bursts of laughter, 
 and a stream of light across his path. He 
 looked up, and to his surprise became con- 
 scious that he was exactly opposite Count 
 B 's villa. The occurrence was purely ac- 
 cidental. Philip was incapable of attempting 
 to watch the movements of Rose, even had he 
 still doubted her; and when he discovered 
 where he was, his first impulse was either to 
 pass the house quickly, or retrace his steps 
 homewards. Some after-thought, however 
 perhaps one of those unaccountable presages 
 of evil which every one must so often have ex- 
 perienced in his own life made him pause. 
 
 " 1 shall go home happier," he thought, 
 " when I have seen the kind of a party from 
 which I saved poor little Rose ! " 
 
 Hut he had a nervous feeling all the same. 
 The party was now at its height ; and, to ad- 
 mit cool air to the heated revellers within, 
 the curtains were withdrawn, and the win- 
 dows on the ground-floor thrown wide open, 
 so that where Philip stood he had a full view, 
 through the shrubs in front of the house, of 
 the interior of the supper-room. It was 
 brilliantly lit up with groups of wax-lights, 
 wreathed round with artificial flowers, and 
 the night air was laden with" the scents of 
 costly viands, and wines, and perfumes. But 
 this voluptuous refinement was confined only 
 to the externals of the feast ; the peals of 
 laughter, and the tawdry theatrical dress of 
 the female part of the guests, left no doubt 
 about the class to which they belonged. The 
 men seemed mostly friends and associates of 
 Count B \s, gamblers, gentlemen, swind- 
 ler-, and doubtful foreign noblemen. 
 
 The uproarious merriment waxed louder 
 and stronger, when suddenly, amidst those 
 bold laughs and coarse jests, a sweet voung 
 voi'-e smote on Philip's ear. and made him 
 turn pale. He took hold of the iron rail by 
 which he was standing, and listened. A'_ r ain 
 and again he heard it. clear and joyous, the 
 voice of Rnsc ; and. with a desperate 
 tion, I'hilip resolved to stop, and know all. 
 Changing his position slightly, he saw her 
 
 at (he head of the (able, on ( 'oillit H 's 
 
 right hand. Mushed and animated, and lovli- 
 
 er than ever. She was dressed in a little 
 ballet-looking pink dress, her exquisite arms 
 bare almost to her shoulder, and glittering 
 with gems and bracelets, and a bouquet of 
 white roses (the same which Philip had that 
 day given her) in her bosom. There was 
 not the slightest shade upon her features ( 
 she looked as she felt, radiantly happy, in 
 her beauty and her jewels, and the admira- 
 tion she awakened, and forgetful of that 
 morning, and everything else besides. Count 
 
 B , evidently under the influence of his 
 
 own champagne, was talking to her in b\v 
 whispers, his arm over the back of her chair, 
 and his eyes fixed upon her face. The rest 
 of the guests were too fully occupied with 
 themselves to observe them much ; but Philip 
 noted his earnest manner, and her low an- 
 swers and averted eyes noted them, as Lady 
 Clara had once done before, when he, not 
 
 Count B , was the recipient of her smiles 
 
 and blushes, and, whatever Clara had then 
 felt, she was certainly avenged at the moment. 
 Philip's of course was not the anguish of a 
 boy robbed of the first pure love, or of a 
 man suddenly awakening to a knowledge of 
 his own dishonor. Rose had never been 
 anything but a dancer ; and there was, per- 
 haps, in this last discovery of her true char- 
 acter, nothing to be wounded but Philip's 
 vanity. Still, amidst his disappointments, 
 his own fancy had raised her to the place 
 which should have been held by a worthier 
 object. He had believed her erring never 
 lost; and now, as he saw her in an atmos- 
 phere whose very breath was corruption, sur- 
 rounded by women from the lowest grades 
 of her own profession, and receiving with 
 smiles the whispered flatteries of a world- 
 hardened sensualist like Count B , a 
 
 sense of mingled disgust and regret came 
 I over him, which, without being agony, was 
 very bitter. 
 
 Suddenly there was a pause ; and the 
 Count, striking on the table, announced to 
 his guests that Miss Klmslie was going to 
 sing. Rose had a very sweet voice, and had 
 often sung to Philip when he was weary and 
 miserable. 
 
 " Bravo! " cried a pale young Frenchman 
 opposite her. " A song from la belle Rose! 
 Attention !" And every one listened. 
 
 " What shall I sing?" said llos.-. 
 
 Several songs wen; proposed, but .she 
 
 turned to Count B , as though appealing 
 
 to his preference. 
 
 At fir>t he scarcely understood her. then 
 mentioned, as it chanced, a favorite ballad 
 of Philip's, and the one she had oftenest 
 sung to him. lie saw her lace change a lit- 
 tle. 
 
 Not tint." she said: " any but t! 
 
 " And why imt P" relumed tin; Count ; 
 " if I wish iti why not I hat :' " 
 
 " 1 have forgotten it," pleaded Rose. 
 
 "But I have it," lie went on with tJio 
 pertinacity of a half-sober man ; and then ha 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 61 
 
 whispered to her something which made her 
 smile. 
 
 "Well," eried Rose; " if I must; but 
 give me some champagne first, my lips are 
 too dry too sing." 
 
 He poured her out half a tumbler-full, and 
 she drank it off, and began. Her voice fal- 
 tered at first, then steadied ; and except that 
 it was louder and less modulated than usual, 
 she went through the song well. 
 
 Philip heard her till she had finished lis- 
 tened to the loud applause that followed 
 watching her smiling thanks, and Count 
 
 B \s low praises and increasing warmth 
 
 of manner ; and then he turned away home- 
 ward. He had seen enough. He walked 
 about a hundred yards away from the house, 
 until the last faint sounds of the distant revel 
 had died away, then he stopped. His arms 
 were folded, and the dim light of the stars 
 fell full upon his grave face. 
 
 "And among such people." he exclaimed, 
 *' I have spent my existence ! and to that 
 very woman I was this morning ready to 
 give my love, and even, in some measure, 
 bind my future life. Good God ! what a 
 fool I have been ! and how have I wasted all 
 my hopes and energies ! Well, the last il- 
 lusion is over now ; this little dancer has 
 brought the finishing stroke to my belief in 
 any human being, and I am free. Yes," he 
 went on, passionately ; "as free as a man 
 without an affection or tie of life can be. It 
 is all the same fortune, friends, wife, mis- 
 tress all faithless ! " 
 
 The next day he left England. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 WHEN Philip awoke on the following 
 morning after his arrival at Kersaint, the sun 
 was shining brightly into his room. For a 
 few seconds, he could not remember where 
 he was, or disengage his adventures of the 
 evening from the dreams of the night 
 dreams in which, it must be confessed. Mar- 
 guerite had still held a prominent place. 
 Gradually, however, his full consciousness 
 returned ; he recalled the quaint furniture of 
 his sleeping-room, and the murmuring of the 
 sea without, and he rose and began to dress. 
 
 His toilet was just finished, when he heard 
 a merry young voice immediately under his 
 window, in conversation with another, whose 
 high, loud tones he soon recognised as those 
 of Manon ; and drawing back the old-fash- 
 ioned bolt of the casement, Philip opened it 
 and looked out. 
 
 It was a sweet May morning; every trace 
 of the storm of yesterday had disappeared 
 and only left the grass and trees more bright- 
 ly green than before. The air came in fresh 
 from the sea, which Philip now saw at the 
 
 Bottom of the garden, blue and sparkling, 
 )ut still bearing small crested waves upon 
 ts bosom. The sea-gulls were floating hap- 
 pily among them, or skimming towards their 
 icsts among the rocks ; the pigeons wheeled 
 n circuits round the manoir, their varied 
 colors gleaming as they flew in the red morn- 
 ng sun : and a perfect chorus of blackbirds 
 and thrushes arose from the orchard, which, 
 thick with pink blossoms, lay on the left side 
 of the garden. The white sails of some 
 ishing-boats, making their way up the Chan- 
 nel before the western breeze, and the toll- 
 ng of a very distant church bell, were all 
 that belonged to humanity in the scene, until 
 Philip, leaning somewhat through the open 
 window, looked down ; and he then saw his 
 little friend of the previous evening and 
 Manon both so intent, however, in watch- 
 ing the damages done by the rain to some of 
 the garden flowers, that for the last few sec- 
 onds they had been quite silent. 
 
 Philip gazed at Marguerite intently ; and, 
 if he had thought her lovely the evening be- 
 fore, his admiration now was enhanced ten- 
 fold. She had been for an hour or more in 
 the open air, and her cheeks were in a per- 
 fect glow of health and freshness ; her long 
 h a j r rather disordered, for she never wore 
 a bonnet in the garden hung about her face,., 
 and caught a thousand wavy reflections in 
 the sunshine ; her full, graceful figure showed 
 to perfection in a close-fitting Holland dress ; 
 and, as she held it high out of the damp 
 gravel an unnecessary precaution, for it 
 was already short enough Philip remarked 
 that not even the thick country-made shoes 
 could conceal the symmetry of her little feet. 
 In one hand she held a bouquet of such 
 flowers as the rain had spared ; and Manon's 
 basket of parsley and salads showed that 
 they had already 'visited the kitchen garden. 
 
 *"' Do you think he will be very late ? " cried 
 Marguerite, suddenly. 
 
 " The English monsieur? " 
 
 " Yes, of course." 
 
 " I hope so, poor gentleman ! after such a 
 wetting as he had yesterday, there is nothing 
 like a long night's rest. I remember once, 
 when I was a girl it will be just six-and- 
 thirty years next All-hallows my father was 
 returning from Quimper, one stormy night, 
 
 " Yes, good Manon." interrupted Mar- 
 guerite, " I remember all about it ; and he 
 was not drowned, you know. How disap- 
 pointing it is," she resumed, to herself, " to 
 think that he will not be down for hours, 
 perhaps ! arid I was up and dressed before 
 five, in case he should wake early and want 
 to see the garden. I hope the curtains of 
 his room are not drawn, and then the sun 
 may shine in, and wake him. Let us see !- r 
 and, running back a step or two, Marguerite 
 looked up. 
 
 There leaning forward, so tJiat he must 
 have overheard every word she said was 
 
62 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 the stranger. He bowed to her, and smiled, 
 as their eyes met.; but Marguerite blushed 
 deeply, and thinking she had done something 
 wrong in talking so loud under his window, 
 the called hastily to Manon, and, without 
 returning his salutation, ran away. Philip 
 followed her with his eyes until she disap- 
 peared on the side of the orchard, and then, 
 after nodding kindly to Manon, who all the 
 time, had fyeen giving him a series of bows 
 and smiles, he prepared to descend. This 
 was, however, not quite so easy a matter as 
 one might think at first ; the passages were 
 so intricate, the turnings so endless, that 
 Philip, at length, almost despaired of finding 
 the great staircase, and he was just making a 
 third effort to do so, when he came upon a 
 small, dark flight of winding stairs, commun- 
 icating with the lower part of the building, 
 and down these he proceeded at once. At 
 the bottom he met Manon, who was hasten- 
 ing to the kitchen with her basket of vege- 
 tables, and her dignity was greatly wounded 
 on discovering that monsieur had descended 
 by the servants' stairs. She half proposed 
 to accompany him again to his apartment, 
 and conduct him down by the legitimate 
 mode of descent ; but Philip interrupted her 
 with a smile, and said he was glad to make 
 acquaintance with all parts of the chateau, 
 "which," he added, " from the difficulty I 
 had in finding my way, must be a very large 
 building." 
 
 "Ah, monsieur? " returned Manon, "it 
 is a noble and beautiful place, and you would 
 think so, could you have seen it in former 
 days ; I mean when we first came to live 
 here. Now it may seem a little lonely, with 
 only my master and mademoiselle, and not a 
 servant save me. But it is his wish, you 
 see," she added, confidentially; " he cannot 
 bear a number of attendants about him, and 
 one must not thwart the fancies of an inva- 
 lid." It was Manon's grand object in life to 
 conceal her master's poverty, and she took 
 this early opportunity of accounting to the 
 stranger for the scantiness of the household. 
 
 " I fear Mr. St. .John is far from well,' 1 
 remarked Philip. 
 
 Manon looked very grave. " He is great- 
 ly changed in the fast year," she replied ; 
 " and unless he improves much during this 
 summer, he will never get through another 
 such a winter as the last." 
 
 " The climate must be severe here," said 
 Philip. 
 
 " Well, if is not very cold not nearly so 
 ('M :i< in Tuns, for example, when- I lived 
 with my dear mistress for two years after her 
 marriage hut it is damp and foggy, and so 
 much exposed to sto'-ms, that it is ;ilmosf im- 
 poi!,|c fl,r an invalid to get out from No- 
 vember tifl May. It does not hurt those in 
 lie;tlth my young lady is as blooming as a 
 ro.sc in tin- drcarie.-t weather, and of course 
 nothing can hurt me, a Breton peasant Imt 
 for my master, Keruaint Is no good phi- /' 
 
 " His daughter seems unaware that Mr. 
 St. John is in any danger," observed Philip. 
 
 "And may the bon Dieu forbid that she 
 should be otherwise," returned Manon, hasti- 
 ly. " She will have sorrow enough when ho 
 is gone, and she is thrown upon strangers, 
 without having trouble forced upon her now. 
 I like to see her smiling and joyous, my poor 
 child ; and I am glad, monsieur, very glad, 
 that you have arrived to bear her and my 
 master a little company. There are none in 
 this neighborhood fit for them to associate 
 with." 
 
 Philip quite won Manon's heart by his evi- 
 dent interest in her master's health ; and, 
 after a few minutes, she volunteered to show 
 him round the garden. " Mademoiselle is 
 there," she said, " and as my master will not 
 be down quite yet, perhaps monsieur would 
 like to walk for half an hour on the terrace 
 before breakfast." 
 
 But Philip said he should find his way per- 
 fectly this time, and, leaving Manon to pro- 
 ceed to her kitchen duties, he went out 
 through a low archway into the garden. The 
 good order of the flower-borders struck him 
 immediately as contrasted with the desolate- 
 looking house, broken flights of steps, and 
 the disordered state of the Avails and fences. 
 He judged rightly that the little fairy of his 
 night's dreams presided over this portion of 
 the garden, and he looked on all sides in 
 search of her; but she was nowhere visible. 
 Then he walked to the further end, and 
 reached the terrace, from whence he could 
 see over the adjoining orchards and meadows 
 but still no Marguerite. 
 
 ' Can she really be offended," thought 
 Philip, "because I overheard her talking of 
 me ? No, she is too child-like for that." 
 
 He took a few turns, every moment ex- 
 pecting to see her, but when a quarter of an 
 hour passed on, and she did not appear, he 
 grew impatient ; and, spying a flight of moss- 
 grown steps, which led down to the .sands, 
 he resolved to go and walk by the sea-side 
 for an hour, and fin-get this capricious little 
 lady. lie sprang down, three sh ps at once, 
 and suddenly discovered Marguerite, seated 
 at the bend of the wall, on a projecting slab 
 of granite, and making up bouquets from a 
 heap of spring flowers in her Jap. Philip 
 stopped short." 
 
 " (Jood morning, mademoiselle. 11 
 
 " Good morning/' She turned her f:ic 
 quite away from him, with a li-rling of shy- 
 ness she had never before experienced in 
 her life. Had she really said something SO 
 
 wrong when he overheard her!' 
 
 " I thought you were lo-i, and have been 
 search! n;/ f>>r yon all over the ;;arlcn." \o 
 answer. She could not confc that she had 
 run awav from him. 
 
 " Ah ! " >aid Philip, next : " 1 
 are very an^ry with me for m.-i -In -a-ing you; 
 but it wa* not my fault. 1 opened my win- 
 dow, to listen to the bird.-, and I >uld not 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 63 
 
 help it, if your voice was amongst them 
 indeed, at first I did not distinguish it from 
 thoirs ! " 
 
 Marguerite looked up at him quickly, and 
 the expression of his face showed her her 
 mistake : he thought her offended. Young 
 as she was, this idea gave her pleasure, and, 
 to keep it up she tried hard not to smile ; 
 then shaking her curls so as to conceal her 
 face bent down again, and went on with 
 her bouquets. Philip seated himself on the 
 step, at her feet, and began watching her 
 very gravely ; but Marguerite could not get 
 on half so well with her work now. as she 
 had done before he came, and once or twice 
 the flowers slipped from her hands as she 
 was fastening them. 
 
 " Well," said Philip, at last, " I am sure I 
 could make up bouquets better than you do. 
 You place all the wrong colors together ; " 
 and he took the scissors from her hand, and 
 some of the best flowers from her collection, 
 and laying then on the steps beside him, be- 
 gan very leisurely to arrange them. He had 
 naturally a good eye for harmony of color, 
 but he now, purposely, assorted them as ill 
 as he could. Yellow primroses he placed by 
 pink hawthorn, violets with the bright blue 
 hepatica, so that the color of each was de- 
 stroyed by its neighbor; then he tied .them 
 in prim, regular bunches, each stalk exactly 
 the same length, and with no mixture of 
 green leaves, but all the time preserving a 
 countenance of the most perfect seriousness, 
 as though he were performing the task to the 
 best of- his ability. Marguerite looked at 
 him from under her long eye-lashes, and 
 tried hard to repress a sly smile at the hide- 
 ous little bouquets, and Philip's air of satis- 
 faction with himself. But it would not do, 
 and at length she was forced to cover the 
 lower part of her face with one hand. Philip 
 looked up, and saw her eyes laughing. 
 
 " I flatter myself mine are arranged with 
 taste," he remarked. 
 
 Here Marguerite could hold out no longer ; 
 clasping her hands together in her lap, she 
 went into such a long fit of childish laughter, 
 as did Philip good to hear. It was a minute 
 or two before she could speak ; at length she 
 cried, " So that is English taste! and those 
 are English nosegays ! Oh ! I am glad I have 
 seen them." And again she broke into 
 clear merry laugh. 
 
 Philip looked astonished. 
 " Is it possible you do not admire them?' 
 he said. " Well, I thought they were per- 
 fect so neat and regular ; but, of course 
 you are right. Suppose you give me a les- 
 son : I want to know how everything is done 
 in Brittany." 
 
 He cut all the strings, and, mixing the 
 flowers together, returned them into Mar- 
 guerite's lap. This little scene had made her 
 feel perfectly at her ease with him again 
 arid, believing that he was quite in earnest ii 
 his wish to learn, she gathered up the flovvero 
 
 n her frock, and, seating herself on the step 
 lose beside him, said she would teach him. 
 ["he lesson began, and lasted long. Philip 
 vas very slow to learn, and Marguerite had 
 
 give him a thousand practical instructions, 
 which he never could master until the second 
 
 r third trial. She was quite interested and 
 serious, and her impatience was great when 
 icr long bright curls would fall upon their 
 vork and interrupt them. 
 
 ' Am I" very slow ? " asked Philip, as 
 Marguerite was trying to bend his fingers to 
 ,heir task. 
 
 " Well," she answered, " not slow but I 
 ihink vou a little " 
 
 " What? I like to hear my faults." 
 
 " A little perverse. Your hands do not 
 ook awkward, and yet you ioi.il not learn to 
 lold the flowers more lightly. Now, let me 
 show you once more, or you will make it 
 ook like another English nosegay ; " and she 
 cnelt on the step beneath him, in her earnest- 
 ness guiding his hands with her own, and 
 every minute looking up and smiling in his 
 ace. 
 
 " You have made that last one beauti- 
 fully ! " she exclaimed ; " better than mine ! " 
 
 1 believe, after all, you only pretended to 
 take a lesson, and have been arranging flow- 
 
 rs all your life." 
 
 ** Well, it is so very pleasant to learn! " 
 answered Philip. 
 
 "Is it? Ah! not always. I do not like 
 my irregular verbs with Monsieur le Cure, 
 par example ; but I might like to learn from 
 some people." 
 
 " From me, perhaps ? " 
 
 " Y es, perhaps." 
 
 " A very hesitating answer. I am sorry I 
 look so bad tempered." 
 
 "Oh! it is not that, I assure you, for I 
 told Manon I never liked any face so much 
 as yours before. But, then, you are too 
 young for a master. Just when you meant 
 to be very severe, I should look in your face 
 and laugh." 
 
 " Then, I must not offer to give you les- 
 sons in English pronunciation, as I had in- 
 tended." 
 
 "Yes, yes, you may; only, you must 
 promise not to be too severe, and not to be 
 offended, if I sometimes forget to be grave." 
 
 At last/ all the flowers were gone, and 
 they had finished four bouquets. 
 
 " One for rny father, one for you, and one 
 a-piece for Manon and me." 
 
 " And who is this for?" he asked, taking 
 up the one in which Marguerite had collected 
 all the most delicate and sweet-scented flow- 
 ers, even to a rose-bud, which she had dis- 
 covered under shelter of the terrace. 
 
 "That is for father, of course ; but you 
 shall have the next best." 
 
 " And which for yourself, Mademosielle ? " 
 
 " AVel!, Manon must choose, and which- 
 ever is left is for me. Do not call me mad- 
 emoiselle, please. Father says, as long as I 
 
64 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 am a child, every one should call me Mar- 
 guerite. 11 
 
 * And are you only a child still ? " 
 
 "Oh!" she answered, smiling. "I am, 
 indeed. I often wish that I were older and 
 wiser, for his sake ; but in two months I 
 shall be sixteen, and that, you know, is o;et-. 
 ting on towards being grown-up. Shall we 
 go down to the beach before breakfast?" 
 
 She ran lightly down the steps, and they 
 were soon close to the sea. It was now low 
 water, and there was a wide expanse of 
 shining dry sand, stretching far away before 
 them. Philip felt a new sense of youth and 
 life as they walked, and Marguerite, holding 
 her flowers, her up-turned face more bloom- 
 ing than they, and her hair dancing about over 
 her shoulders, was soon talking to him with 
 all the unrestraint of the previous evening. 
 
 She possessed a rare charm one with 
 which he had never before chanced to be 
 thrown in contact that of perfect innocence. 
 And Philip, who, a few weeks back, had 
 pronounced his last youthful illusion over, 
 now became conscious while he gazed into 
 this young face and read, through all her 
 child-like manner, the deep, tender nature 
 of Marguerite that the true illusion of life 
 the .first love which bathes the whole earth 
 in golden glory had for him never yet 
 dawned. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 PHILIP'S childhood, after his parents' death, 
 having been passed exclusively among his 
 own sex, he had never, as a boy, known the 
 sweet love of mother or sister ; and, as he 
 grew up, the women with whom he had been 
 most intimate were Clara St. Leger and her 
 mother the one a mere woman of the world, 
 the other cold and unnatural from her educa- 
 tion. In society he had certainly met hun- 
 dreds of young ladies many of them, love- 
 ly, all, of course, innocent and interesting, 
 and ready to become excellent wives but 
 these were uniformly " young ladies," well 
 trained, well paced, well looked after, and they 
 had lieen trotted out in rotation before Philip 
 without one of them effecting more than the 
 awakening of a passing fancy in his mind. 
 The miserable, failure of his married life had 
 been his next trial of what ought, to be love, 
 and the society of actresses the crowning 
 stroke of his experience. 
 
 No wonder the companionship of Mar- 
 guerite seemed something far apart from all 
 lie had known before ! No wonder, as they 
 walked along, Philip forgot the wide gulf 
 which, in reality, separated them. Hr al- 
 ready worhl-stained and weary, and bound 
 by a tic which mu-t for ever shut him out of 
 tin- pale df all pure love ; Marguerite, will. 
 the holiness of childhood yet upon her fore- 
 
 head, and no knowledge of life, except that 
 the sky was blue above her, and that God 
 was good. He only felt that a sinless na- 
 ture was, at length, before him, and that the 
 true love he had written about, but never 
 found, would some day awaken in Marguer- 
 ite's heart for whom ? 
 
 "You look thoughtful, monsieur; that is 
 your grave look now." 
 
 " I believe my looks are always grave." 
 
 "No; not when we were tying up the 
 flowers. Then you looked very happy." 
 
 " Are you often grave. Marguerite ? " 
 ', ;" Not very often; but sometimes I am 
 more than grave. When my father looks so 
 pale, and begins to speak of my mother, and 
 that it would be far better for him to he with 
 her, I come out, alone, on the shore, and 
 feel something here," she laid her hand on 
 her heart " which I cannot describe a 
 thick, dull weight it is and then I almost 
 wish to die. I seldom feel this great pain, 
 however, except when it is connected with 
 father ; but often of an evening, when the 
 sun is down, and the stars are coming out 
 one by one over the sea, and I sit by the 
 window alone, or, in summer, down on the 
 terrace, I feel, not unhappy that is not the 
 word but [ miss something, you understand, 
 and then I am very grave ; and the more 
 beautiful the sea and the stars look, the more 
 I feel lonely. I never felt this when I was 
 younger, only the last year or two ; and yet 
 I have my father and Manon with me just the 
 same now as formerly. Did you ever feel 
 the same?" 
 
 " Yes, years ago, when I was your age, 1 ' 
 replied Philip. 
 
 " But you are not very old now." 
 
 " Old enough to gaze at the stars without 
 becoming sad." 
 
 She looked at him quickly to be quite sure 
 he was not laughing at her ; but there was 
 no smile on his face. 
 
 "Have you any mother?" she asked, 
 softly, and touching his hand with her own. 
 
 "'She died when I was a young child." 
 
 "Or sister, or " 
 
 " I have no one, "answered Philip, shortly. 
 
 "Ah!" and the little hand closed upon 
 his "and I have no one but my lather! 
 Hut when you have one person to lo\e, you 
 do not wish for any other. It must bo 
 dreadful to he quite alone/ 1 After a pans* 
 she resumned timidly, " Did you say you 
 would remain half the summer in IJivtagne ? '' 
 res," replied Philip ; " what 1 had already 
 seen of it made me wish to stay : but, since 
 yext, . nlay, 1 have quite determined upon 
 doing so." 
 
 it was one of those accustomed compli- 
 ments which pass current, and mean nothing 
 in society ; but Marguerite's heart actually 
 throbbed. " That is since he has known 
 mi-," she thought. Then she added, aloud, 
 " I shall think 1 have a brother while you 
 are here." 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 65 
 
 Thoy had now wandered to some distance 
 Dn the sands, and a clear, Wide stream of 
 fresh water, running towards the sea, formed 
 a barrier to their further progress. They 
 were just hesitating about fording it, and 
 J^ arguerite was saying she had done so doz- 
 ens of times before, when one of them hap- 
 pening to turn, descried Marion, barely visi- 
 ble on the terrace, in the far distance, wav- 
 ing her arms and throwing up her apron in 
 a wild state of excitement. The breakfast 
 was ready, and poor Manon for some min- 
 utes with feelings none but a cook can ap- 
 preciate had been watching the guest walk 
 further and further away from his meal, and 
 feeling herself powerle s to recall him. 
 When they halted, her hopes of being seen 
 revived ; and she soon thankfully perceived 
 that they had understood her signals, so 'she 
 ran in to keep the coffee hot, and to tell her 
 master that thev were coming. 
 
 Mr. St. John was seated in his library 
 the room in which they were to breakfast 
 wra'pped in a loose dressing-gown, and with 
 a book already in his hand. This room was 
 the wannest in the house, being smaller than 
 most of the others, and with a southern as- 
 pect; and here the invalid generally spent 
 the entire winter. The walls and ceiling 
 were all of oak panelling. Scarcely any of 
 the former, however, were to be seen, for 
 well-stored bookcases stood on each side of 
 the room. An English carpet covered the 
 floor, and the worked cushions on the win- 
 dow-seats, the footstool and warm easy-chair, 
 and a dozen little home-constructed luxuries, 
 bore witness to the female care which presid- 
 ed over the occupant's comfort. The win- 
 dow opened upon the garden, and Mr. St. 
 John soon saw Philip and his daughter de- 
 scending from the terrace, both looking ani- 
 mated, and Marguerite laughing merrily at 
 something her companion was saying; and 
 as the invalid watched them, evidently so 
 well pleased with each other, a thought arose 
 which caused a faint smile to wander across 
 his face. Perhaps, had this vague hope been 
 rendered into words it might have been 
 " Alter all, it is possible that I may leave 
 my child with a protector ! " Their entrance, 
 however, dispelled any such dreams for th 
 present, and, alter a cordial greeting, the 
 trio were soon seated at their cheerful break- 
 fast. 
 
 Philip did great justice to Manon 1 s provis 
 ions, all of which were excellent. Clear 
 strong coffee such as he had vainly wished 
 for with his own grand English cook fresh 
 eggs, broiled fish, caught that morning ir 
 the bay, butter of Manon's own making, 
 constituted the staple of the meal. Mr. St. 
 John smiled at the hearty good-will witli 
 which his guest attacked his breakfast; and 
 then turning to Marguerite, asked her wh} 
 she eat ; so little. She could not reply that 
 she was too happy to be hungry, which was 
 the truth, but said Manon had cut her such 
 6 
 
 a huge tartine early in the morning, that she 
 lad no further appetite. 
 
 " Perhaps, we walked too far, 1 ' added Phil- 
 
 P- 
 
 "Oh!" said Mr. St. John, " 'too far 1 
 are words unknown to Marguerite. She 
 spends the whole of her idle life out of doors, 
 "n summer, and, I verily believe, never ex- 
 periences such a thing as fatigue. Where* 
 did you get all these flowers, little one ? " 
 
 " I had such a hunt for them, father ! Tho 
 rain has beaten down the best, and I could 
 only gather those which grew in very shel- 
 tered places. Do you see that rose-bud in 
 yours? the first this summer, petit papa." 
 
 " But you should have presented that to 
 your visitor." 
 
 ' No, no ! The first rose is always for 
 you. But I have given Mr. Earsncliffe a 
 lesson in bouquet-making this morning. It 
 was so pleasant sitting on the terrace step* 
 in the warm sun ; and do you know, father, 
 just when we finished, I found out that 1m 
 had only been pretending, and could make 
 them 'as well as I all the time ? N'est ce pa* 
 qu'il est mediant ce monsieur? " 
 
 The conversation went on merrily, and 
 Mr. St. John appeared in such good spirits, 
 and so animated, that Philip thought he must 
 have been mistaken in considering him dan- 
 gerously ill. They talked much about the 
 inhabitants and antiquities of Brittany, ami 
 Mr. St. John's invitation of the previous 
 evening, to remain, at least for some days, 
 at Kersaint, was repeated, seconded by an 
 eloquent look from Marguerite, and cordial- 
 ly accepted by Philip. He felt that he was 
 with old friends already. 
 
 After breakfast, when Marguerite had re- 
 tired to confer with Manon on domestic mat- 
 ters, Earnscliffe began to notice his host's 
 extensive collection of books, and led him 
 on gradually to speak of them, and of him- 
 self. 
 
 " My books have been my sole friends,, 
 except my child, for sixteen years." said Mr.. 
 St. John; " and I have grown so accustom- 
 ed to look upon them in the light of human* 
 beings, that I scarcely now am conscious of 
 the absence of other companionship. At. 
 your time of life, such an existence as mint* 
 must appear a kind of living death. It i& 
 only after a man has* outlived ambition, ami 
 lost the ties of domestic life, that he can find 
 in himself a happier resting place than in tho 
 world. Are you anything of a bookworm 
 like myself? If so, in this case, nearest the- 
 fire-place, there are some rare works likely; 
 to interest you ; and should we have wjt 
 weather during your stay at Kersaint, you 
 might find a day's employment among thein.'* 
 Philip thought that Marguerite's face 
 would be better reading than the somewhat 
 ponderous volumes alluded to by her father. 
 However, he entered with animation into the 
 subject which formed the one interest of the 
 invalid's life, and they were soon deep in lit- 
 
66 
 
 PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 erary talk. Mr. St. John had been so long 
 absent from England, that he was anxious to 
 hear about all the new writers of the day ; 
 and had also numbers of old friends to in- 
 quire for, most of whom were now either 
 dead or retired from their active life. 
 
 " Tiien, who is the most popular writer of 
 fiction now?" he asked, at length. 
 
 Philip knew that his own was one of the 
 rising names in the field of romantic litera- 
 ture ; he replied, however, by naming sev- 
 eral others of the more distinguished authors. 
 
 * And of poetry ? " 
 
 *' Well, that is easily replied to none. 
 Since the galaxy of poetic genius, which 
 arose in Germany and England early in this 
 century, the race seems to have died out. 
 Writers of poems we have many, and one 
 whose thoughts, when not utterly obscured 
 by affectation, are so sweet his word-paint- 
 ing so true that one is half tempted at times 
 to call him a poet. Still, not even his will 
 be a lasting fame. We have no collossal 
 genius now that, like Shakspeare, or Dante, 
 or Cervantes, can create at once and for ever 
 an absorbing interest take fast hold upon 
 the hearts of all classes of readers, and be- 
 come a familiar household god beyond the 
 power of fashion to cast down. Wordsworth 
 and Moore, certainly, still live ; but they be- 
 long to the past. England has now no great 
 poet. 
 
 " And France in my opinion, has never 
 had one. Fond as I am of some portions of 
 French literature, their artificial, monotonous 
 verse with the single exception of Beran- 
 ger's songs, perhaps sends me to sleep. 
 But every day I make my little daughter read 
 aloud to me some of our own Milton or 
 Shakespeare ; if she is too young fully to un- 
 derstand them, she can yet read well ; and 
 would you believe, sir, that hour is pleasant- 
 er to me than the remaining ten of my own 
 studies so fond are we all of anything whi'-h 
 seems to connect genius with ourselves? and 
 the child's voice makes me actually feel those 
 glorious thoughts my own more than all the 
 annotations upon them that ever were writ- 
 ten. " 
 
 Philip said he could well believe this, and 
 after a minute or two added, simply " Your 
 daughter is very lovely, sir." 
 
 41 Is she so? " returned Mr. St. John, al- 
 most starting. *' Well, I never thought 
 about it. before. Of course, she is fair in 
 my eyes; but I have, not yet considered (hat 
 she would be called beautiful by others. It 
 i.- po-Hble," he added, dreamily, " she is like 
 Irer mother." 
 
 His face relapsed into its habitual melan- 
 choly at llii- recollection it ;il \vays did so at 
 any allusion to his wife and Philip began to 
 think that her death mn>l have been the ori- 
 gin of Mr. St. John's diMiiclinatioii for tin- 
 world. 
 
 " Shall you venture out to-day?" he in- 
 quired, hoping to change his thoughts. 
 
 " Xo I thank you. The ground is still 
 damp, and the wind too uncertain for me. 
 But you must not remain in the house thia 
 fine spring day on my account. See, Mar- 
 guerite's is already in the garden, doubtless, 
 expecting you to join her for a walk." 
 
 Philip saw that the invalid preferred being 
 alone, and he was soon by Marguerite's side 
 in the garden, helping her to tie up some 
 flowers that had suffered from the rain. 
 When they had finished, she proposed a 
 long walk ; and, crossing the orchard, they 
 started through heaths and forests to some 
 ruins about a league distant. 
 
 Marguerite did not care much for wet 
 paths, and, in taking Earnscliffe a short way 
 of her own discovery, sprang lightly over 
 streams and bushes in a manner rather sur- 
 prising to eyes only accustomed to London 
 younor ladies. A little straw bonnet, which 
 the wind blew incessantly from her head, and 
 a scarf round her throat, were the only addi- 
 tions to her morning dress ; and yet, thus 
 attired, and running wild in the wildest parts 
 of Brittany, no stranger could have met 
 Marguerite without being struck by her easy, 
 high-born carriage, and the natural grace 
 which made everything she wore becoming. 
 She was in high spirits at having to conduct 
 Philip, and pointed out to him, as they went 
 along, all her favorite summer haunts. 
 
 After traversing a forest of fir trees whose 
 peculiar odor in the warm sun struck Mar- 
 guerite on that morning as more than usually 
 fragrant they reached a wide tract of heath, 
 an angle of which must be crossed before 
 reaching the gentle eminence where stood 
 the ruined chapel. It was a scene rendered 
 grand in its flat monotony by its utter loneli- 
 ness. As far as the eye could reach, there 
 was no habitation, no trace of man, nothing 
 but the purple moorlands, until they failed 
 away into blue distance, or enormous tracts 
 of untrodden fir forests. Life, however, was 
 riot wanting that mysterious life, which re- 
 joices everywhere, and is most exuberant 
 where man is not. Myriads of gossamers 
 floated on the golden air in their perishing 
 fairy craft; wild bees murmured amidst the 
 gorse : the grasshopper called joyously from 
 his bed of wild thyme; and the lark hovered 
 high in the pure space abo\e, and unbur- 
 dened his little heart of its melodious glad- 
 
 When they were about halfway across the 
 heath, Marguerite pointed out to her com- 
 panion a singular-looking heap of stones, 
 
 which she told him were I >r.iidic remains, and 
 proposed that they should rr>t there awhilo 
 ami look about them. " For." she added 
 naively, the walk will be too cjuiekly over if 
 
 we ijet oil SO li^t." 1 
 
 Philip said he should enjoy nothing better; 
 and thev were soon side by side on the high- 
 Mf -|..ne of the pile, whieli formed a kind 
 of throne among the others. Hello, who ac- 
 companied them, but had lingered behind in 
 
PHILIP EAENSCLTFFE. 
 
 67 
 
 the forest (where, on the score of old recol- | 
 lections, lie was fond of taking private excur- 
 sions after game, on his own account), now 
 came up, and extended his grisly length at 
 their feet, shutting his eyes in the sun with 
 luxurious enjoyment of its warmth, and for- 
 getting in his happiness to bestow any more 
 surly looks on the stranger. 
 
 "*How fair it all is ! " said Marguerite, at 
 length. 
 
 The words recalled to Philip that day when 
 he sat on Hampstead Heath by little Frido- 
 line, and she had made use of a nearly simi- 
 lar expression, and he contrasted in his own 
 mind the immense difference between these 
 two young creatures ; one so happy in her 
 ignorance of what is called life, and the other 
 already weighed down under a premature 
 knowledge of sin. 
 
 " Everything must be fair to you," Mar- 
 guerite. 
 
 "Why so? 1 ' 
 
 " Because you see everything through the 
 medium of your own mind/' 
 
 She paused. " Then everything is fair to 
 you ? " 
 
 "No, that is different." 
 
 " Tell me why. Do you not see things 
 through the medium of your mind ? " 
 
 " Certainly I do. But" 
 
 " Then they must be fair to you, like- 
 wise." 
 
 "lam afraid not; their beauty is more 
 in the heart which looks at them, than in 
 themselves." 
 
 She shook her head. "You know better 
 than I do, of course ; but still I think the 
 sky must be as blue, and the air as fresh, to 
 you as to me." 
 
 "Everything seems,, fair and fresh this 
 morning, Marguerite," he replied softly. 
 
 " Does it? I am so glad," and she turned 
 her sweet face to his, with an expression 
 whioii made Philip withdraw his gaze, and 
 determined to make her no more pretty 
 speeches. 
 
 " What do you do at home? " she asked 
 next. This was a trying question ; for few 
 of Philip's pursuits had been such as he cared 
 to disclose to Marguerite. However, she 
 was unsuspicious as a child, and listened with 
 interest to all he chose to tell her of din- 
 ner parties and balls, and the opera and the 
 parks, and what people did at all these places. 
 
 J' And what is London like?" she in- 
 quired, when he paused. "Is it at all like 
 Quimper ? I have been there twice to the 
 fair, and that is a very large town, too." 
 
 Philip tried to describe a great city. She 
 listened with wondering eyes to his accounts 
 of brilliant shops, and streets, and carriages, 
 and thought, on the whole, that it must be 
 better than Kersaint. However, she quick- 
 ly retracted this opinion on hearing that the 
 air was generally too foggy to allow you to 
 see the blue sky, and that there were no birds 
 or flowers, very few trees, and those black. 
 
 "I will never goto London, then," she 
 cried, " or at least not to stay there. Bre- 
 tagne is better." 
 
 Poor child, as she said these words, seat- 
 ed by Philip's side, with the May sun on her 
 cheek, and the delicious feeling of youth and 
 freedom at her heart, how little did she 
 dream where and how her future life was to 
 be Dassed ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " How long have we been here, I won- 
 der?" said Marguerite, at length. Philip 
 looked at his watch, and replied that it was 
 two hours since they left home. 
 
 " And we are not half way to the chapel 
 yet, and have part of another forest still to 
 cross ! " cried Marguerite, jumping lightly 
 down. " You always make me forget the 
 time, monsieur. Come, Bello." 
 
 Philip was quickly at her side, and once 
 more they proceeded on their walk. Every 
 object on the way, a stream glittering over 
 white pebbles, an azure butterfly hovering 
 upon some wood-anemone, a solitary prim- 
 rose at the foot of an old hawthorn afford- 
 ed perfect pleasure to Marguerite ; and 
 Philip, who had been bored to death, dozens 
 of times by affected enthusiasm on such sub- 
 jects, delighted in listening to her childish 
 admiration of all the common things' of na- 
 ture. Marguerite possessed the rare gift of 
 language not book language, she had read 
 too little for that, but an unusual and even 
 poetic turn of expression, when speaking on 
 ordinary subjects, which prevented anything 
 she said from sounding common-place ; and 
 her slightly foreign accent and sonorous 
 voice only added to the charm. 
 
 Once or twice this morning, Philip had 
 already felt that they both would be in dan- 
 ger by the continuance of this intimate com- 
 panionship. His own heart whispered that 
 he could not long remain unmoved at the 
 gaze of her clear eyes, and the pressure 
 of her small hand ; while for Marguerite, her 
 excessive youth and innocence made it only 
 too likely that her first and natural love might 
 be awakened for him. Philip was strictly a 
 man of honor, and he said to himself, " This 
 walk shall be the last.' 1 But he could not 
 now restrain the happiness of his companion, 
 or assume a distant manner towards her, 
 while he remained a guest in her father's 
 house ; he could only resolve for the future, 
 and be content with the present; and he 
 was perfectly content. 
 
 They had walked for nearly a mile, when 
 the ground began to rise, and solitary groups 
 of trees stood out here and there, as senti- 
 nels of the forest which they were now about 
 to enter. Bello bounded off with a low 
 
68 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 bark after some wild animal, whose track he 
 had suddenly discovered, ard was soon lost 
 among the deepening shadows ; while Mar- 
 guerite conducted her companion to a small 
 bye-path, along which, and through the den- 
 sest part of the forest, lay a near way to the 
 ruins. 
 
 "There are no gamekeepers to interfere 
 with Hello's amusements?" remarked Philip. 
 
 " Gamekeepers? " echoed Marguerite. 
 
 " Yes; garde chasses, as you call them." 
 
 "Oh! I believe there are some; but the 
 forests are so large we never meet them, and 
 besides every one knows my father, and 
 would not hurt his dog. But do look 
 round," she cried, " and tell me if there 
 are forests like these in England.'" 
 
 The mass of foliage around them was in- 
 deed singularly beautiful in its variety and 
 early summer freshness. Ash predominated 
 among the larger trees, but there was also a 
 thick undergrowth of cherry, aspen, buck- 
 thorn, and wild apple, the latter now rich in 
 scent and blossom. They walked on noise- 
 lessly upon the thick, long moss, enjoying 
 the peculiar sweetness of the forest air, and 
 the sounds of existence with which they were 
 surrounded ; the cooing of the wood dove, 
 the measured cry of the lapwing, the happy 
 song of the thrush, and the confused hum 
 from thousands of unseen insects. For, 
 again, in this solitude, so rarely trodden by 
 human foot, might be heard, even more au- 
 dit)!} than upon the heath, the beating of 
 that immense pulse of life which eternally 
 proceeds from and returns to God, unknown, 
 uncared for, save by him. 
 
 Aftei a time, Marguerite pointed to what 
 Seemed more a deer-track than a path, upon 
 the left hand, and saying that was their near- 
 est way, she led Philip still further into the 
 recesses of the forest. So dense, however, 
 w.is the chaos of vegetation, that their pro- 
 gress was frequently impeded, and at every 
 Mep the scene grew more wildly grand. 
 Here and there some huge oak, overthrown 
 hall' a century before by age or storm, lay, 
 still supported in its ponderous decay by the 
 Mems of the sin-rounding trees; while bright 
 young creepers, on which the midday sun 
 now ^listened, interlaced its trunk in a thous- 
 and graceful festoons, that formed airy 
 bridges lor the birds and squirrels; and in 
 *iome placet the earth itself appeared to have 
 been cotmilsively rent asunder at some Ibr- 
 n, er period, and was travcr,-eil by numerous 
 raxines, whose figures were now partially 
 overhung with briars and huge projecting 
 rocks. 
 
 Suddenly an opening amidst the bushes 
 red, almost at their Icet, and at some 
 distance beneath them, a large sheet of water, 
 Completely studded over with water-lilies. 
 The wood-pigeons were skimming :i< i 
 tin- kingfisher sparkling like a gem amidst 
 the ll ig-nishe> on ils banks, while one .solita- 
 ry In ron sat patiently watching lor prey 
 
 among the lightning-scathed boughs of a 
 distant willow. 
 
 " This I call my lake ! " cried Marguerite, 
 pointing to the dark blue water. " I diseov- 
 ed it first when I was quite a child ; and like 
 it better than all the others in the forest. 
 There are not water-lilies anywhere but 
 here ; and when it is very hot weather, I 
 come and sit for hours by that large mossy 
 rock " 
 
 " Surely you do not come alone to this 
 wild spot?" interrupted Philip. 
 
 " Why not? it is too far for my father to 
 venture ; and when Manou does take a walk, 
 which is very seldom, except to church, she 
 prefers going into town, and does not care 
 for iv.y walks. She says there are so many 
 snakes in the forest, and especially by the 
 lake fancy being afraid of the beautiful blue 
 and gold water-snakes ! " 
 
 " And do you never fear to meet any one 
 in your wanderings ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am very glad: par example, if I 
 meet Guille and Bon Affut, the wood-cutters. 
 They lay down their axes, and always have 
 a chat with the little queen,' as they call 
 me. And if I meet robbers, why I have 
 nothing to lose ; and you, old Bello, to pro- 
 tect me," and she stretched out her hand to 
 the hound, wiio had rejoined them. Philip 
 looked in wonder at this fair young girl, 
 with her noble bearing, and innate grace of 
 soul, who wandered alone through these ior- 
 ests without an idea of danger, and thought 
 it a great pleasure to chat with Guille and 
 Bon AfTYit leading a life of companionless, 
 unchecked freedom, and yet with a refine- 
 ment in her face and manner a- duchess 
 might have envied. He was right when he 
 said Marguerite would be a new study for 
 him. 
 
 "We must not linger," she exclaimed; 
 " the sun already darts across the silver 
 beech; it must be three o'clock." Quitting 
 the side of the lake, they once more began 
 to ascend; and a quarter of an hour's walk- 
 ing brought them, into a beaten path which 
 led to the ruins. When they were within a 
 few yards from what appeared to be a sud- 
 den opening among the trees, Marguerite, 
 cried, " shut your eyes, monsieur, and give 
 me your hand." 
 
 Philip, as mav b supposed, willin-jlv obey- 
 ed ; and she led him on (her face lighting up 
 with the expectation of his surprise) into the. 
 ruined chapel, which the trees had hitherto 
 entirely screened from their sight. Then 
 placing him by the window that she consider- 
 ed the best point nf view, quilted his hand 
 abruptly, and told him to look around. 
 
 " You arc indeed a fairy ! " was Philip's 
 first exclamation. " A moment a '40 we were 
 in the gloomy depths of tin- forest, and now " 
 He looked aromi'l before finishing the. 
 sentence, and then acknowledged that a fairer 
 sreitc h. (I seldom been spiv.nl before him. 
 The little chapel, which stood consiilo ably 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 elevated in the very centre of the forest, al- 
 though entirely in ruins, still retained some 
 traces of its former beauty in a few delicate 
 columns and pointed arches, and one exqui- 
 sitely-carved rose window. The accumulation 
 of soil within the walls amounted to eighteen 
 or twenty feet, and in one part enabled a 
 good climber to reach the highest fragment 
 of the ruin ; and Marguerite had placed 
 Philip close beside the eastern window, which 
 commanded an extensive view of the sur- 
 rounding country. At their feet lay, first, 
 the forest itself, its different hues of foliage 
 blending softly in the slanting sun ; beyond 
 that, wide tracts of purple lowlands, dotted 
 over with an occasional church tower, or the 
 remains of some old feudal castle ; while, as 
 a background to the whole, rose the sea, 
 rivalling and exceeding in its intense blue the 
 cloudless sky above them. 
 
 As Philip still gazed upon the prospect 
 without speaking, an immense sea-eagle 
 floated slowly past, ignorant of the presence 
 of man so near his habitation, and adding a 
 strange sense of wildness to the whole scene. 
 After hovering a few seconds, so close they 
 might almost hear the movements of his 
 graceful black wings, he suddenly made a 
 swoop upon the forest beneath them, and re- 
 appeared, holding his prey in his talons. 
 Marguerite pointed out his nest upon the 
 summit of a high oak, whither he presently 
 flew with his prize, and added, ' I know him, 
 and his mate well, and often sit here and 
 watch them. The young will be fledged next 
 month. But we must now go to the very 
 top of the ruin, and you will see Quimper 
 Cathedral, if the distance is quite clear. I 
 hope you are a good climber. 11 
 
 She flew with the lightness of a young roe 
 up the loose stones and broken parapets, and 
 Philip was quickly beside her. The kind of 
 platform upon which they stood was only a 
 few yards square, and on one side there still 
 remained a low crumbling wall, three or four 
 feet high ; on the others it was completely 
 unprotected : and it required a clear head to 
 look down upon the deep gulf of rocks and 
 foliage beneath. 
 
 " You can just see the cathedral," said 
 Marguerite, " like a silver dot in the dis- 
 tance. But you are looking at me again ; 
 you must follow the direction of my finger: " 
 and she made him bend his head to the level 
 of her hand. Philip was almost as slow in 
 discovering Quimper Cathedral as he had 
 been in learning bouquet making ; however, 
 he succeeded at length, and he then praised 
 the whole fair landscape in terms that de- 
 lighted Marguerite. 
 
 "It is so pleasant here, 11 she cried; "] 
 wish we could sit down for a time and rest, 
 but I am afraid the ground is not dry enough. 
 
 " Most assuredly it is not, 11 returned Phil- 
 ip : *' but what should prevent you, however, 
 from resting upon the wall? " 
 
 " Well 11 Marguerite hesitated " I think 
 
 t is rather dangerous. Father tells me nev- 
 er to lean over this parapet." 
 "But if I hold you?" 
 " It would tire you too much." 
 " Try at all events." 
 
 Philip lifted her on the wall, which, though 
 decayed, was still perfectly safe and firm, 
 and supported her slight waist with his arm ; 
 while Marguerite, her bonnet discarded, and 
 :he fresh breese playing in her hair, seemed 
 Irinking in the beauty around her with as 
 much pleasure as though she saw it all for 
 the first time, and only fearing occasionally 
 that she was tiring Monsieur Earnscliffe. 
 
 After Monsieur EarnsclinVs wise resolu- 
 tions of an hour ago, this near neighborhood 
 was certainly a somewhat inconsistent stroke 
 of policy ! Marguerite never having learnt 
 propriety had no more idea of indecorum 
 when Philip's arm supported her, than has a 
 London young lady while waltzing at a hot 
 hall with eighteen consecutive strangers ; she 
 liked to enjoy the view, she wished to rest, 
 it did not tire her companion to hold her, 
 and that was all. But with Philip it was 
 different. The soft touch of Marguerite's 
 long curls, as they floated across his hand, 
 her warm breath upon his cheek, her eyes 
 turning every moment to his with their child- 
 like caressing expression all made, his 
 heart beat, and brought to him a bitterer 
 sense of the never-ending tie which bound 
 him to Clara than he had hitherto experienc- 
 ed. With all his knowledge of the woi'ld, a 
 few hours in poor little Marguerite's society 
 had already taught him more of the great se- 
 cret of our existence than he had ever yet 
 learnt. 
 
 " Would you not like my life better than 
 London ? " she asked, after both had been 
 for some minutes silent. " Confess .that you 
 would." 
 
 " Your life, Marguerite? I should in- 
 deed." 
 
 " Then why not choose it? " 
 
 " We cannot always choose what we pre- 
 fer. Do you not wish for anything beyond 
 that which you now possess ? " 
 
 She considered a moment. " Nothing, 
 but for father to be better. 11 
 
 " You are perfectly happy then? " 
 
 " Certainly. I have everything I could 
 wish for in the world I am well I am 
 free." 
 
 '* And what would be your idea of mis- 
 ery?" 
 
 " I do not know ; I have never considered. 
 I think, for me, perhaps, the greatest un- 
 happiness would be, to be separated from 
 my father, and confined in some close house 
 in a town in London, for example. 
 
 * My home ! " remarked Philip. 
 
 " Well, you acknowledged yourself, that 
 you liked our forest better." 
 
 " For a time, yes. But you, Marguerite, 
 will not be a child forever. Some day you 
 must learn to be a grown-up woman, and 
 
70 
 
 PHILIP EAPvNSCLIFFE. 
 
 obey some one not your father, and give up 
 wandering with Bon AiFut, and sitting by the 
 water-lilies." 
 
 Marguerite opened her eyes wide at this 
 programme of futurity. "And why must I 
 do all this? " she asked. 
 
 '* Is there not a time when the existence 
 of every ylning girl changes, and she be- 
 comes dependent upon the will of another 
 when," her full gaze troubled him 
 " when she marries? " 
 
 Marguerite went into a merry laugh. 
 " Marry I marry! Oh! that is too good. 
 Why, I never saw any gentleman yet, but 
 father ! Am I to marry Bon Affut, or the 
 Black Eagle, my only friends ? unfortu- 
 nately, both have mates already." (Poor 
 Philip, how those unconscious words stung 
 him.) " No, Kersaint is not a place for 
 weddings. I have only seen two and those 
 were among the fisher people in my whole 
 life ! " and she laughed on at the ludicrous 
 idea of any one being married from Ker- 
 saint. Young ladies in general blush when 
 they speak of marriage ; but Marguerite, 
 being uninformed on this point, seemed to 
 think the subject very amusing. 
 
 ** And you have never any visitors ? " went 
 on Philip. 
 
 " Never, except the cure. My father has 
 invited a cousin of ours once or twice in the 
 summer, but he has not come yet." 
 
 Philip immediately disliked this unknown 
 relation; and remarked, "Ah! it is the 
 cousin, I see, who will rob Kersaint of its 
 little queen. 
 
 " The cousin ? why he is older than father, 
 and has had two wives already." 
 
 " Oh, but you may have chance visitors, 
 you know a young artist, or a traveller, 
 for example, suddenly benighted, like my- 
 elf, and seeking shelter at Kersaint. lie 
 might stay on and on. and in time you would 
 not dislike him, and of course from the first 
 he would admire you and then " 
 
 Was the sun too bright, that Marguerite ab- 
 ruptly raised her hand to her eyes, and 
 shaded her cheek? It could not be that, 
 for she turned her face full towards the west, 
 and away from Philip; and he felt that she 
 was blushing. It was the first, blush of wo- 
 manly feeling that had ever dyed her cheek 
 andibr him ! In alter years they neither of 
 them lorgot that moment. 
 
 " I think we should go home," said Mar- 
 guerite, timidly, at last. " It is time now." 
 
 He lingered, still supporting her, and with 
 an unusual emotion in Ins dark eye, as though 
 a struggle wen- passing within. Then he 
 replied, " Yes, it is time/' and lifted hei- 
 p-iii l\ to the ground, without looking at her 
 
 win, 
 
 They took a different homeward route 
 through the forest; it was even mure beauti- 
 ful than the other; but Marguerite spoke 
 m of the birds ami flowers th.m wh-n 
 the; came, tilic walked by Philip's side, 
 
 and he was very silent. But around Tier the 
 whole air was golden. The waving branches 
 of the trees were kindly arms held out to her 
 as she passed ; the very wind, as it swept 
 freshly by, had a kiss for her check, and the 
 turf rose lovingly under her feet. Could it 
 be the same lonely path she had so often 
 trod before ? 
 
 'When she reached home, her father said 
 she looked flushed, and must be tired ; and, 
 glad of an excuse, she ran up quickly into 
 her own room ; while Philip remained con- 
 versing with Mr. St. John upon the beauties 
 of the walk, and the wild grandeur of Bre- 
 ton scenery in general. 
 
 By her open window, with tearful eyes, 
 Marguerite raised her face to the blue sky, 
 and thanked God for the new-born happiness 
 within her heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 DURING the remainder of that day, Mar- 
 guerite continued somewhat silent. She re- 
 lated to her father at dinner what a delightful 
 walk they had taken, but she was not elo- 
 quent ; it was greater pleasure to her to be 
 still and think. Philip, however, conversed 
 much with Mr. St. John, who was every 
 hour better pleased with his guest. Between 
 these two men dissimilar though they might 
 have appeared in many things there was yet 
 in reality sufficient resemblance to give them 
 a harmony of ideas and feelings. Both had, 
 in a certain measure, wearied of the world ; 
 both had been disappointed in domestic life; 
 the one through death, the other through a 
 miserable marriage ; and in both was the 
 same natural perception of the beautiful, and 
 the power of appreciating keenly all true 
 excellence in art or literature. Marguerite 
 without fully understanding the whole of 
 their conversation listened with delight. 
 Her father's voice (the only one except her 
 nurse's which had murmured love over her 
 cradle) had been the gladness of her sixteen 
 years of life, and the stranger's low and 
 dangerously musical was already sweeter 
 to her ear than she dreamed of. 
 
 " Have you remarked much of the singu- 
 larly deep religions feelings among the l>reton 
 peasants; or, as some would call it, of 
 their superstition ?'' asked Mr. St. John, in 
 the course of conversation. 
 
 " I have, observed that, the churches are 
 generally crowded/ 1 answered Philip; and 
 when I have entered them during service, 
 the people appeared to me earnest ii; their 
 devotions." 
 
 "Yes; but their devotion does not end 
 with the service. lii every action of a lire- 
 ton's life, from his birth to his grave, 
 holds a prominent part. 
 
 A wild religion it 
 
. PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 71 
 
 is, mixing up the dogmas of the Catholic 
 church with the weird traditions of their 
 Celtic forefathers, in a manner that is cer- 
 tainly more poetic than orthodox. They 
 will frequently, for instance, after attending 
 mass on a saint's day, conclude the evening 
 by gathering round the mystic ring of some 
 prophetess or soothsayer, and listening with 
 the greatest reverence to her visions of futu- 
 rity the maidens seeking for knowledge of 
 their married life, the wives for the success 
 and safe return of their sailor husbands. 
 The priests, of course, discourage these 
 practices ; but they have too much tact 
 and, indeed, some of them too much sympa- 
 thy with the people to run violently against 
 old-established prejudice." 
 
 " Father," broke in Marguerite, gravely, 
 " many of old Anaik's prophecies come 
 true." 
 
 " Oh," said Mr. St. John, smiling, " if 
 you acknowledge -to all your superstitions, 
 Marguerite, you will make Mr. Earnscliffe 
 think you a complete little Bas Bretonne. 
 You take Manon's tales on too easy cre- 
 dence." 
 
 " What I could tell, is no tale of Man- 
 on's," she replied. 
 
 ' May we not hear it ? " asked Philip. " I 
 should like to become acquainted with some 
 specimens of Anaik's powers."' 
 
 " Well," said Marguerite, looking away 
 from him as she spoke, " one evening, late 
 in autumn, Manon and 1 were hurrying home 
 from town. There had been violent storms 
 for several days, and we did not care to lin- 
 ger on. the road; but, as we passed through 
 Rosnareu a little hamlet on the coast a 
 stream of light from one of the cabanes made 
 Manon peep through the window, and she 
 called me to look at a filerie " 
 
 " Which being translated? " interrupted 
 Philip. 
 
 ** Is a party of women who meet to- 
 gether to work and talk. Well, about a 
 dozen of fisher wives were seated round a 
 reed fire, spinning and chatting merrily, and 
 Jean Biiizec's young wife was among them 
 with her baby in her arms. Several other 
 little children were sleeping before the fire 
 at their mother's feet, and they formed such 
 a pretty group in the flickering blaze, that I 
 liked to stop and look at them in spite of the 
 cold. 
 
 " Suddenly the door opened on the other 
 side of the cabane, and a gaunt, tall figure 
 entered. Manon knew her, and crossed 
 herself; it was Anaik the prophetess. She 
 was dressed in rags a sort of wallet of red 
 serge upon her shoulders, and her long grey 
 hair falling about her face. The women all 
 rose and gave place to her on her entrance ; 
 but without noticing them she walked up to 
 the fire and warmed her long bony hands 
 over the flame ; then turning round to poor 
 Louison, who was bending over her child, she 
 screamed to her in a voice that made uie 
 
 trembU?, and with the most fearful look of 
 pleasure upon her face 
 
 " ' Louison, wife of Bruzt/J, listen to me ! 
 Once, last winter, when the snow was falling 
 fast, and the very birds of the air had found 
 shelter, old Anaik was out in the cold, blight- 
 ing blast, without a roof to cover her. 
 Ana'ik asked money or bread of Jean Bruzec, 
 and he called her agroac'h a drunken witch 
 -and said she had bewitched his mother 
 with her spells. And Ana'ik swore that Jean 
 should never see another winter himself. 
 Her words have come true ! The last leaves 
 of autumn still hang upon the trees; but 
 among Carnac rocks lies Jean Bruzec, cold, 
 and stark, and dead, and his child is fath- 
 erless ! ' 
 
 " One shriek burst from poor Louison, 
 and she fell senseless with her babe upon 
 the ground, while Anaik, laughing loud, left 
 the cabane. We were so horrified that we 
 ran on home ; but next morning Bruno 
 brought us word from the village, that Bru- 
 zec's companions had returned without him ; 
 he fell overboard in a gale, two nights be- 
 fore, and was never seen again." 
 
 "And a coincidence like this, my child, " 
 said Mr. St. John, " strengthens old Anaik's 
 reputation fourfold ; and the dozens of times 
 that she has prophesied falsely are forgotten. 
 You believe even your own songs, little 
 one " 
 
 " Do you sing these Bretons tales as well 
 as narrate them ? " asked Philip. 
 
 " I sing sometimes," answered Marguer- 
 ite ; " but I have never learnt, and I hear no 
 music except at church." 
 
 " Yes, that is poor Marguerite's only 
 music lesson," said her father, " and, as na- 
 ture has really given her a somewhat re- 
 markable voice and ear, I am glad for her 
 to have even this opportunity for improving 
 herself. The service is extremely well per- 
 formed at N , and the organ far superior 
 
 to what you generally meet with in a remote 
 country town." 
 
 *' To-morrow is Sunday," said Marguerite 
 stroking Bello's head, and looking away from 
 the table. 
 
 " But you need not go to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh ! not unless " she glanced at Philip. 
 
 " I should really like to hear the service," 
 he said. " And if you will allow me to ac- 
 company you " 
 
 " Of course," returned Mr. St. John, 
 quietly. " Marguerite is only too happy to 
 exhibit all our winders ; but I fear they can- 
 not give so much pleasure to any one else as 
 herself. And now, as we have finished din- 
 ner, let us turn round to the window and 
 look out awhile. I could bear the open air 
 this soft evening. And do you, Marguerite, 
 sing some of your Breton romances to Mr. 
 Earnscliffe." 
 
 They were dining in the large salle, one 
 of whose bay windows faced the west, and 
 overlooked a kind of inland gulf, formed on 
 
72 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 -f 
 
 this side by the sf a. The setting snn threw 
 its slanting beams upon Mr. St. John's pale 
 face, when they had wheeled him, wrapped 
 up in a cloak, to the open window, giving 
 him, for the time, almost the hue of health ; 
 Philip, somewhat apart, stood leaning against 
 one of the xleep stone embrasures ; and 
 Marguerite very flushed at having to sing 
 for the first time in her life before a stranger, 
 was seated on a low, old-fashioned ottoman, 
 in the centre of the group, tuning her guitar, 
 and not daring to look up at Earnseliife. 
 She played almost entirely from ear, for her 
 father understood only enough of music to 
 teach her the names of the notes, and ex- 
 cepting a few Scotch airs, which she had 
 picked up from him, her songs were mostly 
 .wild Breton romances. She hesitated a 
 little when all the strings were tuned, and 
 turning to her father, asked what she should 
 sing to Mr. Earnseliffe. 
 
 "What you like, darling. What was that 
 J heard you singing to Manon yesterday 
 morning in the garden ? " 
 
 " Oli, that was only part of a dirge that I 
 heard the peasants chanting for poor Lou- 
 "bette, but it is very melancholy.'" 
 
 " 1 should like to hear it,"" said Philip, 
 Ipeaking for the first time ; "I know none of 
 toese Breton songs." 
 
 Without reply Marguerite struck a few 
 wild chords, and then, gradually subsiding 
 into a low murmuring cadence for accompani- 
 ment, she began. Mr. St. John said rightly 
 that nature had gifted her with no common 
 voice. It was full, deep, and remarkably 
 powerful, and had all that exquisite fresh- 
 ness which belongs only to the very young. 
 She was utterly untaught ; but her ear and 
 taste were alike so faultless, that Philip, 
 fastidious though he was in music, soon lis- 
 tened to Marguerite's singing with undis- 
 guised pleasure. He had rather dreaded 
 hearing her, thinking it likely her father's 
 Opinion was partial, and that a very mediocre 
 performance would take somewhat from the 
 charm of her beautiful face; but he was now 
 forced to acknowledge that of all Marguer- 
 ite's gilts, her voice was infinitely the great- 
 est. 
 
 A- >hc sang she lost the slight timidity 
 which had marie the first few notes tremble, 
 and fin-getting everything but her theim 
 half <>f which was an improvisation of her 
 own her cheeks glowed, and her eyes filled 
 with tears. The words, which Marguerite 
 translated into I-Ycnch, although wild, and 
 with scarcely any rhyme, had yet no lack of 
 real feeling, and with the plaintive monotony 
 of the chant, possessed a singular charm. 
 The young girl for whom it was sung had 
 been drowned in waiting lor her lover among 
 the rocks ; and the distant beating of the 
 ue a. Mending with Marguerite's voice, gave 
 A reality to the little romance which was 
 simply told in the funeral dirge. 
 When she finished, somewhat abruptly, 
 
 she placed the guitar beside her, and turned 
 round to her father. She was afraid to read 
 in Philip's face what he thought of her mu- 
 sic; for she was as unconscious of her ex- 
 traordinary voice as of her own beauty, and 
 felt rather ashamed at performing before 
 him " he, who lived in London, and must 
 be such a good judge ! " 
 
 " Will you sing again? " said Philip, in a 
 low voice, after a minute or two's pause. 
 He was not in a mood to flatter, but. the ex- 
 pression of his face showed what he felt, and 
 the invalid was delighted. 
 
 "There! Marguerite, our guest wishes 
 to hear you again," he said. " Suppose you 
 try something in your own language now 
 some of our old Scotch ballads." 
 
 With one look towards Philip she obeyed. 
 This time she chose a favorite song of her 
 father's " The Land o' the Leal," and the 
 deep pathos her voice gave to those touching 
 words was indescribable. Mr. St. John's 
 lips quivered as she sang ; for Marguerite's 
 voice was like her mother's, and that song 
 always reminded him of the great sorrow of 
 his life ; and Philip felt he would rather lis- 
 ten to her ballads thm to the finest opera in 
 the world. She went on from one to an- 
 other, until the last red rays of the sun had 
 disappeared from the oak carvings round the 
 window, and the freshening breeze warned 
 Mr. St. John that it was already late to be 
 near the open air. Marguerite sprang up 
 hastily, and then, assisted by Philip, she 
 wheeled her father's chair towards the hearth, 
 where Manon had already laid the logs ready 
 for a cheerful blaze. 
 
 " But you have not read to me to-day," 
 said Mr. St. John, softly, to his daughter. 
 " I must hear you for half an hour, darling, 
 if Mr. EarnsclifTe will excuse us." 
 
 Marguerite went at once to the Ijbrary in 
 search of the sacred volume, which always 
 furnished their evening reading; and Philip, 
 thinking they would probably wish to be 
 be alone, said he would enjoy the fresh sea 
 air, and stroll out into the garden with his 
 cigar. 
 
 The sun had now completely set. Only 
 one faint streak of light lingered over the 
 horizon, as loath to quit the blue sea upon 
 which it vested; a lew stars had already ris- 
 en ; and the wind, which during the day had 
 blown freshly, was sunk into a whisper. 
 Nothing but the gentle plash of the travel 
 now close beneath the terrace wall broke 
 the .stillness; everything in exlenrd n iture, 
 seemed calm and at peace. \\\i\ I'liilip's h^art 
 was not so ! lie walked on to the terrace, 
 and there paced up and down his arms 
 folded and his lips compressed and uncon- 
 scious of the whole scene around him. 
 
 Love, alter a day's acquaintance, i 
 erallv a somewhat, doubtful |celin, r ; but 
 Philip's w.i.s ju-t a nature, quick, impuNi\e. f 
 irrellective, in which it could be genuine. 
 He already felt for Marguerite St . .John more 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE 
 
 73 
 
 than he had ever felt for any woman before 
 and it cost him a bitter pang to reflect that 
 in his position as a married man, only on< 
 right course was open to him to leave hei 
 at once. He said to himself that there was 
 dishonor in remaining one more day unde 
 her father's roof in his assumed character 
 for although he had not said so in words, hi 
 had certainly given Marguerite to understanc 
 that he was a single man, and her own warn 
 blush, that morning among the ruins showed 
 Philip well knew, that his own manner hac 
 already gone too far. 
 
 *' Should he then disclose his true positior 
 at once to Mr. St. John, or leave Ker- 
 saint ? " 
 
 From the former course he shrank mor- 
 bidly. He had resolved on quitting Eng- 
 land, to forget his former life as much as 
 possible ; he wished neither his fame as an 
 author, nor his private history to follow him ; 
 and had chosen Brittany as the spot on earth 
 where he would be least likely to be recog- 
 nised. Merely to mention to Mr. St. John 
 that he was married must naturally call forth 
 other explanation, which would lead him 
 back to all his recent trials. And, besides 
 this, there lurked in his heart a feeling that 
 he would rather quit Marguerite at once 
 than stay near her in a different character 
 to that under which she now knew him. 
 
 *' Then he would leave Kersaint directly. 
 No, that would be too sudden ; one more 
 day he must stay, and then speak of going. 
 And in the meantime he would avoid being 
 alone with Marguerite, or even thinking of 
 her. Yes, he had resolved rightly, for a 
 short time longer he would stay." 
 
 Philip had an excellent heart, and a sensi- 
 tive regard to honor ; but arid this was the 
 mainspring of all his life's errors his will 
 was weak, his resolutions wavering. He 
 would torment himself for days upon some 
 point of conscience, which to another man 
 would appear trivial ; yet when a broad path 
 of duty lay before him as was now the case, 
 he did not enter upon it boldly and at once. 
 The struggle was over in ten minutes ; but 
 on those ten minutes depended the whole 
 after-coloring of Marguerite's life. 
 
 The night deepened : millions of worlds 
 began to glisten, like tears in the blue eyes 
 of heaven, over the deep space above, and 
 all the reproaching holiness of nature was 
 around him. Philip turned hastily towards 
 the manoir, where already a bright fire was 
 glimmering through one of the lower win- 
 dows, and he could trace the outline of Mr. 
 St. John's drooping figure, as he and Mar- 
 guerite read together. Poor father, igno- 
 rant that already another voice than his was 
 sweet to his child's heart ! 
 
 And once again Philip's conscience smote 
 him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE next day was Sunday, and they went 
 to church together ; the next, some other lit- 
 tle excursion was planned, and so it went on 
 each day, until Philip had been a week at 
 Kersaint, without ever speaking of renewing 
 his travels. He had faithfully guarded over 
 his manner with Marguerite, during this 
 time, and there had been no recurrence of 
 any conversation like that among the ruins. 
 But, although he spoke to her on indifferent 
 subjects, and scarcely ever called her Mar- 
 guerite, she felt that his eyes sought hers, 
 that his voice softened when he spoke to her, 
 and her whole heart was full of joy. 
 
 She was innocent beyond what we in our 
 ordinary life ever meet with innocent be- 
 yond any young creature just leaving the 
 school-room or convent, with cast-down eyes 
 and regulation modesty. True innocence 
 was the state of Eve before she had tasted 
 of the tree of knowledge and learnt to As- 
 sume, and such was Marguerite's. The 
 blush on her cheek, when she met Philip's 
 gaze, was as natural as the red glow on a 
 flower which is kissed by the sun ; and she 
 could neither reason it away, nor make it 
 come at her bidding. A new feeling was 
 dawning upon her existence, and she felt 
 within her an unwonted and delicious trou- 
 ble, though she could not analyse the cause. 
 She knew not that her childhood was dying, 
 and the stronger, deeper, woman's life awak- 
 ening. She had never read a novel, had nev- 
 er spoken to any one of love ; and had she 
 leard that Philip was married, it would have 
 ^een a far less shock to her than he imag- 
 ned. What did she know of marriage, or 
 low connect it with herself? i 
 
 The love of a very young girl is, I believe, 
 a subject no man can really comprehend. 
 Grrosser from their very cradles, men's whole 
 ives are such as sully their ideas of love ; 
 and the purest feeling that was ever felt by 
 one of them, is as clay compared to the pure 
 silver of hers. 
 
 With her father's image another now rose 
 before Marguerite at her evening prayers 
 another to be remembered in her petitions ; 
 and if the prayer for the stranger was warm- 
 er than that which she had breathed from her 
 nfancy, she knew not that it was less pure. 
 She liked to be with Philip, to lay her hand 
 imidly on his, to sing to him, to listen to the 
 oetry he repeated to her, to see his face 
 row each day less gloomy when with her, 
 nd to hear him say he could not bear to 
 eave them. Nor was her evident pleasure' 
 n his society concealed. Mr. St. John 
 hough by no means clear-sighted, and so 
 nuch in his study that he rarely saw them to- 
 gether, except at meal-times had suspicions 
 hat Marguerite and the visitor liked each- 
 ther well, and the thought pleased him. He 
 vas greatly attracted towards Philip himself j 
 
rillLIP EAKN T SCLIFFE. 
 
 bis whole manner and tone of mind were 
 precisely what he admired most; and, with- 
 out really knowing anything about his histo- 
 ry, he thought that his child's happiness 
 would be safe in his keeping. 
 I Only one thing more was wanting to com- 
 plete his predisposition in favor of his visitor, 
 and this shortly occurred. On the eighth 
 morning after Philip's arrival at Kersaint, 
 they were all seated at the breakfast-table 
 when the post came in. Not in a uniform 
 and with a double knock, as may be supposed, 
 but in the sudden apparition at the window 
 of Bruno an uncouth-looking and only half- 
 witted personage, who professed to take care 
 of the garden and poultry, and was sent to 
 N to market, when Manon was too bu- 
 sy to go herself. In one sense he performed 
 this office well ; that is, he knew the value 
 of sous and centimes as well as the sharpest 
 market-women on the " place," and bought 
 provisions as cheaply as Manon could her- 
 self. But he was obtuse to the last degree, 
 in understanding that he had no legal right 
 or share in his own good bargains, and al- 
 ways appropriated so large a tithe to his ca- 
 pacious mouth on his way home, that Manon 
 now rarely trusted him when anything had 
 to be bought that it was possible for him to 
 consume. Even here, once or twice, her 
 judgment had failed her, and half a pack- 
 age of starch and a quantity of raw salt fish 
 had severally fallen victims to Bruno's indis- 
 criminating palate. 
 
 On the morning in Question, however, he 
 had been despatched at four o'clock, Manon's 
 
 hour for rising, to call at N about a new 
 
 kitchen table that had been ordered, and 
 which Manon rightly conjectured would be 
 safe from his appetite, even were he required 
 to bring it home on his shoulders. Having 
 performed his commission satisfactorily, t. e., 
 by calling at the carpenter's, and ascertaining 
 that the wood was not yet sawn, which should 
 one day form the stage for Manon's art, Bru- 
 no, his great hat slouched over his forehead, 
 and hi.s .sheepskin dangling round his ungain- 
 ly figure, was .shambling along through the, 
 homeward, his stolid eyes fixed intent- 
 ly before him, yet in reality, observing every 
 one lie met, when, as he passed the post-of- 
 fice, he heard his own name shouted. Stop- 
 ping with a jerk, he ga/ed on all sides but 
 that from when .e the sound proceeded, with 
 his mouth wide open, and a look of the most 
 hope|e>s imbecility upon his face. 
 
 "Bruno dolt idiot! " reiterated the 
 voice. 
 
 Bruno shook his head slowly, as though 
 the p'-rson spoken to could not, possibly be. 
 f. and then pursued his road. 
 
 44 Bruno ! " called the, voice. He did not 
 turn. 
 
 "Monrienr I'runo Monsieur Bruno!'' 
 
 now sounded faintly. A grin distorted IJru- 
 
 Je mouth, and chuckling to himself 
 
 at his new title of dignity, he turned and be- 
 
 held the post-mistress, her head outstretched 
 through the small window of the bureau, 
 which also formed her sitting-room, and 
 holding something in bei hand. 
 
 44 A newspaper for M. St. John," she ex- 
 plained as she approached. 44 Just take it 
 with you, good Bruno." 
 
 Good Bruno was aware that Kersaint was 
 
 distant more than one league from N , 
 
 and that, by taking the paper, he saved the 
 post-mistress or her son from walking that 
 distance, and he made no sign of receiving 
 it. 
 
 14 Bruno is no postman," he muttered in 
 his most stupid manner. 44 Poor Bruno!" 
 pointing to his forehead. 
 
 44 But that does not signify," urged the 
 ,lady. 44 Come, take it at once; your mas- 
 ter will wish to see it," 
 
 44 And if Bruno won't take it? " 
 
 44 I must send it, you" fool, she would 
 have added, but refrained until her point was 
 gained. 
 
 44 And who pays you ? " 
 
 4 'Pays me? why government; only you 
 don't know what that means, and little 
 enough too ! " 
 
 44 And who pays Bruno ? " 
 
 4 ' Oh ! that is it, is it? " returned the post- 
 mistress. 4 ' You think you must be paid 
 like anybody else ;" and with a great show 
 of generosity, she produced a five-centimes 
 piece. 44 There, take this, and be off." 
 
 But Bruno shook his head ; and riot until 
 he had stood out for half an hour, and 
 finally obtained ten centimes, would he re- 
 ceive the paper. Then he started at a quick- 
 er pace than usual, his face beaming with the 
 double delight of having to tell Manon that 
 her table was not yet begun, and that he had 
 realized ten centimes for himself. After 
 this fashion the post usually came in at Ker- 
 saint. 
 
 The newspaper was sent by 44 the cousin," 
 Mr. St. John's only remaining correspondent 
 in England, who wrote to him about once a 
 year, and sent a paper every six months. 
 it was merely intended as a sign that he. was 
 living and well; and was generally a month 
 old when it reached Kersaint. Marguerite, 
 however, always hailed its arrival as a kind 
 of event, and would read aloud the adver- 
 tisements of new books to her father, and 
 wish she had got them all. 
 
 " -May I open it, father: 1 " she a>ked, when 
 she had finished her colloquy with Bruno 
 through the open window, and he had relat- 
 ed with great glee, in his Ureton p.itois, how 
 lie had outwitted the post-mislr 
 
 "Certainly, child/' and he went on talk- 
 ing to Philip. 
 
 Marguerite knew where to find the litera- 
 ry advertisements, and turning to that part, 
 began reading them over to lier.se If. Sud- 
 denly the color rushed into her lace, and she 
 exclaimed aloud 
 
 " Mr. Karnsclitle ! " 
 
PHILIP EAKtfSCLIFFE. 
 
 75 
 
 " What have you found Marguerite?" 
 said her father. 
 
 She rose, without replying, and pointed to 
 the part which had called forth her astonish- 
 ment. It was the announcement of " A new 
 edition of Mr. Philip Earnscliffe's last suc- 
 cessful work. 1 ' Mr. St. John looked a little 
 surprised, and read the notice over twice 
 without speaking, then he turned to Philip 
 
 " My daughter has found out a literary 
 namesake of yours, Mr. Earnscliffe ; the 
 name is so uncommon as to nrnke this coin- 
 cidence somewhat remarkable/' and he hand- 
 ed him the paper. 
 
 Philip colored as his eye glanced over it. 
 This was certainly the part of his history he 
 cared least about revealing ; still, he would 
 have been better pleased had the discovery 
 not taken place. Now he could conceal it 
 no longer. 
 
 " I must acknowledge," he said, " that 
 Philip Earnscliffe the author, is no other 
 than myself." 
 
 "Oh", father!" burst from Marguerite 
 " he is a great author, after all." 
 
 *' And a modest one," added Mr. St. 
 John. " Few men of your age, Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe, like their fame to pass incognito, even 
 among such simple people as ourselves." 
 
 " Well," replied Philip, " the fact is, I 
 have been so often wearied to death, when 
 listening to other writers talking about their 
 own works, that I resolved to adopt the 
 other extreme, and never speak of mine at 
 all" 
 
 " And you have kept well to your resolu- 
 tion. Still, though you never told me you 
 were an author, I have more than once sus- 
 pected that your talents had not lain idle 
 all your life, and the other day was nearly 
 questioning you on the subject. You seemed 
 so thoroughly an fait of all literary matters 
 and people, that I could not but think you 
 were one of the fraternity yourself." 
 
 During the time her father spoke, Mar- 
 guerite read and re-read the advertisement, 
 and then looked long at Philip, trying to con- 
 nect her kind, simple companion with the 
 successful Mr. Earnscliffe. She felt rather 
 awed at seeing a living author ; and thought 
 with shame how he had listened to all her 
 childish conversation, and of the immeasure- 
 able distance there must henceforth be be- 
 tween them ; she so ignorant and he in all the 
 dignity of acknowledged authorship. 
 
 " What are the books about, father? " she 
 whispered, at length, not daring to address 
 Philip. 
 
 " Why do you not ask Mr. Earnscliffe? " 
 he replied, aloud. 
 
 She turned away her face. 
 
 " Marguerite is afraid of you in your 
 newly-discovered character, I believe." 
 
 " I hope not," replied Philip, "or I shall 
 indeed regret that my secret is known." 
 
 Marguerite glanced at his face, and felt 
 
 that there was no fresh gulf between them ; 
 and all her confidence returned. 
 
 " W nat are they about, then?" she cried, 
 returning to her chair, which tho drew quite 
 close to his side. " Are they poetry or 
 stories ? Have you written many ? And 
 please tell me their names." 
 
 And Philip, when he once began to reply, 
 was cross-questioned with such earnestness 
 for a good half-hour, that Mr. St. John, al- 
 though nearly as much interested as Mar- 
 guerite, at length told her that she would tire 
 Mr. Earnscliffe. 
 
 "Well," she pleaded, "only one thing 
 more then ; may we see any of your books ? " 
 
 Philip replied that he had not a copy with 
 him, and her countenance fell. 
 
 " But if you would really like to possess 
 some of them, I will write a line to my pub- 
 lisher, and ask him to send them in a packet 
 to Kersaint. They will remind you of me 
 when they arrive, and I am gone." 
 , " Gone ! " echoed Mr. St. John and Mar- 
 guerite together, in a tone that spoke the 
 sincerity of their surprise. 
 
 " Oil! do not go," the latter softly added. 
 " Father, do not let Mr. Earnsdiffe"go ! " 
 
 " I thought you were to remain in Britta- 
 ny half the summer," urged Mr. St. John. 
 
 " But not trespassing on your hospitality," 
 Philip replied. 
 
 " My dear sir, you are conferring a sim- 
 ple favor upon an invalid like myself in re- 
 maining here ; and Marguerite, for the first 
 time in her life, has the pleasure of being 
 with a youthful companion, and listening to 
 another voice than mine. We have so little 
 to attract you that I cannot press you to re- 
 main ; but it will pain me to bid you fare- 
 well." 
 
 His manner was even kinder than his 
 words. Philip felt that the invalid really 
 wished him to stay with him, and it coincided 
 but too well with his own desire. Con- 
 science, however, once more urged him to 
 leave Marguerite, and he faintly pleaded 
 something about his wish to visit the remot- 
 er parts of Brittany. 
 
 " Of course, you should do so," returned 
 Mr. St. John ; "but you could not choose 
 a more central spot for this object than Ker- 
 saint. Have your luggage sent here from 
 Quimper," (where Philip had left it), " and 
 make this head-quarters. You can take ex- 
 cursions without end, and return every few 
 days to rest, and give us the pleasure of 
 your society." 
 
 Marguerite did not speak, but she watched 
 his face. He paused irresolutely, a sense 
 of duty still warring with inclination ; then 
 he said, hesitatingly 
 
 " I really do not like, stranger as I am, to 
 accept your kind invitation " 
 
 " If that is all," interrupted Mr. St. John, 
 " your objection is at an end. I do not con- 
 sider you a stranger already, and besides, 
 
76 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 all the world may claim to know a celebrat- 
 ed writer. I look upon you as our promised 
 visitor for many weeks to come. 
 
 And Philip, overcome by Mr. St. John's 
 warmth, and his own wishes, accepted. The 
 note was written that morning, and des- 
 patched to his publisher; and Marguerite 
 counted the days that must elapse before the 
 books could by any possibility arrive. Phil- 
 ip said his last work was for her father, but 
 the earlier ones, the poems and tales, were 
 for her. And when he added, " Will you 
 accept them as your own from me ? " she 
 could scarcely answer for delight. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THEY generally walked together by the 
 sea for an hour or two at sunset ; and on the 
 evening of this day Marguerite had more 
 than usual to say. " She was never weary of 
 asking Philip about his writings, trying to 
 make him repeat aloud any passages he could 
 remember, and only discontinued when she 
 at length saw he really did not relish the 
 subject. But she wondered extremely how 
 he could prefer their usual strain of conver- 
 sation, to speaking of what engrossed all her 
 thoughts. "It is because he thinks me so 
 childish, and that I am not able to under- 
 stand him," she said to herself. 
 
 Alter wandering for some time, they rest- 
 ed upon a high rock, which stood somewhat 
 apart from its fellows, and watched the tide 
 come in. Although the weather was still 
 fair, there was a good deal of wind, and the 
 waves were high, each bearing a wreath of 
 foam that the sun converted into flame, and 
 which formed a singular contrast to the cool, 
 pearly green of the water beneath. 
 
 " 1 like to feel the spray upon my face," 
 said Marguerite. " I low can people be hap- 
 py away from the sea? " 
 
 " Do you not like the country better? " 
 
 " Y'ou mean the fields and forests? Well, 
 I like them too. and I could not bear to 
 leave them; hut I love the sea! Trees and 
 ilowers are merely beautiful, but the sea is 
 living, and it has been my companion all my 
 life. It has a thousand voices and expressions 
 that I can understand : it can smile like a human 
 fa'-e in the sunshine, or moan and wail like 
 no other voice, when it casts up the drowned 
 fisherman on the shore : it can break ami 
 Mir^e over the huge rorks. and even uproot 
 them fmiii their rcst.ing-plaee, as it did yon- 
 der Kcniot dilf last winter. Yes. tl:> 
 full of Me and powr, and I love it ! Think 
 how dull it would be here in winter without 
 the roaring'nf the waves ! " 
 
 I'lulip smiled. " Do you consider that a 
 cheerful sound?" he asked. 
 
 " Not cheerful, it is grand : and when we 
 have clear frosty weather for a few weeks, 
 and the waves are still, it seems quite lone- 
 ly." She sang a note or two from an old 
 ballad, then was silent. After some minutes 
 Philip said, abruptly 
 
 "Sing to me, Marguerite! I feel ill at 
 ease this evening, and I should like to hear 
 your voice in the open air, with only the fall 
 of the waves for an accompaniment ; sing 
 something low and melancholy." 
 
 After pausing to select what would please 
 him, she began one of her plaintive, old 
 Scotch songs. Her voice sounded unusually 
 sweet, and Philip leant back against the rock, 
 his hat pulled forward to shade his eyes from 
 the slanting sun, gazing at her profile, and 
 listening to her rich tones with a perilous 
 keenness of delight. His poet's tempera- 
 ment made him subject to a thousuud temp- 
 tations from which another man would have 
 been free ; and a soft half-hour at sunset 
 could at any time turn into nothing his 
 strongest resolutions. 
 
 "That was delightful, Marguerite!" he 
 whispered, when she had finished. 
 
 " Was it?" she replied. *' Does it really 
 give you pleasure to hear me ? I suppose 
 my voice must be good, then." 
 
 "In all London I never heard a voice like 
 yours, off the stage. If you took lessons 
 for two years, you would be a first-rate sing- 
 er. Would you not like to be courted and 
 sought after in society for your extraordina- 
 ry talent and beauty?" He wished to see if 
 anv desire for admiration that strongest 
 feeling with most women lay dormant in 
 the girl's heart. 
 
 " No," she returned, after thinking a little. 
 " I am quite sure it would give me no happi- 
 ness. I should not care for all the people at 
 those great parties you tell me of, and I 
 should not value their praises : how can it 
 signify what strangers think of you ? The 
 praise of one or two would be sulli -ient for 
 me. I should like to be beautiful and loved, 
 I confess ; but I would rather not be celebra- 
 ted." 
 
 " You are right ! " said Philip. " Fame is 
 wearisome in the pursuit, unsatisfactory in 
 possession." 
 
 " Oh, you should not say so!" Marguer- 
 ite interrupted. " I only meant that, lor 
 myself, 1 could not value it. If I were a 
 man I should be ambitious: and I should 
 like mv brother, if I had one, to be very 
 celebrated. 1 could glory in /i/.v success. 1 " 
 
 It wa> a dangerous remark. Philip's eyes 
 softened as they rested upon Marguerite's 
 Blowing face; and he remembered Lady 
 ( 'lara and her sympathy with him. 
 
 "What might 1 have been," he thought, 
 " if I had had this -irl for my wife? What 
 illicit 1 still lie, if I were no\v free to choose ? 
 Coilld yon nut extend this feeling |.i any but 
 a brother:' " he went on, aloud. " If at any 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 77 
 
 future time, for instance, yon hear that I am 
 a very celebrated writer, will it give you no 
 pleasure ? " 
 
 She drew nearer to him, and replied, look- 
 ing up kindly in his face, " It would give me 
 more pleasure than anything in the world. 
 Except my father, you are my only friend, 
 and I should like to hear of you as though 
 you were really my brother. But that will 
 never be, " she added, mournfully. "When 
 you leave Kersaint, I feel it will be for ever, 
 and I shall not even hear your name again." 
 
 " You are wrong, Marguerite ; I shall re- 
 turn here next summer, if I live." 
 
 "Will you promise that? It will give 
 me something to hope for during the win- 
 ter." 
 
 " If you are still here, I promise it," Phil- 
 ip replied ; but he felt too truly that-by an- 
 other summer Marguerite might be an or- 
 phan. 
 
 " I hope I shall be improved," she resum- 
 ed, timidly : " my father is going to teach me 
 so much next winter, and I shall have a 
 greater interest in learning now. How do 
 you think he has looked the last day or 
 two ? " 
 
 " I think he varies much," answered Phil- 
 ip, evasively. A week's observation had 
 . convinced him that Mr. St. John was wast- 
 \ing away under the slow, sure influence of 
 consumption, and that his occasional good 
 spirits and heightened color were merely 
 symptoms of his treacherous disease. 
 
 " But on the whole he is better? " 
 
 Her wistful tones, as though she half fear- 
 ed his answer, smote him. 
 
 *' I trust your father may be long spared," 
 he replied. " But I think his state requires 
 the greatest care." 
 
 " He is so melancholy," said Marguerite, 
 " and when we are alone I find it difficult to 
 cheer him. He thinks more than ever of my 
 mother now." 
 
 " She must have died very young," Philip 
 remarked. 
 
 "Yes; I believe before she was twenty; 
 but Mauon could tell you better about her 
 'than I can. She died directly after I was 
 born, and they say she never saw me. But 
 I wish I had not been told that ; I cannot 
 bear to think that I was never no, not for 
 a minute in my mother's arms ; it makes 
 me unlike all other children ! " 
 
 Philip took the poor little hand as it wiped 
 away her tears and pressed it. " Do you 
 like to speak of her or not ? " he said gent- 
 ly. 
 
 " Yes, I like it, but I never do so to my 
 father ; it makes him look so wretched ; and 
 Manon will not say much of her either. But 
 on mv birthday she always will it is my 
 treat, the greatest of all the year and then 
 we sit together in my own. room, and Manon 
 tells me of my beautiful young mother, and 
 shows me some of her things,. She died of 
 some complaint of the heart ; and, do you 
 
 know, I have often thought I shall die of it 
 also ! They tell me I am like her in every- 
 thing; and at times I have a sudden, pain- 
 ful feeling here which makes me feel there 
 must be something wrong. Do you think it 
 is likely ? " She looked at him very earnest- 
 ly- 
 
 Philip drew her to his side, and pressed 
 his lips upon her long, shining hair. The 
 action was involuntary, and the feeling which 
 prompted him innocent. At that moment 
 Marguerite was a perfect child, and he would 
 have, done the same had she been six, and 
 not sixteen ; but it was a fatal precedent.. 
 
 "You should not give way to these 
 thoughts," he replied; "they might really 
 injure you, and are without foundation. 
 Both of my own parents died young of de- 
 cline, yet you see I am strong and well ; and 
 you, Marguerite, have the very bloom of 
 health upon your cheek. You must never 
 indulge these fancies again." 
 
 " No," she answered, " I will not, after 
 what you say. But I never mentioned it 
 before to any one, though I have often 
 thought of it. I should be sorry to die, 
 now that my father seems getting better, 
 and that you have come to us." 
 
 She had not shrunk from his si.le, and 
 there was no blush upon her cheek now. 
 Speaking of her dead mother, and of her 
 own secretly-cherished forebodings of an 
 early death, the feeling of timidity which 
 she occasionally experienced towards Philip 
 was forgotten, and he might in reality have 
 been her brother at that moment. And so 
 they remained, until the sun was fairly set, 
 and the features of each grew less distinct 
 in the twilight, and they drew closer togeth- 
 er as the fresh night-wind rose from the sea. 
 Then Philip could hear the quick beatings of 
 her heart, and her tremulous breath amidst 
 his hair, and his own pulse grew unsteady. 
 The delicious dawn of first love was upon 
 them both. That time when to breathe the 
 same air to be silently at each other's side, 
 is in itself happiness all-sufficing that time 
 which is the last remnant of Eden still left to 
 us the only passionate delight that Dears no 
 trace of the serpent. 
 
 At length Marguerite said it was time for 
 her evening reading with her father, and she 
 must go. 
 
 " Stay," said Earnscliffe, still holding her 
 hand, " another moment. Marguerite, I 
 have something to say to you." 
 
 What words were those* which hung upon 
 his lips? Fresh words of cruel tenderness, 
 or a tardy avowal of his marriage P For 
 that time, at least. Marguerite did not hear 
 them. She had turned as he spoke towards 
 the distant manoir, and saw her father stand- 
 ing at one of the lower windows. She rose 
 to her feet. 
 
 "Not now; he is waiting for me. Tell 
 me to-morrow morning, before you set out 
 I shall be up very early, and we will come 
 
78 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 out on the terrace together; hut I cannot 
 keep him waiting now." And she ran quick- 
 ly towards the house. 
 
 Philip followed her slowly, and was soon 
 pacing up and down, with his cigar, on the 
 terrace his usual evening walk. He had 
 already planned to start on the morrow for 
 an excursion of several days, and he fell 
 now, more than ever, that it was time for 
 some change that every hour he remained 
 was perilous. It was in vain that he argued 
 with himself how pure were his feelings to- 
 wards Marguerite, and that, were he free, he 
 would gladly make her his wife, and give up 
 all the excitement of his past life for quiet 
 domestic happiness. He was not free. Each 
 pressure of her hand, each whispered word 
 to her, were so many derelictions, faint, but 
 progressive, from the path of honor; and 
 Marguerite's ignorance of wrong, and her 
 father's perfect trust in him, made his posi- 
 tion the gravrr. 
 
 " If I had Neville's strong will," thought 
 Philip, " with my own conscientious scruples, 
 I should have left them at once. He might 
 see no harm in the passing deception, and 
 treat it all as the amusement of a few sum- 
 mer weeks ; but at least he would act hon- 
 estly up to his conviction, whilst 1 " his rev- 
 erie was here interrupted by a footstep ad- 
 vancing from the garden, and turning round, 
 he distinguished Manon's square, solid figure 
 as it approached him in the dusky light. 
 
 Manon held the opinion common amongst 
 French persons of her class, that to be alone 
 is the summit of human misery, and as the 
 gupper did not then require her attention, 
 she had purposely joined Philip for a little 
 conversation. She had an immense liking 
 for the handsome young Englishman, but he 
 was so engrossed all day with Marguerite, 
 that she had rarely a chance of speaking to 
 him alone. 
 
 "It is a dull evening, monsieur; I am 
 sorry to see you by yourself." 
 
 " And you have kindly come to bear me 
 company, Manon ; I have not seen you all 
 day." 
 
 " No, you have been on the beach, or 
 away with mademoiselle, as usual. Poor 
 child ! it docs my heart good to see her with 
 a companion, after her life of solitude.* 1 
 
 " She, was talking to me, for the first time, 
 to-day, of her mother," said Philip. 
 
 \Vas she so, mon-ieur? Yes, it is her 
 favorite subject, hut I do not allow her to 
 dwell mueh upon it; it is not well for the 
 young to brood over death and sorrow. 
 Hep mother! she grows more like her every 
 day." Manon raised her brown hand to her 
 
 " Was she as beautiful as her daughter is 
 now?" Philip asked. 
 
 " Ye-," returned Manon, 4< and as sweet 
 and loving. Ah, monsieur ! hers was a Had 
 young life so sad, you would not (arc to 
 Lear it told." 
 
 " On the contrary, I should feel the great- 
 est interest in it. In anything concerning 
 Mr. St. John," he added. 
 
 " Well, monsieur, if it will pass away the 
 time for you, I will tell it. I am sure I* may 
 confide anything to you with safety ; but you 
 will see, without my asking you, that it is'not " 
 a subject for you to mention again to my , 
 master." 
 
 She seated herself on a low bank at one 
 end of the terrace, in the attitude consecrat- 
 ed from time immemorial to the teller of a 
 story her head erect, and her hands cross- 
 ed while Philip leant against the balustrade 
 at her side, and prepared to listen. 
 
 The sky was now overcast, and the occa- 
 sional cry of the owl, and the mournful beat- 
 ings of the sea, formed a fit prelude for the 
 history of Marguerite's mother. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 " I WAS just sixteen," said Manon, " when 
 I first entered into the service of Monsieur 
 le Comte de Josselin. He was one of the 
 oldest seigneurs in Brittany, though no long- 
 er rich ; indeed, the vast possessions of his 
 family had dwindled down, they said, to 
 scarcely more than the old chateau and es- 
 tate of Beaumanoir, near Quimper, where 
 he lived with Madame la Comtesse and their 
 only child Mademoiselle Lilla. 
 
 " I was her foster sister; and next to her 
 own parents, she loved none so well as me. 
 When we were both children, she saved all 
 her treasures and dainties to share them with 
 me, and she would leave all her companions 
 to come and play with me and our goat upon 
 the moor. I can see her now, in her little 
 white dress, plucking the marguerites de 
 pre, and the coqnclicots, to hang them round 
 Mimi's neck ! 
 
 " Well, when I was sixteen, and madem- 
 oiselle a few months younger, the first grief 
 of my own life came my moth'T died. My 
 father, who was old and infirm, was hence- 
 forth to live with my married sister; and I 
 was, in a manner, east upon the world. 
 But Mademoiselle Lilla entreated her parents 
 with such earnestness that I might be taken 
 into the chateau, that they at length con- 
 sented, and I became her own maid or rath- 
 er her Companion, for she always treat- 
 ed me as a sister and, in the happi: 
 being with her, my grief for my mother's 
 (teati) gradually diminished, ;-nd we were, 
 again like ehildren together. 
 
 "She was at that time the nm-t beautiful 
 ereature I ever beheld. Her hair wa- more 
 golden thr.n Marguerite's her eyes <>| a softer 
 blue ; and her whole laee and figure had some- 
 thing reminding me of the pieiure of ( )ur Lady 
 in the cathedral, as it looks in the moonlight. 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 79 
 
 But, though she was fragile and delicate, 
 mademoiselle had high spirits ; and it would 
 have done your heart good to hear her merry 
 laugh ringing through the gloomy rooms of 
 tlfe old chateau. Her parents doted on her 
 I have never denied them that but they 
 were both proud and fond of money Ma- 
 dame la Comtesse especially ; and, when 
 they looked at their daughter's sweet face, I 
 believe God help them ! they thought 
 more of the grand marriage it would enable 
 her to make, than of anything else. 
 
 "When my foster sister was just seven- 
 teen, her cousin, the Marquis de St. Leon, 
 came to stay with us. He was about six- 
 and-twenty, slight, fair, with dark eyes, and 
 a low voice a voice not unlike yours, mon- 
 sieur and I saw, from the first day, he 
 would love her. Soon his eyes never left 
 mademoiselle ; and, as they all walked up 
 and down under the cliarmille, in the summer 
 evenings, I could see him continually at her 
 side, and I knew how it would be. 
 
 " Shall I confess to you that a feeling of 
 jealousy crossed me at the idea? I knew 
 that it was wicked, that of course she must 
 marry some day, and I become nothing to 
 her ; but still I felt it. She was all I had in 
 the world, and I could not bear that she 
 should take any of her love from me. 
 
 " Gradually I saw a change come over 
 her; she no longer cared for our childish 
 games, she was silent and thoughtful and 
 would blush whenever her cousin's name was 
 mentioned. At length, one day she ran hur- 
 riedly into my little room where I sat work- 
 ing, her face all flushed and tearful, but so 
 happy, and told me that the Marquis had 
 proposed for her, and had been accepted. 
 Even in her new joy she did not forget me ; 
 but said I was her dear sister still, and that 
 I should continue to live with her after she 
 married ; and I was ashamed that I had ever 
 felt jealous of her cousin. 
 
 " He was believed to be rich ; for a good 
 patrimony was said to have descended to 
 him a few months before, on his father's 
 death, and my master and his lady appeared 
 well satisfied with the engagement. Our bish- 
 op Monseigneur, at Quimper wrote off to 
 the Pope of Rome for a dispensation (because 
 they were first cousins) : they were soon for- 
 mally betrothed to each other, and then the 
 Marquis returned to Paris to arrange his af- 
 fairs, while at the chateau preparations for 
 the wedding were begun at once. 
 
 " It would weary you to tell the excite- 
 ment and bustle we were all in. Mademoi- 
 selle Lilla was the gayest of us all, and her 
 cheeks bloomed brighter than they had ever 
 done before. It was not a marriage like 
 most others, do you see, merely made up 
 between parents without consulting the chil- 
 dren's hearts: she loved her cousin truly, 
 and looked forward to a life of quiet happi- 
 ness with him when she should become his 
 wife. 
 
 " The Marquis had been gone about three 
 weeks, and we now expected him back for 
 good in a few days, when the wedding waa 
 to take place. Mademoiselle got a little pa- 
 ler as the time drew on, and appeared more 
 thoughtful again. I believe the near ap- 
 proach of a great happiness makes one 
 tremble, or perhaps a secret foreboding of 
 coining evil might have hung over her ; but, 
 however this was, all the preparations went 
 on as usual, until one morning, when two 
 letters arrived from Paris for my master, and 
 put an end to all our joys and hopes. 
 
 "He was walking on the terrace with 
 Madame la Comtesse when they were given 
 to him ; and mademoiselle and I were watch- 
 ing them from the window of her own sit- 
 ting room, where we generally spent the 
 forenoon together. The reading of these 
 letters seemed to produce an extraordinary 
 effect on the Comte and his wife, yet it did 
 not exactly appear that they had received bad 
 tidings ; on the contrary, after consulting 
 long together, there was a triumphant look 
 upon the face of my lady when they return- 
 ed towards the house which made rue shud- 
 der without any real reason, and my foster 
 sister threw her trembling arms round my 
 neck, and said she knew her mother's smile 
 boded no good to Henri. She never per- 
 sonally liked him, and I believe, although 
 she accepted his suit, she thought her daugh- 
 ter ought to have married a prince at least. 
 
 In about an hour's time, a knock came at 
 the door, and a femme de chambre entered, 
 and told mademoiselle that Monsieur le 
 Comte wished to speak to her in the library. 
 Her hand, which was fast clasped in mine, 
 turned as cold as ice at this message ; how- 
 ever, she immediately rose to obey, and tell- 
 ing me to remain there until her return, she 
 walked slowly from the room. 
 
 '* I waited long so long, it seemed to me 
 like hours before she came back, tormenting 
 myself with thinking of all that could have 
 happened; but when at length the door 
 opened, and she tottered in, I felt sure none 
 of my fears had been bad enough. Monsieur, 
 did you ever see a young face gain the ex-' 
 pression of years of misery in one day ? if 
 so, you can imagine how Mademoiselle Lilla 
 looked. She was not pale, she was ashy; 
 and there was a look a fixed, hard look 
 upon her soft features, which made her seem 
 positively old. It was the first time I ever 
 saw anything of her mother in her face. 
 
 '* ' Oh, mademoiselle ! oh, my darling! ' 
 I cried ; ' what is the matter ? Is Monsieur 
 Henri dead ? ' 
 
 ' ' She seated herself without speaking, and 
 remained so for several minutes ; then she 
 turned and said, in a harsh and altered voice 
 ' Manon, never mention his name to me 
 again. Dead, no ! a thousand times worse ; 
 would, God, he were dead!' She moved 
 about that day and the next like a thing of 
 stone; on the third, she told me to come 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 with her and walk. I remember when it was, 
 a mild autumn day, and we wandered through 
 the woods until we readied a small kind of 
 temple that stood by the lake, at some dis- 
 tance from the chateau. She had used to 
 come here with her cousin when they were 
 'engaged; hut. after he left, we had had no 
 leisure for walking, and this was the first 
 time she had visited it since. ' Let us rest, 1 
 she said ; ' I am weary. 1 
 
 '* She looked very pale, and I opened the 
 door of the temple for her to go in. There, 
 upon the rustic table, lay a hunch of withered 
 flowers they had gathered them in their last 
 walk together among the woods, and after- 
 wards forgotten them in their happiness and 
 close beside them was one of Monsieur 
 Henri's gloves. For a moment she stood still, 
 her lips drawn tightly together, and her 
 hands clenched; then, with a stifled cry, she 
 seized the glove, pressed it to her lips, her 
 bosom, uttered a thousand tender words over 
 it, and burst into a flood of tears. They 
 were the first she had shed ; and I believe 
 those tears saved her reason. When slowly 
 pile recovered, the unnatural firmness had 
 left her face, and of herself she began speak- 
 ing of her cousin. Still holding his gtove in 
 lier trembling hands, she told me her father 
 had discovered accidentally that he was un- 
 worthy of her; that he was leading the most 
 wild and dissipated life, and at the very time 
 of their engagement had made his profligacy 
 and his intended marriage with her, alike a 
 boast and a jest among his companions. 
 * And I wrote him, 1 she went on ' I wrote 
 him a letter at once ; my mother dictated it, 
 I could not think for myself; but I know 
 that I gave him back his false love, and told 
 him from that moment he was free, and that 
 I thanked (Jod I was so too. I could not 
 write it now, 1 she added, softly; ' for though 
 I would not be his wife. I forgive him every- 
 thing ; and, Manon. Manon, I love him still ! 1 
 She carried back the withered flowers and the 
 plove. Ah, monsieur! she never parted with 
 them again, as you will see. 
 
 "\Vinter set in early and severe; and 
 rnademoi.-clle grew so pale and thin, that I 
 feared L-reatly for her health. Her parents. 
 too, at last took alarm. I think her mother 
 must have felt some pangs of self-reproach 
 when she- looked at her child's face, ami knew 
 it was her own work ; she was, however, 
 entirely taken up with a new scheme, and 
 perhaps that prevented her from seeing Made- 
 moiselle Lilla av others did. 
 
 " It appeared that one of the letters on 
 that fatal morning, was a proposal of mar- 
 na;_ r e from a gentleman of great riches, but 
 about three time- her a-je, who had seen 
 mademoiselle at a country fete some months 
 before; ami either was, or pretended to be, 
 ignorant of her engagement to her con<in. 
 They had written to him without consulting 
 their daughter, but, as she afterward- t<>M 
 uje, begged him to wait fora few months, o 
 
 account of her extreme youth. Madame la 
 Comtesse judge rightly, that it would be well 
 to let her first sorrow pass awav before 
 speaking toiler again of marriage. 'When at 
 length, however, she thought the time come, 
 and did ask her consent to marry this new 
 suitor, she was surprised at mademoiselle's 
 decided rejection of him. I shall never 
 marry Henri, 1 she said, 'but I will have no 
 other at least, not yet. Give me one vear, 
 mother, before you speak to me of those 
 things again. 1 
 
 " Madame la Comtesse was proud and 
 grasping for wealth ; but still she was a 
 mother, 'and she could not withstand her poor 
 child's mournful face, so they unwillingly 
 wrote and told this gentleman, that their 
 daughter's health was too delicate for her to 
 think of marrying at present; and shortly 
 afterwards we all went to Paris for the winter. 
 They had several grand physicians for my 
 foster sister, and they all said she had as yet 
 no positive disease ; but that she had a dis- 
 position to something of the heart. I forget 
 what they called it, it was a long word ; but 
 I knew what the complaint was better than 
 they, and could have given it a shorter name 
 her heart was breaking. 
 
 " She went to parties and balls ' she must 
 be amused," they said, ' and forget the past ; 1 
 but, when she came home each night, weary 
 and pale, and would weep upon mv breast, 
 in all her silks and flowers, I thought she 
 would have been better sleeping quietly in 
 her grave. She never met her cousin ; for, 
 immediately he received her letter, we were 
 told he had gone right away to India, or 
 America I doi^t rightly know which so, at 
 least, she was spared the pain of seeing him 
 again. 
 
 " Well T must not keep you in the cold 
 too long when we had been in Paris about 
 four months, mademosielle met an English- 
 man in society, who pleased her better than 
 all the gav young men she had known as yet ; 
 and that was my master Mr. St. John. He 
 was pale and quiet even then, but had, I 
 used to think, a look of her cousin, which 
 may have struck her too. At all events, she 
 liked him ; and when after a few weeks he 
 proposed to her, she said to her mother, 
 ' Let me marry Mr. St. .John? 1 
 
 " I was in the room at the time for they 
 kept nothing from me and she ne\er blush- 
 ed or cast- down her eyes, as she had done 
 lor the marquis; she- was quite earnest, but 
 cold and quiet. I believe she chiellv thought 
 of leaving Paris and all these gay parlies; 
 and she did not remember, poor child! that 
 she had no love to give with her hand. 
 
 " It was a dreadful blow to her parents, 
 alter all their schemes. The doctors said, 
 unless they allowed her to marry M ril liked, 
 and at once. >he would die : and they had no 
 choice but to consent. Mr. St. John, how- 
 ex er. was not a rich man. and did nothing 
 but read and write books; so, alter all, 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 81 
 
 mademoiselle made what is called a very 
 poor marriage, although, God knows, she 
 gained a true and faithful heart in my master. 
 
 " Alter the wedding, her first words to 
 her husband were, * Let me go back to the 
 country.' And he took a pretty place not 
 far from Paris, where they passed the first 
 year of their marriage. I remained with 
 them, you may be sure; and whe.i at last a 
 fair little daughter was placed in my darling's 
 arms, I thought her old smile had come back 
 for good, and that she would grow really 
 well and happy. My maste'r loved her be- 
 yond everything on earth ; he thought of 
 nothing but her and she was so sweet and 
 gentle that it was only natural he should be- 
 lieve she loved him in return, for he had 
 never heard anything about her former en- 
 gagement with the marquis. 
 
 " When the baby was a few months old, a 
 distant relation of her mother's died, and 
 left this property of Kersaint to my young 
 mistress. I believe it was very acceptable to 
 them ; for her father's estate, as he had no 
 son, would go to an uncle on his death ; and 
 he had nothing but that to leave. And, be- 
 sides this, Mr. St. John, who was too book- 
 learned to understand money, had lent near- 
 ly all his to a relation to be put out in busi- 
 ness, and he had just failed at the time of 
 the child's birth. So they decided for the 
 present to come and live quietly at Kersaint. 
 
 "They had many friends in Paris; and 
 thougli neither of them cared about society, 
 they were persuaded to go there for a few 
 weeks before starting for Bretange. 
 
 '* That was a fatal delusion, monsieur. 
 
 " They were invited out a great deal ; 
 and one evening they had gone to a grand 
 fte at some foreign ambassador's, and I. as 
 usual, was sitting up to undress my mistress 
 on her return, when I heard the carriage en- 
 ter the port-cochere of the hotel an hour or 
 two earlier than I had expected. I ran out 
 with a light into the great corridor to meet 
 them, and after waiting some minutes I saw 
 Mr. St. John supporting his wife with diffi- 
 culty up the stairs. She was just as white as 
 the day when she broke off with her cousin, 
 and had something the same expression on 
 her face. 
 
 " ' Eh, mon Dieu ! I cried, ' what has hap- 
 pened?' 
 
 " ' Your mistress has been taken suddenly 
 ill,' replied my master, quite calm, though 
 he too was very pale. Get her to bed, 
 good Manon, and watch with her through 
 the night ; it is best for her to be kept per- 
 fectly quiet.' 
 
 " He left us at the door of the sleeping- 
 room, and I did watch with her through that 
 dreadful night. At first she was faint and 
 unconscious ; but that soon passed, and the 
 worst was then to come. All she said I 
 could not tell you ; but I gathered from her 
 delirious talk that in the middle of the ball 
 she had suddenly seen her cousin, whom she 
 
 believed far away in America. He had spok- 
 en to her and asked her to dance ; instead 
 of that, however, they had gone into an- 
 other room alone, and there for the firat time 
 she heard the truth. 
 
 " The letter which her father had received, 
 on the same morning with the fresh proposal 
 for her hand, was from Monsieur Henri, say- 
 ing, that on looking into his affairs, they were 
 not. so straight as he believed : his father in 
 fact had been extravagant, and the money 
 did not all come clear to the marquis. But 
 in the letter he had asked for time, and said 
 he would start gladly for foreign parts, and 
 try to win more money for himself, if his 
 cousin would only wait for him. 
 
 " ' And they never told me this,' she cried. 
 ' They deceived me, cruel father ! cruel 
 mother ! they deceived me, and I wrote him 
 that letter ! " I thanked God that I was free ! 
 when I would have died for him, when I lov- 
 ed him when I love him still.' And slm 
 took his glove from the place where it always 
 lay with the withered flowers, and wept over 
 it till I thought she would die from weeping. 
 I never saw such grief before, or since, and I 
 think it was the worse coming from one so 
 gentle as my mistress. 
 
 " Towards morning I bethought me of 
 something that might soothe her ; and as I had 
 now persuaded her to lie down in her bed, I 
 crept from the room to the baby's nursery, 
 and wrapping it in a shawl, I brought it back 
 sleeping, and placed it in her arms. For 
 one moment, monsieur, she shrunk back from 
 her child. It was only a moment, however. 
 The next she covered it with kisses and hug- 
 ged it to her heart. It woke ; and seeing its 
 mother, gave a soft cooing cry, and held out 
 its hand to her breast ; the little touch I sup- 
 pose recalled everything to her, that she was 
 another man's wife and a mother, for she at- 
 tempted to check her sobs, and I could see 
 that she was praying over the child. 
 
 "She was long dangerously ill; but as. 
 soon as she could be moved, we came down 
 to Kersaint. When I think of my master 
 during that time, I believe I pity him most 
 of all. I was afterwards told that at the balF 
 when my mistress fainted, he overheard 1 
 some of the guests saying to each other ' Ah ! 
 Madame St. John has met her old lover 
 poor husband ! ' And this was the first he 
 ever knew of her former engagement. Afe 
 all events he never looked the same after 
 that night. 
 
 " The sea air and change seemed to do 
 her good ; and she tried so hard not to re- 
 pine, and to be thankful to live, that her 
 husband could not but forgive her indeed, 
 he was soon more devoted to her than ever. 
 He is unlike all other men ; and when from 
 herself he heard the whole story, and how 
 she had been deceived, he forgot his own 
 disappointment* and only tried to make up 
 to her with his love for what she had lost. 
 
 " A year passed by ; and, though she was 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 not worse, I could see that she did not really 
 gain strength. At times her color was high, 
 and she would rally, and sing to him, and 
 play with the child ; but suddenly, her hand 
 would be pressed to her heart, and the faint 
 shade round her lips told me she was suffer- 
 ing inward pain. At the end of that year 
 the child died died of croup in the 
 night, when we all thought she had fallen 
 asleep in perfect health ; and, from that 
 hour, I knew we should lose my mistress. 
 She showed no passionate grief she scarce- 
 ly wept for the child ; but, when she hung 
 over the little body in its coffin, she smiled ; 
 and I could see she was only parting with it 
 for a short time. It was the last thing that 
 kept her to life. 
 
 "And now she faded rapidly; every day 
 I saw a change ; but what made it worse was, 
 that she expected soon again to be a mother. 
 She liked to be carried out by my master to 
 the terrace, and would sit there for hours, 
 watching the sea, with a kind of dim look 
 upon her face, but seldom speaking. When 
 I tried to rouse her, for the sake of the un- 
 born babe, she would only say, 'Pray God, 
 Manon, that it be not a girl ! I do not wish 
 to bring another sorrowful life into the 
 world.' 
 
 "While she was able to sit up, however, 
 she embroidered a little cap for the child 
 I have it now, monsieur Marguerite 
 would sooner look at it than at all the 
 treasures on the earth and said, when it 
 was finished, * This is all I shall ever do for 
 my child.' 
 
 " She knew she should die at its birth 
 and she was right. She never even rallied 
 enough to hold it in her arms. But, on the 
 morning of that day, she said to me, ' Ma- 
 non, be faithful to my husband, as you have 
 been to me, and never leave him and my 
 child.' I promised her, and I have kept my 
 word. Monsieur, I feel the first drops of a 
 thunder-shower, and it is supper-time." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 MANON'S prediction was right. A violent 
 thunderstorm broke that night over Kersaint ; 
 and, when Philip prepared to depart at an 
 early hour tin- following morning, the weather 
 was still dark and lowering. 
 
 44 You had Letter not go," said Marguer- 
 ite, as they sat alone together at breakfast 
 (Mr. St. John having taken lea\e of his 
 visitor the previous evening), " I am sure 
 there will be another storm, and one day 
 can make no dilfereii 
 
 Philip, however, knew that each day did 
 make a dilferenee ; ami, for once, In- re- 
 mained linn. He went; and Marguerite felt 
 that her whole lifi: hail become a blank. 
 
 The days succeeding his departure were 
 dark and gloomy. Mr. St. John, who was 
 affected by every change of weather, was 
 not so well, and kept to his own room, and 
 the lonely silence of her home struck Mar- 
 guerite as it had never done before. She 
 could not take the old interest in her birds 
 and flowers, but she was too restless to re- 
 main within doors ; and, except at those times 
 when she was with her father, spent the en- 
 tire day wandering near the sea, listening to 
 its soothing, familiar voice, and dreaming 
 those first dangerous dreams which further 
 the progress of an absent lover, far better 
 than his own presence. 
 
 Philip was away more than a fortnight, ex- 
 ploring among the wilds of the Menes Arres 
 hills, and the Loc Mariaker lakes. The 
 lone grandeur of the scenery, and the char- 
 acter of the people among whom he passed, 
 really interested him ; he needed a strong 
 contrast to his soft, artificial life, and here he 
 found it. But in his' wanderings, with no 
 companion save his own thoughts, he had 
 unfortunately, quite as much time for dream- 
 ing as Marguerite ; and he returned to Ker- 
 saint with his heart fuller of the little " wild 
 daisy " than when he started. 
 
 During his absence the packet of books 
 had arrived from London, and were 'opened, 
 as Philip requested they should be, by Mar- 
 guerite. In addition to the copies of his own 
 works, he had ordered several new books 
 which he thought would interest Mr. St. John, 
 and one or two of a different nature for 
 Marguerite. But all of these she laid aside ; 
 they were not his, and she scarcely thought 
 of them again. The name of Philip Earns- 
 cliffe upon the title-pages of his works, had, 
 for her childish eyes, a charm beyond every- 
 thing she could have imagined. She made 
 her father scrupulously reserve to himself the, 
 one bearing the latest date, which Philip told 
 her was for Mr. St. John, and read and re- 
 read the volume containing his early talcs 
 and poems with more deep interest and ad- 
 miration than had ever been bestowed upon 
 them in his time of first, success. There were 
 no faults for Marguerite ; she (Mi joyed the. 
 fresh beauty of the style, without perceiving 
 its irregularity, and entered into all the 
 young poet's glowing visions of life, without 
 knowing they were false. But to Mr. St. 
 John the, perusal of KarnsdilVe's last work 
 laid open a page of the author's own life, 
 lie knew that such exceeding bitterness 
 against one, peculiar class of society could 
 not flow from the pen of so \oung a writer 
 if it, were really a principle; and felt, sure, 
 from his own experience of human nature. 
 that some great personal disappointment 
 gave a latent tone to his writings. lint of 
 the true nature of this disappointment he 
 could not even surmise. The idea of Philip 
 licing married, of course, never presented 
 itself. Young and handsome, it was not like- 
 ly that he should already ha\c made ship- 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 83 
 
 wreck in love ; and his literary career ap- 
 peared to have been successful. So Mr. St. 
 John, who was naturally somewhat apathetic 
 about the concerns of others, simply con- 
 jectured that his guest had passed through 
 some one of the great trials of life, and 
 troubled himself no further on the subject. 
 
 When Philip returned, his host's true and 
 measured criticism upon his works, and Mar- 
 guerite's undisguised admiration of them, af- 
 forded him more real pleasure than any in- 
 cense to his author's vanity which he had yet 
 received. He remained some days at the 
 manoir, then made another more distant ex- 
 cursion ; and in this manner two or three 
 months passed quickly by. Mr. St. John 
 and his daughter grew accustomed to his fre- 
 quent absence, but they always awaited his 
 return with renewed pleasure. Philip Earns- 
 cliffe was becoming a part of their existence 
 hitherto so barren in events and they 
 neither of them would even speak of the in- 
 evitable time when he should leave Brittany, 
 and they return to their old monotonous life. 
 An intellectual companion had roused Mr. 
 St. John from his habitual melancholy, and 
 given him once more an interest in the things 
 he had cared for in other days ; while Mar- 
 guerite poor little Marguerite ! every week 
 made her feel the more that her whole earth 
 was now concentrated into Philip's presence. 
 
 All this time he had guarded himself well. 
 Constantly associating with Marguerite, 
 watching all the dawnings of her young 
 mind, reading but too truly the varying col- 
 or of her cheeks, and in the full possession 
 already of her every thought (that first soul- 
 possession which mocks at all other, and to 
 which no future rival can attain) , he had yet 
 breathed no syllable of his own fast deepen- 
 ing passion ; he had said no word that she 
 might not have listened to from a brother 
 nothing which her father might not have 
 heard. That one kiss, whose recollection 
 yet thrilled through him a hundred times that 
 day, had been the first and last : if he took 
 her hand, his own pressure was grave and 
 calm ; and Earnscliffe thought that he was in 
 all things acting like a man of honor. 
 
 But the hour of awakening from this dream 
 of self-reliance was very near. 
 
 " I think you should take Mr. Earnscliffe 
 to the grotto of Morgane, Marguerite," said 
 Mr. St. John one evening to his daughter. 
 I* There is scarcely anything more curious 
 in the neighborhood ; and, indeed, in Brit- 
 tany. Do you think it would be too far for 
 you in this hot weather ? If so, Bruno must 
 act as guide in your place." 
 
 Marguerite did not think it would be in 
 the least too far. " They might start early, 
 while it was yet cool, take a basket of pro- 
 visions with them, and return at sunset, after 
 spending a long day in the caves. She knew 
 the way better than Bruno, and would be 
 able to tell Mr. Earnscliffe all the different 
 legends connected with the place." 
 
 Mr. Earnscliffe appearing equally anxious 
 with herself that she, and not Bruno, should 
 be his companion, the expedition was soon 
 planned, and it was settled that on the fol- 
 lowing Monday they should start by seven 
 o'clock for the distant grotto. 
 
 The next day was Sunday, and they went 
 together to church ; Manon having heard 
 low mass at an earlier hour, in order to be 
 with Mr. St. John during their absence, for 
 his state was now so uncertain as to make 
 her dread leaving him alone. 
 
 It was a great festival of the church, and 
 the music was more than usually fine. The 
 morning sun streamed through the Gothic 
 windows, throwing a thousand richly-colored 
 gems around the altar ; the freshest flowers 
 stood there, mingling their odors with the 
 voluptuous sweetness of the incense ; the 
 notes of the organ stole in soft, prolonged 
 whispers through each dim aisle and distant 
 chapel of the immense cathedral ; and when 
 the priest, a tall and dignified-looking man, 
 held aloft the glittering symbol of our salva- 
 tion, and every head bowed before it in low- 
 ly reverence, Philip was carried away by all 
 the poetry of the scene, and sank on his 
 knees upon the pavement. He felt some- 
 what ashamed of his enthusiasm, when, on 
 glancing at Marguerite, he saw her calm and 
 unmoved at his side, evidently fully enjoying 
 the music and beauty around her, but with 
 no trace of devotion upon her face. When 
 they were on their way home he recurred to 
 it, and asked her if the solemnity and grand 
 effect of the service never made her feel half 
 a Catholic. She looked quite surprised. 
 
 " Do you not know that I am of my fa- 
 ther's religion ? " she answered. 
 
 "Yes," said Philip; "but it would be 
 only natural if you had a leaning occasional- 
 ly towards the only faith whose services you 
 have ever heard celebrated." 
 
 * But it is not my father's faith," was her 
 reply. 
 
 That answer was the key-note to her whole 
 character. Sentiment, reason, religion itself 
 must be derived with her from the person she 
 loved. Hitherto this one person had been 
 her father ; and she could not even admit the 
 possibility of temptation to feel otherwise 
 than he had taught. Perfect trust in him 
 was the leading article in her early belief, 
 and she. was now unconsciously extending 
 this faith to Philip. 
 
 The following morning was hazy and full 
 of promise, a true summer morning ; and by 
 a little after seven they had started for their 
 distant walk. Marguerite was radiant with 
 spirits, but Philip felt less inclined to talk 
 than usual. The perpetual restraint under 
 which he forced himself to act began to 
 chafe him ; and perhaps some internal warn- 
 ing told him that this long, lonely day to- 
 gether would not be passed through without 
 betraying him into words that nothing could 
 efface ; while Marguerite's unconstramt and 
 
84 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 growing familiarity made his position only 
 the more difficult to maintain. 
 
 Nearly their whole road lay by the sea- 
 side. For the first mile they kept on the 
 aands ; but then, as the tide was now in, 
 they were obliged to aseend a high cliff in- 
 tervening between them and the next bay, 
 which at low water might be reached by the 
 rocks. The road was steep, but Marguer- 
 ite was accustomed to climbing, and as the 
 sun was not yet hot they soon reached the. 
 summit, where a wide table-land lay spread 
 before them. The scene was monotonous 
 in the extreme, yet still possessing a kind 
 of indefinable harmony which was not with- 
 out its charm. The rocks festooned with 
 heath in full flower the mysterious Druid 
 circles of stones the silence only broken 
 by the hoarse, measured whisper of the 
 waves far beneath all was in unison ; and 
 the sea-breeze, which at this height was as 
 invigorating, as real mountain air, made 
 Marguerite's young blood circulate in her 
 veins with a feeling of actual pleasure. But 
 Philip was still depressed. The view before 
 them was just of that unmarked character 
 which takes its coloring entirely from the 
 tone of spirits in which it is seen, and the 
 immensity, the solitude, the perfect repose, 
 weighed upon him, while they stimulated his 
 companion. 
 
 44 Look ! " she exclaimed, suddenly, touch- 
 ing his hand with her accustomed quick ges- 
 ture '* a chase !" 
 
 He turned and saw, almost immediately 
 behind them, two birds, whose cries had at- 
 tracted her notice ; one, a heron, who was 
 still considerably a-head, and in pursuit of 
 her one of the larger kind of hawk. 
 
 " Poor bird ! " continued Marguerite ; " I 
 hope she will escape." And they stood still 
 and watched this natural " hawking," which 
 soon became so near a chase as to be con- 
 liderably exciting. 
 
 The hawk gained gradually upon his prey, 
 and was at length so close that they expect- 
 ed each moment to see him strike. He had, 
 however, missed his aim, or in the ardor of 
 purMiit forgotten his usual wariness, and in- 
 stead of flying over the heroin, and thus se- 
 curing her at once, he passed about a foot 
 beneath her, receiving at the same instant a 
 >igorous stroke from her long beak, which 
 made him turn over twice or thrice in the 
 air with pain. At first it seemed as though 
 lie would descend to the ground ; but then, 
 giving a shrill, angry cry of defiance, he rose 
 with redoubled energy t> the pursuit. Mean- 
 time, the heron had profited by her tempo- 
 rary advantage-, and taken a I're.sh turn to- 
 wards a distant .shelter of fir-wood, hoping 
 this time to >ave herself by distance, not 
 height. I'.ut the hawk saw the. manuMivre, 
 and cutting diagonally through the air with 
 tl e ntpidity of an arrow, he almost met her 
 in her downward flight. The heron gave 
 two or three screams of distress, and om-e 
 
 again attempted to escape by suddenly ris- 
 ing perpendicularly as she had done at first ; 
 her pursuer followed her hotly, and after 
 some seconds the two birds had become like 
 two mere black specks upon the pale sky. 
 
 "Will she escape?" cried Marguerite, 
 quite breathless in anxiety for the heron's 
 fate. " Poor bird, did you hear her cry? " 
 
 "No," returned Philip; "she will not 
 escape. It is an unequal contest, the weak 
 against the strong, as is usual in this world." 
 
 "See see," Marguerite exclaimed, "the 
 hawk is uppermost now, and listen to her 
 screams ! " 
 
 As she spoke, a long cry, just audible in 
 its intense agony of distress, was again 
 heard, and both birds began swiftly to de- 
 scend. The heron now attempted no longer 
 to defend herself; she sank rapidly, only an- 
 swering to the incessant strokes of the hawk 
 by her screams. Suddenly she folded her 
 wings, and shot downwards like a stone. It 
 was her last feint, but her antagonist did the 
 same ; and when she again attempted to 
 take flight, a tremendous blow from his beak 
 finally overcame her. She continued to fall, 
 occasionally turning over in the air, and at 
 the moment that she touched the earth, the 
 hawk pounced down upon her with an exult- 
 ing shriek that drowned her last faint cry. 
 
 The two spectators had watched the final 
 scene with equal interest, and tears for the 
 heron's death stood in Marguerite's eyes. 
 But there was a singular expression upon 
 Earnseliflfe's face. 
 
 "The weak against the strong," he re- 
 peated, as they resumed their path. 
 
 Marguerite "little knew that the unequal 
 struggle between the two birds could have 
 awakened any comparison to themselves in 
 his mind. 
 
 "I have watched this kind of chase be- 
 fore," she said, " but never saw the weaker 
 bird escape. How could the ladies in olden 
 times, whom T have read about to my father, 
 delight in assisting in such cruel sport? ' 
 
 " It is an unnatural feeling for your sex," 
 replied Philip. "In ours, the delight of 
 hunting and destroying what is weak is in- 
 herent from our cradles. As school-hoys 
 we persecute every defenceless creature, we 
 come across ; as men " 
 
 " Well," said Marguerite, " why do you 
 hesitate? Surely you were not going to say 
 that all men are' cruel ! At least I know two 
 exceptions: my father would not, destroy:! 
 worm upon the path; and you, Mr. Karns- 
 clifle, I am sure would pTOCeCt everything 
 weaker than yourself." 
 
 The unconscious appeal touched him. 
 
 " I believe I would, dear Marguerite," 
 In- answered. " But at least I am glad that 
 vou extend your favorable opinions of hu- 
 manity to me." He looked down into her 
 trotting lace, and impulsive in everything, 
 suddenly determined to tell her at once of 
 his marriage. It was one of his better 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 85 
 
 resolutions, and he gave himself no time to 
 waver. 
 
 " Come, Marguerite," he continued, 
 " we have still a long day before us ; let us 
 rest awhile on the heath under the shelter of 
 yonder group of firs, and converse a little. 
 I have something to tell you in which, I be- 
 lieve, you will take an interest. 
 
 They walked on about a hundred yards, to 
 the solitary trees he mentioned, Marguerite's 
 eyes dancing in expectation of the secret she 
 was to hear, and she then seated herself, 
 her head leaning against one of the fir 
 trunks, while Philip took his place at some 
 distance from her, and with his face averted 
 from his companion. 
 
 " Now begin," she cried. * 4 1 am sure it 
 is something very interesting. 
 
 " To me it is," he returned, " although I 
 have no reason for supposing it should be so 
 to others. It is about myself " 
 
 " That is right," interrupted Marguerite. 
 " Only yesterday I told my father I should 
 like to know all the history of your life, and 
 I even wished him to ask you ; but he said 
 you would tell us just as much as you liked, 
 and I ought not to be so curious. Now, you 
 will tell me all and, first, why you are some- 
 times so sad." 
 
 She turned her large eyes upon him with a 
 look of childish affection, that might again 
 have made him irresolute had he seen their 
 expression ; but his own were intently fixed 
 upon the tiny blossoms of the wild thyme at 
 their feet, and with a sort of effort he began. 
 He told her of his childhood, of his parents' 
 death, of his uncle's kindness, of his school- 
 boy dreams, and tried to linger over all these 
 early recollections, which delayed him, as it 
 were, in his approach to the darker period 
 of his life. Marguerite liked to hear every 
 detail, and when at length he spoke of his 
 first book and its success, she clasped her 
 hands and exclaimed with pleasure. He 
 then told her somewhat of his progress 
 in great London; he mentioned Neville 
 and one or two of his other friends, and at 
 last he brought his lips to speak of Lady Clara. 
 
 "Was Lady Clara very beautiful?" she 
 asked, timidly. 
 
 " She was not beautiful ; she was pale and 
 sickly, and rarely smiled." 
 
 " Was she young ? " 
 
 "Older than myself." 
 
 *' Was she I mean did your cousin like 
 you very much ? " 
 
 Earnscliffe only smiled bitterly at the 
 question; and Marguerite was silent. With- 
 out knowing why, she felt her heart throb 
 painfully, and an odd, stifled sensation at her 
 throat. Had Philip loved his cousin without 
 return ? 
 
 "Marguerite," he resumed abruptly, "I 
 can better describe my cousin's character 
 when I have told you the real tie which 
 binds her to me. Lady Clara is my wife." 
 
 "Your wife!" she stammered; "your 
 wife ! Are you married ? " The words died 
 away, and with it all the flush of youth on 
 Marguerite's face. Married ! She looked 
 aside over the vast heath, at the grey curlews 
 which circled round the Druid stones, and 
 the fern leaves waving in the wind, and 
 knew that it was all monotonous and dreary, 
 though the sun shone brighter than ever. 
 
 " Yes," he went on with .desperate resolu- 
 tion, " I have been married for some years ; 
 but my marriage has been misery to me. I 
 have long been parted from my wife ; I would 
 give all in this world, yes, my talents, my 
 hope for the future itself, to undo that miser- 
 able marriage. The recollection of it is so 
 bitter to me, that on corning abroad I re- 
 solved to mention it to none but those al- 
 ready acquainted with my past history, and 
 thus I have deceived you, too. Will you 
 forgive me ? " 
 
 The sorrow on his face was so real that 
 she forgot herself, and extended her hand to 
 him. Earnscliffe pressed it, hesitated, then 
 relinquished it abruptly, and went on with 
 his story. He told her of his uncle's losses, 
 of the failure of his own literary prospects, 
 lastly, of his wife's leaving him ; and if he 
 spoke little of his own errors it was out of 
 respectful feeling towards the innocent girl 
 who listened to him, not from any idea of 
 exculpating himself. " I have told you all, 
 Marguerite," were his last words. " Now 
 you must be my judge." 
 
 She looked at him irresolutely for a few 
 moments without speaking ; and during that 
 time her thoughts were painful ones. Then 
 all recollection of herself, or her own faintly- 
 dawning hopes, died within 4ier. She saw 
 him forsaken, disappointed in his nearest ties 
 and remembered him only. 
 
 " Philip," she whispered she had never 
 called him so before " they have all left 
 you. Will you let me love you, and be your 
 sister ? " and before he had divined her in- 
 tention, she took his hand and raised it to 
 her lips. 
 
 The reader (especially if a young lady), 
 must again remember poor Marguerite's per- 
 fect ignorance of the world, before judging 
 her too harshly. Of course, had she been 
 properly educated, she would have at once 
 returned home to her father on discovering 
 that Philip was married, and have felt a fit- 
 ting amount of indignation at so nearly be- 
 ing led into loving him ! But Marguerite 
 knew absolutely nothing of decorum ; and 
 she therefore stifled in her own bosom at 
 once, and with a silent pain, those half- 
 formed visions of the future which during 
 the last few weeks had begun to spread their 
 golden vista before her. And seeing Philip 
 a lonely, and as she understood, forsaken 
 man, she tried to comfort him with the same 
 childish caress that had so often won a smile 
 from the pale lips of her father. 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 He withdrew his hand hastily from her 
 touch. 
 
 ** Have I offended you? " she asked soft- 
 ly, bat with no feeling of shame. "Oh, 
 Mr. EarnsclifFe ! I wish I knew what to say ; 
 indeed, 1 should like to show how much I 
 feel for you,' 1 and again she ventured to 
 touch his hand. Philip started to his feet. 
 
 44 But I am married, child ! How can I 
 talk to you of love ? How can I suffer my- 
 self to receive your innocent kindness? Do 
 you not hear that I am married ? " 
 
 His voice had never sounded so harsh to 
 Marguerite before. 
 
 " Yes, sir," she answered, looking timid- 
 ly up. "But have I offended you? Will 
 you not let me be your little sister ? I am 
 ignorant and childish, I know ; yet you see 
 Low my father loves me, and if you " 
 
 Philip took a few paces upon the turf: 
 then he stopped short, and he was very pale ; 
 but for the present the mastery was gained. 
 
 " Marguerite," he said, " you are a child. 
 You know nothing of life or human nature ; 
 and what you offer is impossible. There can 
 be no talk of brotherly love between a man 
 of my age and a young girl like yourself. 
 Y"ou know not what you say when you ask it. 
 Look upon me as your father's friend as 
 your own friend, if you will but nothing 
 ielse. I could not love you as a brother," 
 he added, bitterly. 
 
 She rose to her feet. Not a glimmering 
 of his real meaning had reached her. Her 
 cheeks had never flushed at his words ; and, 
 in a saddened voice, she proposed that they 
 should continue their walk. She only felt 
 that he had rejected her affection ; and her 
 loving nature, not her pride, was wounded. 
 
 " Forgive me for what I have said ! " she 
 whispered, after they had walked some dis- 
 tance in silence. 
 
 Earnscliffe was only human ; and when he 
 looked down into that sweet, beseeching face 
 is it wonderful that warmer words than he in- 
 tended once more found their way to his lips ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 "ARE you not tired, Marguerite? " 
 44 Xo; I am seldom tired, monsieur." 
 44 You are paler than usual. Take mj 
 arm. child ; the accent i| Steep." 
 
 looked at him wistfully as he spoke 
 and MH-II aeee|)ted hisprott'ered assistan<-e. 
 
 Marguerite coul.l not underhand Ivirn- 
 
 cl'ilfe that day, or interpret his cha-i^ing mooi 
 
 at nne time so cold and formal, and thei 
 
 warmer than he had ever been to her before 
 
 J'ut she thought the recollection of hi.-, mar 
 
 uad, i.erh:i|>-, mad" him fitful and ca 
 
 pri.-ioiis, uiid tried to render her own m nine 
 
 :i more kind than usual. Yet even & 
 
 he walked, and strove to speak cheerfully 
 >f the objects around, the painful feeling at 
 icr heart would return, and unbidden tears 
 tart into her eyes. Was it all sympathy for 
 Sarnacliffe? Marguerite knew not. 
 
 They had soon finished the ascent of the 
 ast hill, and were on the summit of the steeps 
 >f Morgane, which formed a boldly-jutting 
 )romontory of down and cliff; and the. sea 
 ay around them on all sides, save that by 
 vhieh they had approached. Blue and silent 
 t lay ; only dotted over by the tiny sails of 
 he fisher-boats, or the black rocks, around 
 which there was scarcely sufficient foam to 
 whiten ; and the sea-birds skimmed lazily 
 over the quiet world of waters. 
 
 ' Our path is here/ 1 said Marguerite, ap- 
 proaching to the ve*y edge of the cli(f ; " but 
 [ have first a visit to make to my friend the 
 gabarier. That is his house." She pointed 
 ;o a rude kind of hut, built into a corner of 
 the rock, about thirty feet beneatli them, and 
 so completely of the same grey color, as at 
 irsttobe scarcely distinguishable. The roof 
 was merely a mass of dried sea-weed, kept 
 down by some enormous stones ; and the 
 smoke from the peat-fire, issuing through more 
 than one aperture, showed that the mid-day 
 iieal of the family was preparing. The 
 gabarier himself sat outside the door on the 
 small platform of projecting earth, which 
 formed the extent of his worldly possessions, 
 employed in mending nets, and watching 
 some four or, five half-clad urchins, who were 
 seated on the very ed<*e of a precipice of 
 several hundred feet, kicking their legs in 
 the air, and trying to push each other on, in 
 a manner which in no way discomposed their 
 parent these being the daily practices of 
 the infant Blaisots, from the time they could 
 walk alone. 
 
 Marguerite tripped down the steep path 
 which led to the hut, and then suddenly call- 
 ing, " Pere Blaisot!" made the boatman 
 start round with surprise. His harsh fea- 
 tures lighted up on seeing Marguerite, who 
 ran to his side and said a few words, which 
 made him turn and uncover to Earnsclilfe. 
 
 " We are going t<> visit the caves, pero 
 Blaisot. The tide is just right, is it not, aim 
 the weather too ? " 
 
 "For the tide," he replied, in his rude 
 
 patois, 4 ' you must wait an hour and a half. 
 
 For the weather, you had best not go at all." 
 
 " Why? " said' Margin-rill- ; " the sky is 
 
 clear, and the sea without a ripple." 
 
 " Nevertheless, there will be a stur-.u be- 
 fore night," was the reply. " I have not 
 lived aione for thiriy years among the nx-ks. 
 without getting to understand the sign* ot 
 ihe weather. Take the gWlttOtaWMM to thQ 
 giMtt.o if vou will; but re-turn quickly, little 
 ."juecn. h, will be no evening for such as 
 you to be out." 
 
 Marguerite translated his words to Ivirns- 
 elitl'c, who only smiled in reply, as In- glanc- 
 ed towards the blue horizon, over which 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 87 
 
 there appeared not even the faintest shadow 
 of a cloud. 
 
 "He does not believe me," said the ga- 
 barier, resuming his netting. " Maybe he 
 knows best night will show." 
 
 " Nay, father," said Marguerite, " I be- 
 lieve you are always right in these things ; 
 and we will certainly return quickly from the 
 grotto. Meanwhile, will you let one of the 
 children carry our basket for us down the 
 cliff, for we shall have enough to do minding 
 our own steps ; and, as we have still an hour 
 to spare, we will eat our dinner among the 
 cool rocks until the tide is down." 
 
 "Xoser!" called the gabarier and a 
 sun-burnt imp of seven summers disentan- 
 gled himself from the heap of small humani- 
 ty which overhung the precipice, and ran up 
 to him. " Where is your basket, Ihtle 
 queen ? " he added. 
 
 Marguerite gave it into Moser's hands, 
 and his black eyes were already sparkling at 
 the idea of purloining dainties on the way, 
 when the gabarier snatched it himself, with a 
 nod, indicating small belief in the good prin- 
 ciples of his son. He then bound the lid 
 strongly to the basket with a piece of fishing- 
 line, and administered a hint to its bearer, 
 that if he attempted to open it, his grand- 
 dam should whip him; and the expression 
 which this awful promise awakened on Mo- 
 ser's face showed that the threat was well se- 
 lected. 
 
 " Be off! " cried the boatman ; " fly ! " 
 
 The child seized the basket, and appeared 
 actually to bound across the edge of the 
 cliff. Earnscliffe could hardly repress an 
 exclamation of horror ; but on approaching 
 cautiously, he descried a kind of goat-track 
 that, from above, seemed absolutely perpen- 
 dicular, but down which the little* rock-imp 
 was already making fast progress. 
 
 ** Is this our road? " he inquired. 
 
 '* Yes," said Marguerite, ** but it is noth- 
 ing to what you will find it lower down. 
 This is easy walking. Good bye, pere 
 Blaisot ; we will be sure to come back be- 
 fore the storm." 
 
 The path was certainly not so steep as it 
 had appeared ; still it required steady nerves 
 and a light foot, and the dry weather made 
 it somewhat slippery. Earnscliffe, in his 
 boyhood, had been a fearless climber, and 
 he thought nothing of the descent for him- 
 self; but he was astonished at Marguerite's 
 perfect coolness, and the speed at which she 
 turned the abrupt points overhanging the 
 sea. She was so accustomed to these kind 
 of walks, that it never occurred to her to 
 look for his assistance, and she did not even 
 turn round until they were more than half- 
 way down. Here the path ceased altogeth- 
 er, and they had to descend an abrupt wall 
 of cliff, several feet deep, at whose base was 
 a bed of loose soil leading down to a perfect 
 debris of broken rocks and stones. She 
 paused. 
 
 "This is the worst part, and you must 
 help me, Mr. Earnscliffe. I am not quite 
 like the gabarier's children, who can climb 
 up and down the bare granite like little spi- 
 ders." 
 
 Philip swung himself down the rock, and 
 then extended his hands to Marguerite. 
 
 " Come," he said, " I will lift you safely." 
 
 She was not fearful of danger, as he had 
 seen ; but for a second she shrunk back, 
 and she felt that her face flushed crimson. 
 
 "I am afraid " she began. 
 
 "Nay," returned Philip, gravely, "you 
 are safe with me ; come ! " 
 
 She had to kneel before he could reach 
 Ivjr waist, then he lifted her quickly to the 
 ledge beside him; but Marguerite thought 
 she felt that strong arm tremble. 
 
 " Can you walk along this narrow track 
 alone, if you are so nervous at looking from 
 a height ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I was not afraid of that,''' 1 she ans- 
 wered, looking up so artlessly in his face that 
 he could not forbear smiling. Marguerite 
 could never be a woman for more than one 
 minute together. 
 
 " You were afraid of me, then ? " 
 
 " I did not like I mean to say it would 
 
 have been better " But she felt she was 
 
 again betraying herself; and, without finish- 
 ing, ran quickly past, that he might not see 
 her face. 
 
 There were more difficulties to surmount, 
 however, more rocks to descend, and by the 
 time they had reached the shining sands 
 which lay at the base of the cliffs, all recol- 
 lections of Philip's marriage, and the re- 
 sult produced upon both by its disclosure, 
 seemed to be forgotten. They were just on 
 their old friendly terms ; and Marguerite's 
 cheeks as bright, or a shade brighter, than 
 when they left Kersaint. 
 
 They found Moser seated in the middle of 
 some wet sand, the fierce sun streaming full 
 upon his bare head, while with eager eyes 
 and scent he vainly attempted to guess at the 
 contents of the basket, through the wicker- 
 work. 
 
 " Moser ! " cried Marguerite. He sprang 
 up detected, and, doubtless with his grand- 
 dam's bony fingers already crackling in pro- 
 spective over his ears, began pouring forth a 
 voluminous mixture of tears and gibberish. 
 Marguerite told him, however, he had per- 
 formed his task well, and opening the bask- 
 et gave him some fruit, and then a piece of 
 two sous, which sent him home rejoicing, to 
 display his spoils. 
 
 " JSfow where shall we dine? " she said. 
 
 They selected the shady side of a huge 
 rock, where the sands were dry, and near 
 which a trickling stream furnished them with 
 cold, fresh water. Marguerite spread the 
 snowy serviette, of Manon's providing, upon 
 a small, flat rock on the sands, and laid out 
 thier pic-nic upon it. And a merry meal 
 they made ! They had forgotten kiiives and 
 
88 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 forks, of course, and she laughed heartily at 
 Philip's affectation, when he was obliged to 
 eat with his fingers ; and they had. only one 
 glass between them, and he would always 
 insist drinking after her, although she offer- 
 ed each time to get him fresh water from the 
 brook ; and oh. reader ! if you are young, 
 I need not paint this happy two hours to 
 you ; if you are not, you must remember at 
 least one such morning of your youth, and 
 not require my description. 
 
 "We are just like children," said Mar- 
 guerite, at length, trying to call up a look of 
 dignity. *' Here we are, wasting the whole 
 afternoon, when we have so much to see in 
 the caves; and, beside, we have forgotten 
 the gabarier's storm." 
 
 " Of which there are at present few signs," 
 added Earnscliffe. " We are quite happy 
 here, Marguerite. You ought to sing some 
 ballad connected with the scene before I see 
 these wondrous caves and I am sure they 
 will look better at sunset. I should like to 
 hear your voice first." 
 
 She sang to him, and they lingered yet an 
 hour before starting for the grotto. Both 
 seemed to have an instinctive feeling that this 
 was in some manner a farewell to their past 
 life together ; everything they said was tinged 
 with the tone we adopt on the " last day." 
 They could neither of them have framed this 
 presentiment into language ; but it existed : 
 and never had the presence of both possessed 
 for the other so deep a charm before. 
 
 At length they rose, and slowly pursued 
 their way. The caves were on the other side 
 of the creek, but at no great distance from 
 the spot where they had dined ; and, after 
 traversing one or two short subterranean 
 passages among the rocks, they again emerg- 
 ed upon the sand opposite the entrance to 
 the principal grotto of Morgane, where they 
 stopped for a few minutes to remark the sin- 
 gular character of the cliffs among which it 
 lay, before preparing to enter. Huge red 
 pyramids shot up against the pale sky on one 
 side ; on the left, slate-colored reefs of gran- 
 ite, piled one upon another, overhung the sea 
 in giddy, aerial galleries; while in many 
 parts the rocks were hollowed out by the 
 action of the waves into gigantic arc-ados, 
 now filled with swarms of grey cm-lews, whose 
 incessant cries might have told to more ex- 
 perienced hearers that a storm was not far 
 off. 
 
 The entrance to the grotto was so low that 
 they were forced to walk'for some yards in a 
 stooping pn>tiire, jind then found themselves 
 in such complete, darkness as to be unable 
 for several minutes to distinguish any object 
 around them. Gradually, however, the 
 obscurity seemed to diminish, and a faint 
 bluish ray Mule through the low aperture 
 they had entered, along the shining walls 
 anil sar-ly floor of the cave, until, as the eye 
 at last became accustomed to this half-light, 
 
 the whole grotto rose before them like some, 
 scene in a child's fairy book. 
 
 The roof was about forty feet in height 
 and was completely covered with a glittering 
 vitrification, extending down the sides to 
 the base. Long veins of the deepest red and 
 pale green marbled the dome, and gave a 
 softer beauty to the savage grandeur of this 
 natural palace. In the middle stood one 
 huge rock of rose-colored granite, rendered 
 smooth as marble by the constant washing of 
 the waves at high water, and at the extreme 
 farther end was a bank of bright-colored 
 sand. 
 
 Some of this sand Marguerite collected for 
 Manon, who thought it a great ornament to 
 the flower-pots in her windows, and after- 
 wards she began picking up shells of which 
 a variety in every shade of color lay profusely 
 on the ground while Philip stood watching 
 the singular beauty of the scene, and thinking 
 how well Marguerite might have personated 
 Undine, in her little white dress, and with her 
 bright hair falling round her shoulders. Again 
 they forgot the time, until a sudden crimson 
 ray fell upon the green rock, just above 
 Marguerite's head, and made Philip exclaim 
 that there must be some opening on this sjde 
 of the cave, and that it was already sunset. 
 
 " And time for us to be going." added 
 Marguerite. " We will just explore this 
 new entrance, and then return at once." 
 
 Directed by the streak of sunshine, they 
 were not long in finding another egress, and, 
 after a little climbing, again emerged into 
 the open air. The altered appearance of the 
 sky struck both of them at once. Had they 
 noticed more closely, they would have ob- 
 served, even before entering the caves, that 
 a few light mists had arisen over the western 
 horizon. Now the entire sky was covered 
 with masses of ominous-looking cloud, edged 
 with gold, and of a deep, inky purple, that 
 foreboded coining tempest. The sun shone 
 with a lurid crimson from out the dark bank 
 into which he was just sinking; the air was 
 oppressively heavy; the sea still quiet. 
 
 44 The storm is coming," said .Marguerite. 
 " Blaisot was right, after all." 
 
 44 Yes," returned Philip. " I scarcely 
 think we shall have time to reach his hut 
 again before it begins. See, there are a few 
 drops already ; we had better remain under 
 shelter of the rocks until it is over; it will 
 probably, not last long." 
 
 Philip had not understood the gabarier's 
 warning; and, observing the water still 
 comparatively low, and far away upon tho 
 sands, he thought only of'shelter for Margin-rite 
 during the storm, and did not. calculate about 
 the return of the tide. He was im.iware of 
 the treacherous circles in which it n 
 
 bOFMi often leaving a space of s.>mu 
 miles apparently .still free, while its victims 
 have, in fact, Men surrounded. S.> they 
 merely withdrew a few step-, under the. over- 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 89 
 
 hanging rocks, and watched the progress of 
 the storm. 
 
 "Are you frightened, Marguerite?" he 
 asked, for she looked pale. 
 
 " No, I am with you ; I was thinking of 
 my father." 
 
 " He will believe us safe at the boatman's 
 cabin by this time. He will not know how 
 we forgot the hour, like children, Mar- 
 guerite." 
 
 She tried to smile ; then drew closer to 
 his side, and said, " But I know he will be 
 anxious for me ; and it will hurt him in his 
 weak, nervous state. How I wish we had 
 not lingered ! " 
 
 The sun had now completely disappeared 
 beneath the heavy ridges of cloud ; and, as 
 Marguerite finished speaking, a sudden flash 
 of lightning almost blinded them. It was 
 closely followed by a long peal of thunder, 
 which echoed and reverberated through the 
 hollow of the rocks, until another and a 
 louder peal succeeded. Those who have not 
 actually witnessed it, can form no conception 
 of the unearthly character of a storm in such 
 a position as that in which they were now 
 placed. The echoes of thunder among high 
 mountains are sublime and grand ; but, given 
 back by these rocks and caverns, they have 
 a weird, terrific sound, like voices from 
 chained demons in the earth, and can scarce- 
 ly be heard without an unacknowledged 
 dread of the supernatural. Soon the light- 
 ning was playing around them in all direc- 
 tions the rain poured down in torrents 
 and, the wind having suddenly arisen, the 
 distant waves were seen rising angrily above 
 the sands. 
 
 Earnscliffe had still no idea of their peril- 
 ous position ; he merely thought that, should 
 it come to the worst, and the storm had not 
 abated as the tide rose, they would have to 
 walk through the drenching* rain to the gab- 
 arier's hut. He knew not that every lost 
 moment was bringing them nearer to inevit- 
 able destruction. 
 
 " Lean on me, dear Marguerite ; you are 
 terrified." 
 
 " No ! Mr. Earnscliffe ; I see God every- 
 where around me; I am not terrified but 
 for my father." 
 
 ** The storm may not be so violent at Ker- 
 saint; indeed, I think it is abating slightly, 
 even now the rain is already not so heavy." 
 
 " But the waves are higher." 
 
 "They will not harm us. As soon as the 
 rain is over, we will get on before the tide 
 rises higher." 
 
 "The tide!" repeated Margueiite. "Is 
 the tide rising ? " 
 
 " I should think it was half way in ; see, 
 it has surrounded yonder black rock, which 
 seemed a mile from the sea when we first 
 looked out. But we have plenty of time." 
 
 " We have not!" cried Marguerite, seiz- 
 ing his hand, while her own grew cold and 
 damp with sudden terror. " The gabarier 
 
 told me not to remain in the grotto one mo- 
 ment after the tide had turned, and it is al- 
 ready half way in." 
 
 " Child, you should have told me sooner, 11 
 was Philip's calm reply. " God grant it be 
 not yet too late ! " 
 
 He passed his arm round her slight form, 
 and almost carried her back through the nar- 
 row opening of the rock a few more sec- 
 onds, and they had crossed the grotto. Then 
 he placed her against the centre rock, and 
 bade her wait for a minute, while he looked 
 out at the weather. 
 
 Earnscliffe had a stout heart, but it quail- 
 ed before the sight which awaited him. The 
 water was nearly at the mouth of the cave, 
 and already separated them from the main- 
 land by a broad and increasing channel. 
 Quickly it came on ; each terrific wave bear- 
 ing aloft a crest of whitened foam, and 
 bringing death for them. They were waves 
 no swimmer could have stemmed for many 
 minutes, even had he been unburthened, and 
 Earnscliffe knew that for their rescue his own 
 powers were vain. Unless escape on the 
 other side were possible, certain death was 
 before them. 
 
 He returned into the grotto whose shin- 
 ing roof and spangled floor might so soon be 
 their tomb and found his companion pale, 
 but perfectly silent. One glance at his face 
 told her all. 
 
 "We are surrounded!" she cried. "I 
 hear the waves already." 
 
 " We are surrounded, Marguerite," he 
 answered; "but our longest chance of life 
 is at the point we have quitted. The sea 
 will cover the sand at our feet in a few min- 
 utes." 
 
 He took her in his arms she lay cold and 
 still and carried her quickly back to the 
 distant opening, which was many feet higher 
 than the floor of the grotto ; and there, on 
 the rock where they had watched the sunset, 
 he seated himself; Marguerite still clinging 
 to him, and her long hair falling round his 
 neck. 
 
 Escape in this direction he had seen at a 
 glance was hopeless. The high, bare rocks, 
 which overhung the shore, were perpendic- 
 ular, even could they have reached them; 
 but a current through one of the many tun- 
 nels at the back of the principal cavern had 
 already cut off retreat upon this side also ; 
 and the smooth granite which rose immedi- 
 ately behind them afforded not even clinging 
 aold for the sea-weed which clothed the 
 more distant rocks. Death was approaching 
 ;hem ; not slowly, but with each onward 
 surge of the waves with every fresh gust 
 of the tempest. In another half hour they 
 must pass through a darker sea than the one 
 jefore them ; in another half hour they 
 would be in eternity ! 
 
 They remained silent. Marguerite had 
 gathered from Earnscliffe's face the dread 
 extent of their danger ; no sound, however, 
 
90 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 escaped her lips she was only deadly pale. 
 But the full color of life was on Philip's 
 cheek. It was a moment in which human 
 passion would be supposed to die before the 
 might of infinity around, and the certain ap- 
 proach of destruction ; when the soul, para- 
 lysed to every other emotion, would be con- 
 centrated upon its own fate alone, and for- 
 get the tumult of earthly desire which it had 
 experienced a short hour or two before. But 
 with Earnscliffe it was not so. Life held no 
 object for him so dear as the one to whom 
 he was to be united in death ; and he felt, 
 with a strange rapture, that he might at 
 length hold her to his heart, and disclose his 
 passion to her without sin. He felt himself 
 already freed from the chain of his marriage ; 
 and that, for the half-hour of time which yet 
 remained, the only woman he had ever loved 
 was his. His in a more perfect possession 
 than life could have bestowed his in her 
 latest breath in her death agony. He fold- 
 ed her closer still to his bosom, as though al- 
 ready preparing for the coming struggle, 
 when the waves should essay to part them ; 
 he pressed his lips upon her lips ; he poured 
 forth such words of .passionate love as no 
 moment in real living life could have wrung 
 from him ; he thanked Heaven he might die 
 with her. 
 
 ** Speak to me, beloved, one word; tell 
 me, now when God alone can hear, that if I 
 had been free would you have loved me ? " 
 
 Even at that moment of approaching death 
 her face flushed more brightly than on the 
 May morning when, full of life, he had seen 
 her among the flowers. 
 
 " Oh, Philip ! I have loved you. I have 
 thought of' nothing but you since I have 
 known you, and I am glad to die with you 
 except for my father," she added. 
 
 He did not hear her last words, he only 
 heard that she loved him, that she was glad 
 
 to be his in death ; and his brain turned. 
 ***** 
 
 The storm raged on, the wind moaned 
 wildly around them, and the thunder rolled 
 unceasingly along the cavern. But the con- 
 flict of human passion in EarnscliflVs bosom 
 was fiercer. With his cheek bent down to 
 hers, and his arms clasped round her as 
 though to still the uneven beatings of her 
 heart, he heard every whisper from her lips 
 among all the tumultuous roar of the hurri- 
 cane, felt every trembling breath she drew, 
 and counted them greedily, for he knew 
 their number was measured. 
 
 The waves drew on. Already he felt 
 their spray upon his forehead. But he only 
 pressed her more closely, and never rai>ed 
 his eyes from her face; when suddenly tin 1 
 throbbing <>\' ICaigttento'l he:irf seemed to 
 cease; a livid color gained round her lips, 
 and her hands relaxed in their hold upon his 
 she had fainted, 'f'ln- mingled eonlliet of 
 emotions had ln-i-n more tlian she could 
 bear; she lay cold Uld MMMMM in his arms. 
 
 A sudden revulsion came over Earnscliffe. 
 As he looked into her pure marble face, 
 passion left him, and only the nobler part of 
 love remained. He did not even press his 
 lips again upon those helpless onws, which so 
 lately were all resigned to his ; he parted 
 back the hair from her forehead softly, as a 
 mother might have done for her dying child , 
 and then rising to his feet, he clasped her *o 
 his side, and in that awful moment prayed 
 God to have mercy upon them both ! 
 
 Mercy upon their souls only, the time was 
 past for auffht else. The next wave washed 
 to EarnsclifiVs feet; the next made him 
 stagger slightly; the next, he was already 
 breast-high. He retreated to the very high- 
 est attainable point ; and there the waters 
 from the interior of the cave were fast 
 whitening through the opening. Another 
 minute, and they and the sea without would 
 be one ! 
 
 Buffeted upon every side, he yet held his 
 senseless burden aloft, and strove to keep 
 her from destruction to the las ; but in vain. 
 Already Marguerite's long hair was floating 
 on the water, and Earnscliffe, carried com- 
 pletely off his feet, was clinging with one 
 hand to the only mass of sea-weed which 
 grew upon the rock above them the last 
 frail stay which kept them from eternity 
 when, amidst the roar of the waves, a long, 
 shrill cry fell upon his ear. 
 
 It might be only the shriek of a curlew 
 that had lost her shelter ; but to Earnscliffe 
 the sound appeared that of a human voice, 
 and it quickened his desperate hold upon the 
 sea-weed, whose slimy, treacherous substance 
 was already gliding from his hand. A wave 
 higher and stronger than those which had 
 preceded, broke over them at this moment, 
 beating Philip against the rock with a force 
 that almost stunned him, and causing him 
 half to relax his hold upon Marguerite. 
 But still, with the undying instinct of .ell- 
 preservation, his other hand again sought the 
 rock, and attempted to clutch at its surface. 
 This time he failed. Nothing but the 
 smooth, polished granite met his grasp; and 
 another wave like the last must inevitably 
 have sealed their doom, when again tin- cry 
 arose, this time distinct and near; and 
 through the blinding spray, and the dimness 
 of his own bewildered brain, Karnsdilfo 
 descried, close beside them, a boat contain- 
 ing human figures. 
 
 His whole energy returned at tlu sight. 
 Life, dear life, wtt WON him. Stil! hold- 
 iii'_ r Marguerite to his side, with liis rijjht 
 arm he battled against the waxes as none hut 
 a piactisrd swimmer could ha\e done, Mriv- 
 iti'j to keep above water until the rescue 
 reached them. Ami. though apparently 
 ii hand, it was yet some time before 
 the boat could near the rock, the height and 
 power of the \va\e< bring Mich M to place 
 her almost lieyond the control of her crew ; and 
 once when they were within an oar'.-> length of 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 91 
 
 Philip, and the cry of triumph had broken 
 from the lips of the gallant boatman, a wild 
 eddy again carried them back many feet 
 from the fast-sinking forms they had risked 
 their own lives to save. But they had stout 
 hearts and strong arms, these Breton gaba- 
 riers, and they gained the struggle ! Half- 
 senseless, bruised, fainting, Earnscliffe at 
 length felt that a powerful arm had relieved 
 him of his still inanimate burden, and in 
 another second he lay himself in the bottom 
 of the boat. 
 
 He knew not how long he remained insen- 
 sible. When he returned to consciousness 
 he found that they were still at sea ; and for 
 some moments the gigantic waves by which 
 they were surrounded, the lightning-flashes 
 across the lurid sky, and the harsh features 
 of the boatmen, seemed to him only the rec- 
 ollections of some fearful dream, from which 
 he was awakening. But he then became 
 conscious of a soft hand clasped upon his 
 own, of a pale, sweet face bending down and 
 gazing into his with breathless anxiety, and 
 all the past returned to his recollection. 
 
 Marguerite had quickly recovered from 
 her swoon ; and Earnscliffe had so well pro- 
 tected her, by placing himself between her 
 and the rock, that she was scarcely injured, 
 although numbed and faint from cold. 
 When, from the hurried words of the gaba- 
 rier, she learned how they had been rescued 
 in the very moment of certain destruction, 
 her first thought was of her father, and a 
 fervent thanksgiving to Heaven for her own 
 safety. The second was of Earnscliffe. 
 
 Amidst the strange chaos of memory, 
 warm, passionate words re-echoed in her 
 heart words spoken by his lips and she 
 turned round timidly, expecting still to find 
 him at her side. 
 
 He was there, extended lifeless along the 
 bottom of the boat, his hair lying in dark, 
 tangled masses upon his forehead, his lips 
 apart and livid. Marguerite sank by him in 
 a moment, and unmindful of the storm which 
 raged around them unmindful of the pres- 
 ence of the boatmen, she hung over Philip, 
 chafing his hands with her own, and looking 
 down into his face with an agony such as her 
 life had never known before. 
 
 She loved him she believed him dead ; 
 what was now her own safety to Marguerite ? 
 What would it have mattered to her if the 
 eyes of the whole world had been upon 
 them? 
 
 It was then that he returned to conscious- 
 ness, and through long after-years of sepa- 
 ration, Marguerite never forgot the rapture 
 of that moment, when the first deep breath 
 of life escaped his lips ! 
 
 The night drew on apace. By the time 
 they reached the shore they could scarcely 
 See an object around them ; and, although 
 the storm had somewhat abated, it was a 
 long and toilsome ascent to the hut of the 
 gabarier. For, drenched and numbed with 
 
 cold, Marguerite's limbs refused to aid her; 
 and the path was a difficult one for even 
 those stout men accustomed to live among 
 the rocks, when it had thus to be surmount- 
 ed in perfect darkness, with the burden of 
 her form in their arms. And Earnscliffe, 
 although his strong frame had already par- 
 tially recovered from the shock it had sus- 
 tained, was yet weak and unsteady, and re- 
 quired assistance in all the more perilous 
 turnings of the path. 
 
 A bright peat-fire was ready burning in 
 the gabarier's hut. When the storm was 
 first "threatening, and he could see from his 
 look-out among the crags that the stranger 
 and Marguerite were yet lingering in the 
 caves, he had dispatched Moser to recall 
 them ; but the child, frightened at the sounds 
 of thunder, or from mere wilfulness, had re- 
 turned and hidden himself outside the hut, 
 not daring to tell his father that he had dis- 
 obeyed him. Nearly two hours afterwards 
 one of his brothers had discovered him 
 there; and the gabarier's rage was fearful 
 when the boy acknowledged that he had nev- 
 er reached the young lady and the English- 
 man. He swore that, as their lives had 
 been sacrificed through his own son, his 
 should be also risked in attempting to save 
 them ; and dashed down the rocks towards 
 the creek where his boat was moored, with 
 an oath, and a set look upon his face which 
 made his wife's heart tremble. Her own 
 brother, a neighboring fisherman, happened 
 to be in the cabin at the time, and she beg- 
 ged him so piteously to follow her husband 
 and help, that he consented to do so, al- 
 though he, too, had a wife and children de- 
 pendent for their existence upon him. 
 
 As night drew on, and the storm contin- 
 ued, and still they returned not, the sus- 
 pense of Blaisot's wife became agony. She 
 looked on her five sleeping children, and 
 knew that, if their father perished, they 
 would cry for bread on the morrow, and in 
 her heart she could almost have cursed the 
 stranger, whose idle curiosity had been the 
 cause of her husband's peril. But she loved 
 Marguerite, who had used to bring fruit and 
 flowers to a little lame child she had lost, 
 the dearest of her flock; and when she 
 thought of that, and of her kind, familiar 
 ways with them all, she felt Blaisot had only 
 acted rightly. She lit a large peat-fire, to 
 be in readiness for them, should they return, 
 and strove to pray and hope for the best. 
 But every few minutes she would creep from 
 the cabin-door, and make her way through 
 the blinding wind and mist to the edge of 
 the precipice, to listen, or gaze down the 
 giddy path, lit up by the fitful gleams of 
 lightning. At length a long, shrill whistle, 
 through one of the lulls in the storm, made 
 her heart beat wildly ; it was renewed, and 
 she recognised Blaisot's whistle. She flew 
 back to the hut, falling over the children in 
 her happiness 5 and by the time the party 
 
92 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 arrived, the fire was blazing cheerily on the 
 hearth, and the few woolen clothes and blan- 
 kets possessed by the fisherman's family 
 were hanging, warm and dry for their use. 
 
 There was a rude out-house belonging to 
 the cabin, and here Earnseliffe and the two 
 men remained, while Blaisot's wife removed 
 Marguerite's dripping clothes, and wrapped 
 her up warmly in their own woolen garments, 
 with many a kind word of rejoicing at her 
 safety, and apology for the coarseness of the 
 things that the " little queen " condescended 
 to put on. 
 
 She formed a strange picture when Earns- 
 eliffe re-entered ; her delicate figure swathed 
 in this uncouth gear, seated close to the 
 flickering fire, and her long, wet hair hang- 
 ing to the ground over her shoulders. Her 
 first thought was for him. 
 
 " You must require warmth and rest, 
 too!" she cried. "Let Blasiot take me 
 back to Kersaint ; and when I am gone, you 
 can make yourself comfortable here for 'the 
 night. 11 
 
 "To Kersaint!" replied Philip. "It is 
 impossible for you to think of leaving shel- 
 ter again to-night. I will make my way on 
 at once, and tell your father that you are 
 safe." 
 
 Marguerite shook her head. " He will 
 believe nothing until he sees me," she said. 
 " I cannot delay another minute while he is 
 in suspense." And turning to Blaisot, she 
 addressed him in Breton. At first he was 
 irresolute in his replies ; but Marguerite im- 
 plored with such earnestness that the wife 
 came quickly over to her side. She thought 
 of her own agony if one of their hardy imps 
 was missing among the rocks, and felt for 
 the poor invalid father. So Blaisot at length 
 consented to start for Kersaint at once. 
 
 " But I am afraid I cannot walk," said 
 Marguerite. 
 
 " 1 should think not," returned the gaba- 
 rier. "Wife, bring my two strongest nets." 
 
 They were brought, and soon formed into a 
 kind of litter, upon which Marguerite was 
 placed the two men preparing to carry her 
 between them. Then she turned to Earns- 
 cliffc, but with downcast eyes her manner 
 had quite altered to him now and bade him 
 good-night. 
 
 " I am coming with you," he answered. 
 " I am already warm, and nearly dry, and 
 shall be better for walking." 
 
 She did not attempt to argue with him ; 
 and after bidding the, fisher's wife a kind fare- 
 well, they again set out. The storm was 
 now completely over ; only an occasional 
 cloud (lilted across tin- deep blue above, and 
 the Stars were la^t. appearing. Already the 
 angry roar of the waves was softening into 
 their usual pleasant voice; already tin- \vet 
 herbage .vent a sweet fragrance round, and 
 the m;Jit in-eds were skimming through the 
 air. For in so short a time can Nature for- 
 get the wildest of her storms, and return to 
 
 her own placid smile ; while one half-hour of 
 the conflict of human passion leaves traces 
 on the heart of a man that a lifetime is un- 
 able to efface. 
 
 They proceeded in silence, Earnseliffe 
 lingering somewhat behind the others, and 
 striving to bring into clearer shape the vis- 
 ions which still thronged bewilderingly through 
 his brain. At first the recollection of the 
 storm of the peril the. nearne'ss to eterni- 
 ty of the rescue of his own life was dom- 
 inant. The bravest man who ever lived 
 must feel the horror of sudden destruction 
 when he has escaped it, and then recoils from 
 Death as he had never done when standing 
 with him face to face. And Earnseliffe 
 thanked God that had not called him, 
 amidst the unatoned sins of his youth, into 
 His awful presence ! But soon other thoughts 
 arose. The passion which he had strength- 
 ened in the moment of coming death, was 
 only hushed for a short space now ; and 
 Earnseliffe reflected long and bitterly upon 
 all into which that day had betrayed him. 
 He had avowed his marriage, and after- 
 wards his love his love for Marguerite, a 
 poor, innocent child who had been commit- 
 ted to his care ; he had spoken words to her 
 that no woman's heart could ever forget ; he 
 had strained her to his breast in the strong 
 embrace of death ; and, more than all, he 
 had won from her own lips the secret of her 
 love for him and a cold shadow fell across 
 Earnseliffe at these thoughts. He had tast- 
 ed of that fruit whose flavor is like no other ; 
 he had just entered into that golden land 
 which had been the longing desire of his 
 life ; and now like a mother who gazes up- 
 on the face of the first-born son she had so 
 yearned for, but to see him die "the hope 
 had become darkness at its moment of con- 
 summation. Marguerite was lost to him for 
 ever ! 
 
 The future lay before him in its cold, dull 
 reality. To-morrow he should disclose to 
 her father both his marriage and his madness 
 in speaking to her of love when a certain 
 death seemed before them for, as a man of 
 honor, he could not shrink from this: Mr. 
 St. John must know exactly to what extent 
 his child was compromised ; another day and 
 he would have left Kersaint ; another, and 
 Marguerite would be among the things of the 
 past; another, and he would return to his 
 old life, his old pleasures, his old associates, 
 and be airain as he was before he knew her; 
 and so on for life. His thankfulness for his 
 safety was darkened. In the despairing 
 thought that lie must lose lur, he forgot all 
 the other prospects that life still held forth 
 for him; he forgot his unfitness for death : 
 and, with the impatience under disappoint- 
 ment which from his boyhood had character- 
 ised him. he clenched his hands together as 
 lie walked, au<l muttered, " 'Would ( iod that 
 I had <lie<l wit h her ! " 
 
 And still the sky grew brighter, stars more 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 clear, the freshened grass more sweet ; and 
 Nature seemed to mock his real living an- 
 guish with the calmness of her eternally-reviv- 
 ing and unconscious beauty. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 IT had been a fearful evening for Mr. St. 
 John. Although ignorant of the full peril 
 in which his child was placed, and striving to 
 hope that she and Philip were under shelter 
 at the gabarier's hut, his parental love had 
 yet conjured up ceaseless visions of evil 
 which no reason.ng could dispel; and as the 
 night wore on, and still he received no tidings 
 oft'Iarguerite, the suspense grew almost be- 
 yond endurance. Powerless to act, or even 
 to learn the worst, the poor invalid could 
 only place himself by the window, watching 
 the progress of the storm, and praying that 
 each burst of thunder might be the last, 
 while his usually pale cheek flushed deeper 
 and deeper in the fever of anxiety, and his 
 clasped hands became cold and clammy as 
 death. 
 
 Manon would fain have consoled him, but 
 her apprehensions were to the full as dark 
 as his own; when she attempted to speak, 
 her voice was thick and choked, and she sat 
 somewhat apart from her master, holding her 
 crucifix, and praying to all the saints for 
 Marguerite's safety. At length, unable, 
 like Mr. St. John, to bear the uncertainty in 
 quiet anguish, she bethought herself of mak- 
 ing preparations for them wlien they should 
 return, lit fires in the bed-rooms, heated 
 water, and even laid out supper in readiness. 
 The action took her from her own thoughts, 
 and she became more hopeful over her em- 
 ployment. But still the father remained in 
 his old place, his face turned towards the 
 darkness without, and his ear strained to de- 
 tect the earliest sound of his child's arrival. 
 
 Suddenly Bello, who throughout the eve- 
 ning had been wandering about the room, 
 occasionally licking his master's hand, and 
 looking up in his face in token of his mute 
 sympathy, gave one of his low, joyous 
 barks. 
 
 " She is here!" exclaimed Manon, rush- 
 ing to the door. " Bello would not bark so 
 for a stranger." 
 
 Mr. St John rose to his feet, but he could 
 only walk half across the room the yet un- 
 certain happiness, the longing to behold her 
 safe, seemed to overpower him, and render 
 his limbs powerless. What if it should not 
 be Marguerite ? what if it should be some 
 messenger with dread tidings of his child ? 
 In another moment, however, he heard her 
 voice calling, " Where is he ? where is he? 
 Then came the well-known sound of her 
 
 light footsteps she was in the room and 
 he held her in his arms. 
 
 Philip held aloof during that rapturous 
 monrent of meeting, and the boatman, who 
 had followed to the door of the library to 
 speak to Mr. St. John, drew his hard hand 
 across his eyes as he watched them, and 
 thought that he was well rewarded for peril- 
 ling his own life. It was some time before 
 either spoke ; then Marguerite, in a few hin*- 
 ried words, told her father how they had been 
 surrounded by the tide, how Mr.. Earnseliffe 
 had preserved her until his own strength fail- 
 ed, and how the gabarier had finally succor- 
 ed them. 
 
 " Where is he?" said Mr. St. John, for 
 the first time remembering anything but her. 
 " Let me thank Mr. Earnscliffe for what he 
 has done." 
 
 Philip advanced, his heart reproaching him 
 as he received the thanks of Marguerite's 
 father, and felt the earnest pressure of his 
 hand. Would he press his hand to-morrow ? 
 
 "But you are still in your wet things," 
 continued Mr. St. John; "Manon must 
 take you at once to your room, where you 
 will find a fire, and dry clothes. You, my 
 child, seem better provided for. How did 
 you come by this strange apparel ? " 
 
 Marguerite told him of their reception by 
 Blaisot's wife ; and then Mr. St. John turned 
 to the gabarier, and, shaking his rough hand, 
 thanked him warmly for his services. Nei- 
 ther of the boatmen, however, would receive 
 reward from Marguerite's father. It was 
 part of their Breton character not to be paid 
 for what they had done by a friend. But 
 this scruple did not extend to the stranger, 
 and they left the house each enriched with a 
 present from Earnscliffe that would make 
 their households wealthy for the remainder 
 of the year. 
 
 Manon insisted upon carrying off her 
 young lady at once to bed ; Mr. St. John 
 was so worn out by the excitement and sus- 
 pense that he had experienced that he soon 
 retired also ; and Earnscliffe felt relieved 
 that, for this evening at least, there was no 
 room for explanation. Marguerite's manner 
 with him was so altered in the last few hours, 
 that he felt it would be impossible for her 
 father to see them together without remark- 
 ing it. She was constrained ; almost distant ; 
 but her cheeks flushed, and her eyes fell to 
 the ground if they met his the very sound 
 of his voice made her change color. And 
 Earnscliffe felt that the scene among the 
 caves, and the subsequent terror for his life, 
 had deepened all her former love into pas- 
 sion dawning, indistinct as yet, but which 
 would grow with every hour of further in- 
 tercourse. Certainly she knew he was mar- 
 ried, but what was that to her so ignorant 
 of the world and its opinions ? how frail a 
 barrier to stay in its course the master pas- 
 sion of our nature ! And Mr. St. John would 
 
94 
 
 PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 see this, and from EarnscliftVs lips must 
 learn that ho was married ; that, as a married 
 man, lie had declared his love, and, far worse, 
 won the guileless heart of his child ! He 
 took a hasty supper alone, and then retired 
 to rest, but he could not sleep for hours. 
 Worn out though he was by bodily fatigue, 
 the emotions of the mind overcame all incli- 
 nation for sleep ; and he dreaded the morrow 
 and the disclosures it might bring, more than 
 he had done the waves which had threatened 
 him with instant death. In persons of his 
 temperament, the moral is seldom equal to 
 the physical courage ; and the idea of forfeit- 
 ing forever the good opinion of Mr. St. John 
 was a pa*n to Earnscliffe of which those who 
 knew him as a mere man of the world could 
 not have conceived the extent it even out- 
 balanced, for a time, his grief for the ap- 
 proaching parting with Marguerite which he 
 felt was inevitable. 
 
 At length, towards morning, he fell into an 
 uneasy sleep, from which he awoke with a 
 start when the early sunlight was streaming 
 through the window. He had been dream- 
 ing over again the perils of the past day 
 the booming*thunders, the eddying waters; 
 and it seemed to him that, while he escaped 
 himself, he had left Marguerite to perish ; 
 and that Mr. St. John, pale and ghastly, now 
 stood beside his bed, demanding his child, 
 and saying, in a hollow tone, "You have 
 lost her lost her body and soul ! " 
 
 The cold sweat stood upon his forehead 
 when be awoke, and he rose at once, glad to 
 exchange the dreams of the night for the day 
 realities, painful though they might be. He 
 opened the window, and the sweet air blew 
 softly into the room. Everything out of doors 
 was radiant in dew and sunshine, the sea 
 once more unrippled ; and Philip was re- 
 minded of that first morning after his arrival 
 at Kcrsaint, when he had listened to Mar- 
 guerite's young voice under his window. 
 But now the tender green had become 
 abounding verdure, and the scarcely open 
 buds were full and gorgeous flowers". Like 
 the progress of their own love, the changing, 
 uncertain spring had deepened into the glow- 
 ing maturity of summer. After IK- had dress- 
 ed, he remained long standing at the open 
 window, and in deep thought, when sudden- 
 ly a fluttering knock came at the bedroom 
 door. Somewhat startled, he went to open 
 it, and saw Marguerite, in a white morning 
 wrapper, and her face extremely pale. lie 
 knew that her lather was worse. 
 
 ' He is very ill, 11 she said, with trembling 
 lips. " He has had a violent fit of cough- 
 ing, and broken a blood-vessel. What am 1 
 todoP" 
 
 Philip followed her without speaking a 
 word, and at. the door of Mr. St..John'> room 
 lliev were met l,y Million. Her feature- had 
 an awe-stni<-i, \|ire.->i..ii. but still she had 
 not lost her presence of mind. 
 
 you .start immediately for N f 
 
 monsieur," she whispered to Philip, "and 
 inquire for Dr. Thibault? Bruno is not 
 here, or I should have sent him at once. 
 And make the doctor return with you there 
 is not a moment to lose." 
 
 " When was he taken ill ? " 
 
 " Half an hour ago the bell leading into 
 my room was rung suddenly, and on coming 
 to my master, I found him speechless, and 
 his pillows deluged with blood. It was 
 the excitement of yesterday." 
 
 Philip glanced through the open door, and 
 saw Mr. St. John, livid and exhausted, sup- 
 ported upon pillows, with his eyes closed ; 
 and Marguerite, who was again at his side, 
 wiping the dark streaks tenderly from his 
 lips, her face perfectly white, and her large 
 eyes dilated with terror. He started, almost 
 with a feeling of guilt, at the sight ; and, 
 after some more minute directions from 
 Manon, stole quietly down-stairs, and was 
 
 soon in the open air on his way to N . 
 
 He forgot the weakness of his own still ex- 
 hausted frame and stiffened limbs in his self- 
 accusing wish to be of service to the man 
 whom he thought that he had injured ; and 
 in a wonderful short time had reached the 
 town and found out Dr. Thibault's house. 
 
 The doctor had attended Mr. St. John 
 during the preceding autumn, and he listened 
 to Philip's account of the present seizure 
 with an expression of grave concern, then he 
 shook his head. 
 
 " Surely you do not mean that there is no 
 hope? " Philip exclaimed, hastily. 
 
 " I cannot, of course, pronounce till I 
 have seen him ; but I have little hopes my- 
 self. He is too feeble to bear up against 
 any loss of blood ; and, from your account, 
 one of the larger vessels must be ruptured. 
 I have long known that any sudden emotion 
 might be fatal to him in his precarious stale. 1 ' 
 
 The doctor prepared some medicines, and 
 started at once on his pony for Kersaiut, 
 leaving Philip to follow on foot. He ran the 
 greater part of the distance ; and, when he 
 reached the manoir, Thibault, was still in the 
 sick room, and Marguerite too agonised for 
 tears was crouching outside her father's 
 door, waiting to hear his verdict as he came 
 out. 
 
 She looked up at Philip when she heard 
 his step, but her expression did not change. 
 He took her hand, and the cold, relaxed lin- 
 gers lay lifeless in his own. This new, great 
 sorrow had swallowed up everv other feeling, 
 and now that her father was' in danger, he 
 seemed again as entirely her whole world as 
 in the time bed. re she e\er knew Philip 
 KarnselifVe. The minute.* dragged on like 
 hours while they waited thus. At length 
 then- was a subdued movement in the sick 
 chamber, and then the doctor noiselessly 
 opened the door ami came out. In his sol- 
 emn face Karnscliffc read all Mr. St. .John 
 wa> 'lying. 
 
 M-rite sjirang to her feet, and 
 
PHILIP EAKN T SCLIFFE. 
 
 95 
 
 the doctor's hands, but she. could not speak ; 
 something in his expression made the words 
 choke wildly in her throat. 
 
 "Tell ine," she tried to articulate " tell 
 me " 
 
 "My child!" said Ttrbault, kindly (he, 
 too, had a little daughter), " God is good, 
 arid you must pray to him." 
 
 She knew his meaning, but strove not to 
 believe it. " What must I do? " she cried, 
 her speech returning in her terror " what 
 must I do to save him? tell me, doctor, 
 and I will bless you, and pray for you all 
 my life. Oh, save him, save him ! " 
 
 His eyes softened ! but he was a plain 
 countryman, and he never adopted the cruel 
 system of saying " Hope," when there is no 
 hope. "My child," he answered, turning 
 away his face, " your father must be kept 
 perfectly quiet, the slightest agitation might 
 terminate his life at once. If you remain 
 with him, you must command your own feel- 
 ings, and not permit him to speak ; give him 
 every two hours a spoonfal of the medicine 
 I have left, and keep his chamber as cool as 
 possible. I will return in the afternoon to 
 see how he is going on." 
 
 She asked no more questions. She had 
 now something to do for her father, to watch 
 over him, to restrain her own sorrow ; and, 
 without a word, she turned away, and re-en- 
 tered the room. 
 
 "Can I speak to you monsieur?" said 
 Thibault, when she was gone. 
 
 Philip led the way down-stairs, and they 
 entered the library, whose air of cheerful 
 home comfort seemed like a mockery now. 
 The doctor closed the door softly, seated 
 himself in Mr. St. John's easy chair, and 
 took a pinch of snuff. He was a good and 
 kind-hearted man naturally ; but he thought 
 it part of his professional duty to keep up a 
 dignified calmness which he did not feel on 
 these occasions. 
 
 " Is he dying? " said Philip, abruptly. 
 
 "Monsieur!" returned the doctor, start- 
 led by his tone, and the strange look in his 
 face. 
 
 He repeated the question. Thibault 
 paused. 
 
 " Well," he resumed, slowly, ",I may as 
 well tell you the truth at once. My patient 
 is in the last stage of exhaustion ; indeed, I 
 may say, dying. His frame is already debil- 
 itated, and he has broken one of the largest 
 vessels of the lungs. All the art in Europe 
 could not save him." 
 
 "Will he last long?" 
 
 "That is uncertain: I really could not 
 give an exact opinion. These things vary so 
 much. When the blood proceeds from one 
 of the greater arteries, you see, the chances 
 are " 
 
 But Philip rose, and paced impatiently up 
 and down the room, and the doctor wa's si- 
 lenced in his intended disquisition. 
 
 " What is to become of her? " broke 
 
 from Earnscliflfe at last ; and, as though 
 speaking to himself. " Who is to take her ? " 
 
 All the doctor's silly pomposity vanished 
 in a moment. 
 
 " Ah, monsieur!" he cried, " it is I who 
 was going to ask the question. They have 
 no friends here, and all the French relations 
 of the mother's side, I am told, are dead. 
 But as you are a friend, and a compatriot, 
 I thought you would know what relations 
 they had in England ; or perhaps monsieur 
 himself is connected with the family? " 
 
 Philip did not hear the question. He was 
 now standing at the window, gazing out into 
 the garden, without knowing what he saw. 
 He felt that Marguerite, orphaned and alone, 
 would be thrown as it were upon his protec- 
 tion ; and the consciousness of his own 
 weakness made him shrink from the trust. 
 
 " Doctor," he said, turning round sudden- 
 ly, " do you believe that Mr. St. John is in 
 immediate danger? " 
 
 " As immediate as a man can be to be alive 
 at all. 1 do not expect him to live another 
 forty-eight hours his strength is ebbing 
 fast'; and, even if he should have no return 
 of the cough, he will die." 
 
 There was another silence: then Earns- 
 cliffe resumed " You are married, sir, I be- 
 lieve?" 
 
 " I am. I have a daughter rather younger 
 than Mademoiselle St. John. Would you 
 think it well for my wife to come over 
 here ? " 
 
 Philip knew enough of Marguerite's nature 
 to feel that she would rather have no strang- 
 ger to comfort her in her affliction, and re- 
 plied that " he had not exactly meant that; 
 but that Doctor Thibault being a married 
 man, he would be able to afford Marguerite the 
 protection she required, until some of her 
 own relations were written to ; for himself, 
 he regretted that it would be necessary for 
 
 him at once to leave Kersaint, as " Here 
 
 he hesitated, and Doctor Thibault gathered 
 that the young Englishman wished as much 
 as possible to be rid of any responsibility in 
 the matter. And, considering how long he had 
 been a guest of the dying man, the inference 
 did not give the worthy doctor too high an 
 opinion of English gratitude. He little 
 thought the pain his own resolution cost to 
 Earnscliffe. 
 
 " Are you acquainted with the address of 
 a cousin of Mr. St. John's in London ? " 
 Philip inquired. " They have frequently 
 spoken of him to me, but I have forgotten 
 even his name." 
 
 The doctor was also ignorant upon this 
 point ; they agreed, howerer, that Earns- 
 cliffe should write a letter at once, saying 
 that Mr. St. John was dying, and urging 
 some of the relations to come over to his 
 daughter immediately, and tliat he should 
 learn the address from Marguerite later in 
 the day. The doctor, having promised to 
 all in the afternoon, then took his leave. 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 ' A true Englishman ! " he soliloquised, 
 as he trotted quickly home on his pony. 
 " With his haughty manners, and his cold 
 heart, no more warmed by that girl's loveli- 
 ness than if he were an iceberg. He must 
 leave the house, forsooth ! in his sanctity of 
 virtue, the moment the father is dead,* and 
 hand over the poor .child to my respectable 
 protection ! Yet there is no lack of fire in 
 his face, either mais Us sont tons comme celh 
 ces Anglais bait ! " 
 
 Earnscliffe was left alone for some hours. 
 He wrote the letter, and afterwards remained 
 unoccupied, standing at the library window. 
 The actual presence of death had never so 
 weighed upon him before. To meet it in 
 peril and excitement was nothing, compared 
 with this slow, lingering approach to eternity 
 which one inmate of the house was now 
 treading alone. And, besides this, a painful 
 feeling of self-accusation was ever at Earns- 
 cliffe's heart, which made him shrink from 
 approaching the dying man. Not the con- 
 sciousness that he had in some measure been 
 the cause of the previous day's catastrophe 
 in that he was innocent of "intention but 
 the feeling th;<t he had betrayed a solemn 
 trust; and that to the last he* should meet 
 Mr. St. John's eye in an acted character. 
 Slight looks and words were recalled which 
 convinced him that her father had not been 
 unmindful of his preference for Marguerite, 
 nor unwilling that it should be so ; and he 
 shuddered at the idea of him dying in the 
 belief that his child might soon have another 
 protector. 
 
 " And all this would never have been had 
 I acted honestly from the commencement ! " 
 was Philip's bitter thought. 
 
 The hours passed by, and towards noon 
 Marguerite entered the* library. She looked 
 quite changed, and her childish face had be- 
 come like that of a woman ; but she was 
 calm, and did not weep. 
 
 " IIov; is you father, Marguerite? " 
 
 " Ha is asleep; and Manon wished me to 
 leave him, and take food, that I might be 
 more fit for watching afterwards. Have you 
 breakfasted?" 
 
 "Oh! do not think of me; I require 
 nothing." 
 
 " Manon made some coffee an hour ago; 
 I will bring it to you." 
 
 She left the room with the same unnatural 
 composure, and shortly returned with a tray 
 and some breakfast. Philip poured her out 
 a cup of coll'ce, and she drank it, and then 
 strove to eat ; but she could not swallow a 
 morsel. 
 
 * You eat," she said. " I am not hun- 
 
 gn 
 
 I'lulip took some coffee, and then resumed 
 his place at tin- window. Marguerite seated 
 herself on a low footstool, and laid her head 
 wearily against tin- arm of her father's chair; 
 itill, she never wept she was only stunned 
 
 and bewildered as yet the agony of grief 
 was to come. 
 
 " Will you not come to the open window, 
 my poor child ? The air will refresh you." 
 
 Her lips trembled a little at his expression 
 it recalled her father but she only hid 
 her face. * No ; I am better here," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 Then Philip approached, and seated him- 
 self beside her. "I have been writing a 
 letter," he said, gently, which I should like 
 to send by to-day's post. It is to your fath- 
 er's cousin, telling him of his illness, and 
 asking him to come to you. Will you give 
 me his address ? " 
 
 An indescribable look of anguish crossed 
 her face at his words. She understood w hy- 
 lic had written, and it realised her position 
 to her; already she was being given over to 
 strangers ! 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Earnscliffe ! " she cried, wild- 
 ly. " Do not write to him ; they will take 
 me from Kersaint, where we have always 
 been together, and I shall not be near him 
 
 when when " " he is dead," she would 
 
 have added, but she could not utter that 
 word. She raised her hand to her heart, 
 where the old sharp pain had arisen, and 
 looked piteously at Earnscliffe. " Do not 
 send it yet ; wait another day, until we know 
 all. God is merciful ! He cannot leave me 
 so utterly alone. Oh, Mr. Earnscliffe ! He 
 cannot take my father from me yet ! I have 
 no one in the world but him.'' After a 
 pause she continued " I should like to hear 
 all the doctor said to you his exact opin- 
 ion, word for word." 
 
 With averted face, Earnscliffe tried to 
 break the dread truth. He did not deceive 
 her ; he rather strove to soften her grief, and 
 make her weep ; and, at length, he succeed- 
 ed. Speaking of her father, he had dwelt 
 much upon the excellence and beauty of his 
 character, and of his fitness for death ; and 
 then added, when she turned away almost 
 impatiently from that terrible word death 
 
 " But think of his gain, Marguerite from 
 a life of constant pain and sickness to the 
 glorious life of eternity, and the joy of again 
 beholding your mother." 
 
 Then the tears were unloosed ; and she 
 wept long and passionately, as a child of her 
 age should weep, in natural sorrow. 
 
 " I am selfish to grieve so for myself," she 
 said, at length ; "but you can never know 
 all that my lather has been to me. What 
 love can I ever find like his? so forgiving 
 to all my faults so gentle; he ha* never 
 once been angry with me in my whole, life, 
 and I have often been forgetful of him. 
 Only yesterday the last day, Mr. Karn.s- 
 clin'e I was away from him so man\ hours, 
 and thinking of my own happiness, while his 
 aimety for me has caused this dreadful ill- 
 She could get no further for her tears* 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 97 
 
 and it was a difficult task for Philip to com- 
 fort her, with so much tenderness in his 
 heart to be obliged to content himself with 
 the usual common-places of condolence ! He 
 began speaking again of her relations in 
 England. 
 
 44 1 know my father's wishes," she replied, 
 mournfully. 4 ' Last autumn, when he was 
 BO ill, he told me 1 was to live with my cous- 
 in, in London. And [ have never seen any 
 of them ; they will be perfect strangers to 
 me. I would much rather remain at Ker- 
 samt, alone with Manon in these rooms, 
 where I have spent all my happy life with 
 my father." 
 
 44 But you will act as lie thought best, 
 Marguerite ? " 
 
 44 Yes; and, after all, it will not matter 
 much. What will life be anywhere, with no 
 one to love or to care for me ? " 
 
 Had she so soon forgotten her love for 
 Philip? or was there, mingled with her pas- 
 sionate grief for her father, a recollection 
 that that too was over a thing that could 
 never be ? 
 
 44 Think of my life. Marguerite! How 
 few have any to really love them ! But yon 
 are young, and may form new attachments. 1 ' 
 She turned, and looked at him very full. 
 44 Do you believe what you are saying, 
 Mr. Earnscliffe?" 
 
 He hesitated. * 4 1 did not mean that a 
 
 parent's place can ever be filled in a child's 
 
 heart ; but there are ties even more near ! 
 
 44 Philip." 
 
 " Do not look at me so, child Jam noth- 
 ing to you. When we separate it will be 
 for ever, and your only thoughts of me must 
 be pitying ones." 
 
 He tried to give his voice a firm tone, but 
 it betrayed him in its quivering accents, and 
 the hand which held hers grew very cold. 
 
 44 Philip ! " she replied, with a grave com- 
 posure, that contrasted strangely with her 
 usual manner, "you think me a child, you 
 treat me as such, and I know that you mis- 
 judge me. You say rightly, that none can 
 ever supply my father's place none ever 
 will. I may like my relations, but nothing 
 more. Even if I had married you " she 
 brought these words out with difficulty, yet 
 still with no change of color ' 4 I should 
 never have forgotten him ; and it is not like- 
 ly now, when I shall be for ever alone in the 
 world. But why should you tell me that all 
 I said to you yesterday was nothing? that 1 
 shall easily form new attachments? Mr 
 Earnscliffe, my father is dying, I speak to 
 you solemnly, and in my great sorrow, and 
 I am not ashamed to say it now I shall nev- 
 er forget you. It is not in my nature to 
 love many times, and when I do love, it wil 
 go with me to my grave. You are married 
 you have told me that I can be nothing to 
 you, but you have made me love you you 
 have made me confess it, and I shall never 
 forget you ! " 
 
 She neither blushed nor trembled ; but 
 poke all this in a fixed, gloomy tone, as 
 hough thoroughly convinced of the truth of 
 ler own assertion. Philip scarce trusted 
 limself to reply. Even as she reassured him 
 of her love, something in her manner madu 
 lim feel how entirely they were divided ; and 
 :he words, 44 you have made me love you 
 > r ou have made me confess it," sounded like 
 
 fresh condemnation to him. By what 
 right had he embittered this fair young life, 
 over which the hand of God was laid so 
 leavily? How could he attempt to offer 
 consolation ? 
 
 44 Marguerite, can you forgive me ? " he 
 murmured. 
 
 44 Forgive you?" she answered, gently; 
 4 you have done no wrong ; like me, you 
 are sorrowful and alone my poor Philip. 
 It will be my fate, like my mother's, to u*e 
 young, and not be very happy in my life 
 but it is through no fault of yours. And 
 now," she added, rising to her feet, 44 1 will 
 return to my father, I will leave him no 
 more." 
 
 44 And I ? " hesitated Earnscliffe. " Will 
 vou not let me be with you in your watch- 
 ing?" 
 
 '* Oh, yes ! you may come towards even- 
 ing, for Manon then willVequire a little rest, 
 but now I would rather be alone." 
 
 She left him, and an hour or two after- 
 wards the doctor arrived. He found his pa- 
 tient quiet, without pain, and composed, but 
 sinking fast; he showed no inclination to 
 speak ; and as long as Marguerite was by 
 him, and her arm round his neck, looked 
 happy. 
 
 44 He may last till to-morrow," said Thi- 
 bault to Philip, when he came down agai.-., 
 44 not longer. I shall call in very early in 
 the morning, however, but it will be to see 
 the child. I can do no more for him." 
 
 Philip told him of Marguerite's wish-,, 
 about the letter, and they agreed that one 
 day's delay could make no difference. She 
 would have no reason for not sending it on, 
 the morrow. 
 
 " 1 do not fear any further rupture on the 
 lungs," added the doctor. "So, if he, 
 shows a disposition to talk to his child, it 
 need not be checked. Poor little creature ! 
 she will hear few words enough from him 
 again in this world." 
 
 And Philip wrung the doctor's hand when 
 he spoke so feelingly of Marguerite, in a man- 
 ner that made him think he had somewhat 
 misjudged the cold young Englishman that 
 morning. 
 
 The day wore away without much change 
 in the sufferer. Towards night, however, 
 he spoke morr, and his mind began evident- 
 ly to wander. His voice was soft and low as 
 ever, his eye calm but his ideas were be- 
 coming confused. At one time he thought he 
 was speaking to his wife that she was dy- 
 ing, and he watching over her; then he ro- 
 
98 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 turred abruptly to his own state to his anx- 
 iety of the previous day to Marguerite, and 
 who would take her when he was gone ? and 
 then alluded to Earnsclitfe, in a manner con- 
 nected with her, which sent a thrill through 
 the conscious heart of one of the listeners. 
 Manon had gone to rest herself, that she 
 might be better able for her duties when they 
 were required ; and Philip and Marguerite 
 watched together during the early part of 
 the night. She would not leave her father 
 for a minute ; she felt no fatigue in her con- 
 strained position and her hand never wearied 
 of lifting the cooling draught to his lips, or 
 wiping the fast-gathering damps upon his 
 forehead. She seemed suddenly to have ac- 
 quired the strength and composure of a wo- 
 man. But Philip knew that the last scene 
 would be a different one to this, and trem- 
 bled for her powers of enduring it. 
 
 About two oY'lock Mr. St. John fell 
 asleep, and remained so for more than an 
 hour. When he woke the watchers were 
 still in their place ; but Manon had return- 
 ed, and forced Marguerite to swallow a cup 
 of tea, and change her position, which she 
 had not hitherto done for fear of disturbing 
 her father. The grey light of early morn- 
 ing was already stealing through the closed 
 curtains, giving a ghastly hue to the lamp by 
 the bed-side, and revealing the ashy features 
 of the dying man, and those, scarcely more 
 life-like of his child. At the bottom of the 
 bed, perfectly motionless, stood the old 
 hound. They had vainly attempted to keep 
 him from the room the previous day ; but, as 
 he was so still and silent, at, length permit- 
 ted him to remain. His great brown eyes 
 never turned from his master's face for one 
 second; and their expression of wistful sor- 
 row and knowledge of the truth, was almost 
 human in its intensity. When Mr. St. John 
 woke he seemed quite calm and conscious ; 
 and his voice had resumed so much of its old 
 fctrcngth that Marguerite 1 s heart beat with a 
 wild hope that he was better. But Manon's 
 face grew more solemn, and she glanced at 
 Philip. 
 
 " Still beside me, my little one ; you must 
 be worn out ! " 
 
 "No, lather; I am not tired. I was so 
 glad to see you sleep." 
 
 " It has restored me. darling. I can tell 
 you all I wish now. Put your arm round 
 me so. Child I am leaving you. 111 
 
 "No no, father! You must nqt leave 
 me I have no one but you. Do not leave 
 ine in this gn-;it world alone, father! " 
 
 " Where is Mr. K.irnsrlilK-r' 
 
 Philip advanced to the l>ed, his face blood 
 .i the thought of what the dying man 
 might say. 
 
 I am here, sir." 
 
 " (,iv<- mi- your hand. Why, it is colder 
 than mine and clammy. Ah; you led lor 
 my child. I have not KDOWn you long; l>ut 
 1 uui sure that you have u warm heart and 
 
 high principles. Will you be her friend when 
 I am gone? She is worthy of you. 1 ' 
 
 These words, and the fervent clasp smote 
 Philip to the quick. 
 
 " I will do my best," he faltered ' I will 
 endeavor to perform " 
 
 Mr. St. John smiled faintly. He already 
 thought that Philip loved his daughter ; and 
 his deep emotion his hesitating accents 
 now confirmed this belief. 
 
 "I can die contented," he said, softly; 
 a happy expression stealing over his face. 
 "Now, little one, all I have to say must be 
 to you. Nay," he interrupted himself, as his 
 eye fell upon another weeping figure, Ma- 
 non first." 
 
 Manon took his weak, out-stretched hand* 
 and kissed it with the reverence she might 
 have shown to a saint. 
 
 " Oh, master! forgive me all my faults," 
 she said, through her fast-falling tears. 
 
 " You have had none, poor Manon ! You 
 were faithful to my Lilla ; you have been 
 faithful to her child and to me. God bless 
 you, my friend, and reward you as you de- 
 serve." 
 
 Then he turned to Marguerite. She bent 
 down over him, and he spoke in low, loving 
 whispers, so that-only she could hear ; while 
 Philip turned aside, not to intrude, even by 
 looking, on the last earthly communion of 
 these two beings, who had so long been all 
 in all to each other. At length a sudden ex- 
 clamation from Manon made him look round, 
 and he saw a change on Mr. St. John's lace. 
 His color had returned, and his eyes were 
 brighter. 
 
 *' Draw aside the curtains ! " he exclaim- 
 ed. " Open the window, and let me feel 
 the air once more;." 
 
 Manon obeyed him ; and the fresh wind, 
 laden with a thousand early scents, stole in, 
 while a golden beam from the rising sun fell 
 full across the bed. 
 
 * She died at this hour," murmured Mr. 
 St. John; " and I am going to her God 
 remember thee, my child ! ' 
 
 "Father, do not leave me!" cried Mar- 
 guerite, as his clasp slightly relaxed, and all 
 the reality of death overwhelmed her. 
 " Father, stav with vour little one father 
 father!" 
 
 But the ear which had never turned from 
 her faintest wish before, was becoming dull, 
 even to her voice ; and, though he yet strove 
 to answer, his lips moved only with an inar- 
 ticulate sound. 
 
 " And he dies without the sacraments?" 
 said .Manon. 
 
 Poor Manon! She knew not that the 
 single ray of God's sunshine brought more 
 of his pr'eseiice about, the dying man than 
 all the priests in (.'hri.-teudom could have 
 done. 
 
 " Kiss me, darling once more." 
 
 These were \n^ last words. As her lips still 
 pressed upon his check, his eyes b 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 99 
 
 strangely then fixed ; and, without another 
 sound, he expired. 
 
 Marguerite started back in sudden terror, 
 then looked fearfully round at her compan- 
 ions, then at her father's face. She seized 
 his hand, it was already cold and damp, the 
 chiselled lips had fallen ; and with a cry so 
 long, so intense in its anguish, that neither 
 of the hearers ever forgot the sound again 
 she sank heavily and senseless upon the 
 ground. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 AT breakfast in his own house, in a quiet, 
 dingy street neighboring on Russel Square, 
 Mr. Danby sat alone at his morning meal, 
 his wife and step-daughter being persons too 
 long accustomed to fashionable life to conform 
 to his early habits. 
 
 The room was dark, the furniture old. It 
 was the room in the house especially dedica- 
 ted to Mr. Danby, and where no visitors 
 were ever admitted ; consequently, it was 
 not thought necessary to introduce any of 
 the light and modern furniture which, during 
 the last few years, had found its way into 
 most of the other rooms, and Mr Danby 
 rather liked this arrangement than otherwise. 
 Perhaps it allowed him occasionally to dream 
 when glancing at the stiff-backed chairs 
 and horse-hair sofa that he was still in his 
 former life of tranquil widowhood ; while the 
 fanciful patterns and Frenchified ornaments 
 in the drawing-room perpetually reminded 
 him of his fanciful wife and her Frenchified 
 daughter. However this might be, he al- 
 ways looked upon his breakfast, as the hap- 
 piest meal of the twenty-four hours ; and on 
 the morning in question about four days 
 after the event described in the last chapter 
 was eating his toast, and drinking his third 
 cup of tea, with great appearance of repose 
 and cheerfulness. It was a sultry July day. 
 The house, however, being on the shady side 
 of the street, no sun ever found its way into 
 the rooms ; so, through the open windows 
 the inmates only partook of the <rlare from 
 the opposite houses, and the stuffiness com- 
 mon to small London streets during the dog- 
 days. 
 
 Mr. Danby had never lived out of London 
 since his boyhood, and perceived nothing of 
 this. True, when he occasionally went down 
 into the country, and breathed the fresh air, 
 and looked up to the blue sky, something in 
 his heart made him feel that he liked it all, 
 and might have been happier had he never 
 left it; but the feeling quickly passed, and 
 he always returned with pleasure to the as- 
 sociates, and habits, and old city faces, for 
 which nothing can compensate a thorough 
 Londoner, as he was. He had been in busi- 
 
 ness the greater part of his life, business of 
 various kinds, and none of which had an- 
 swered remarkably well, although- he had 
 never actually failed. Danby was honest 
 and industrious ; but his nature was not one 
 likely to do much in the world. He had 
 neither sufficient courage for speculation, nor 
 clear-sighted prudence enough when it was 
 really required ; and, to sum up all. he had been 
 " unfortunate." Some one had always 
 stepped in before him, just at the very mo- 
 ment when a fortune was to be made ; and 
 if he did undertake any larger risks, there 
 was sure to be some unlooked-for depression 
 in the very article he had speculated upon. 
 In short, as all men who have the knack of 
 not getting on say of themselves, he had 
 been " unfortunate." 
 
 Mr. St. John was his first cousin on the 
 mother's side, and, as the reader may re- 
 member, was induced about the time of his 
 own marriage to embark almost the whole of 
 his small capital in one of Danby's larger 
 undertakings. " It was to make them both 
 rich men, there was no risk whatever, it was 
 unlike all his former speculations " such 
 were the arguments which persuaded Mr. St. 
 John, who was like a child in business, to 
 give over his money to his cousin. As usual 
 it turned out " unfortunately." There were 
 other persons in the transaction besides Dan- 
 by, equally unsuccessful, but not equally 
 honest, and at the end of six months, with- 
 out in the least understanding how, Mr. St. 
 John discovered that he had been swindled 
 out of the whole of his money. He talked 
 faintly at first about taking legal measures 
 for its recovery, but soon abandoned the 
 idea, and finally concluded that it was one 
 of the usual risks of trade, and that poor 
 Gilbert was more to be pitied than himself. 
 As it happened, Danby was not involved to 
 such a very great extent in the speculation 
 the failure at least did not ruin him but the 
 thought of having caused his cousin's poverty 
 remained with him for life, and he could 
 never hear his name mentioned without a 
 certain pang of self-reproach. No ill-feeling 
 towards Danby had rankled for a second in 
 Mr. St. John's heart. They continued at 
 intervals to correspond, and when his health 
 began to fail, he appointed his cousin in his 
 will as Marguerite's guardian in the event of 
 his own death, and acquainted him at the 
 same time that he had done so. 
 
 At that period Danby was still a widower. 
 He had married quite early in life ; but his 
 first wife died within a twelvemonth after her 
 marriage ; and for thirty years the idea of 
 taking to himself a second never occurred to 
 him. When, at length, he had realised 
 sufficient money to live upon in small inde- 
 pendence, he left business entirely, and 
 bought a house in Tavistock Street, where 
 he lived comfortably enough, with an old 
 housekeeper to attend upon him, until about 
 two years from the present time, when his 
 
100 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 good or some might say his evil genius 
 threw him in the way of his present wife and 
 her charming daughter. 
 
 It was Mr. Danby's practice, every sum- 
 mer, to go down to the sea-side for a few 
 weeks, Margate or Ramsgate being usually 
 'liis choice, as cheerful and accessible from 
 London, away from which he was never 
 happy for many days together. Just as his 
 housekeeper, one fine afternoon, was pack- 
 ing her master's portmanteau, in readiness to 
 start for llamsgate the following morning, 
 one of his friends came in, and, in a fatal 
 hour, persuaded Danby to change his plans, 
 and accompany him to Boulogne. This 
 friend was an old school-mate, and they had 
 entered business about the same time. He 
 had, however, been just as successful as 
 Danby was the reverse, and old Mortimer, 
 the stockbroker, was now looked upon as 
 one of the most fortunate men on 'Change. 
 He was rather younger than Danby, and 
 still in business, although he had long since 
 realised a large fortune. 
 
 " Come to Boulong, Danby. There is 
 twice the amusement there to what there is at 
 Kamsgate, and the best prawns I ever ate." 
 
 "But I don't know the tongue: I was 
 never among Frenchmen in my life." 
 
 " No more you will be now. French isn^ 
 spoken at Boulong. The shops are English ; 
 the visitors are English ; prices are English; 
 and you have all the advantages of living in 
 England, with the variety of being able to 
 say that you are in a foreign country." 
 
 So the next morning, attired in that am- 
 phibious costume of large-check shooting- 
 roats, short nankeen trousers, dust-colored 
 shoes, and wide-awake hats, which elderly 
 Cockneys deem most congenial to sea-side 
 life, the two friends departed in. a Boulogne 
 t earner. 
 
 Danby liked the change immensely ; and 
 for the first fortnight he and his friend were 
 constantly to be seen, linked arm-in-arm, 
 walking about the sands of a morning, or up 
 and down the pier of an evening the ar- 
 rival of the English boats, and looking out 
 Jor new-comers forming one of their princi- 
 pal amusements. At the end of this time, 
 however, the stock-broker, much to the re- 
 gret of both, was recalled to town on busi- 
 :hat would involve some delay, and 
 D.nbv was forced to remain alone during 
 the three weeks he meantyet to stay abroad. 
 
 "Ami I will just tell you what, Danby/ 1 
 paid old Mortimer, as they walked together, 
 late in the e\ening, on the pier, for the last, 
 time " you steer clear of the widow when 
 ] am gone.*' 
 
 " What widow?" said Danby, innocently. 
 
 "Why, .Mrs. I'mrgh, or !>' Hiipdi, or 
 whale .ills her>elf, of eoiir- 
 
 has had her eye on both of us from the day 
 We entered the boardiog-botlfd. She first 
 found out. I was ri'-he^t, I supjo>i thev are 
 'the devil fur their instinct in that, the.v wid- 
 
 s; but when she saw it wouldn't do, 
 turned her attention to you ; and, as sure as 
 faith, they want to get vou between them." 
 
 " To get me ! and what, in heaven's name, 
 do they want to do with me ? " replied Dan- 
 by, airhast. 
 
 " Why, to marry you, of course ! Tut, 
 man ! you need not be so unconscious of 
 what widows mean when they lay themselves 
 out to please men like you and me. Why, 
 you get quite red with pleasure, as it is, 
 when Mrs. Burgh singles you out to talk to 
 before every one else at dinner. I believe 
 the girl was after me at first, till she saw I 
 wasn't the kind for them, and that disreput- 
 able looking Italian (who cheats young 
 Greenwood every evening at ecarte) began 
 to pay her attention. But the mother is af- 
 ter you and for herself, too." 
 
 " And I hope she will like mo when she 
 gets me," added poor Danby, with a little 
 dry laugh at the intended pleasantry. 
 
 " Now, Danby," rejoined his friend, 
 " don't you go and be such a con founded 
 idiot (I beg your pardon) as to have any- 
 thing to do with those women. If a man of 
 your age, or mine, marries at all, he's a 
 fool ; but, if I ever did commit such an act 
 of insanity which I never shall at least I 
 would have something fresh and tolerably in- 
 nocent, a farmer's daughter from the coun- 
 try, or some article of that kind something, 
 at all events, that should know rather less of 
 this wicked world than I do myself. But one 
 of these; widows, or their daughters it's all 
 one who have been here and there one 
 time in one capital of Europe, then in an- 
 other offered np and refused in every 
 wr.tering-place in England and out of it, and 
 carrying on about a dozen such games a 
 season as Miss Georgv is now doing with 
 that moustachioed rascal at the boarding- 
 house I tell you what, my friend : I would 
 quite as soon, 'or a good deal sooner, marry 
 one of those fisher-girls who are carrying 
 home their baskets yonder on the beach. 
 One can, at least, feel pretty certain what 
 f/in'r lives have been hitherto, and I defy 
 mortal man to say as much for the others." 
 
 As Mr. Danby had a good memory, and 
 Mrs. fie Burgh afterwards became his wife, 
 it is possible that his friend's words recu; red 
 to him with more distinctness than w;n 
 agreeable in future days. However, for the 
 present, he onlv answered " He was quite. 
 Bafu from all the widows in creation; but, he 
 must add, he thought. Mortimer's strictures 
 unjust regarding Mrs. de l>urgh a woman 
 ol 'good family and reserved manners, and 
 who had always, from her own account, 
 mixed in the r,,-i/ fir.il society." 
 
 " Then what was >he doing with her (laugh- 
 ter in a iJoiilong boarding-house ? " anv.vcr- 
 ed old Mortimer. 
 
 He went oil' earlv the next morning, and 
 
 I D.uiby w.is Id'i :doii<- to withstand thy 
 
 attractions of his new friend;*. 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 101 
 
 Mrs. de Enroll was the widow of an officer 
 of Irish police, it was believed but she 
 dropped the particular corps to which he be- 
 longed, and only spoke of him as the late 
 Major de Burgh. It was also whispered 
 that the gallant Irishman during his life-time, 
 had been known inder the name of Bruff, 
 and that his widow, coi sidering that title 
 plebeian, had changed it into Burgh, and sub- 
 sequently De Burgh. These were, however, 
 merely malicious whispers, to which so many 
 others were added as made one think Mrs. de 
 Burgh must, on the whole, be a very injured 
 woman. She was now about five-and-forty, 
 still good-looking, tall, slight, and unmistak- 
 ably lady-like for, whatever else was false, 
 she was a woman of decent family herself, 
 and her appearance was refined. She was 
 rather die-away, and considerably affected ; 
 but Danby, who was little acustomed to fe- 
 male society, thought her very elegant, and 
 was quite dazzled at the number of " Sirs, 1 ' 
 and "Lords," not to mention a few " Dukes," 
 whom she spoke of as intimate acquaint- 
 ances. A thorough knowledge of the peer- 
 age, and an unblushing application of it, is 
 always a characteristic of the class to which 
 Mrs. de Burgh belonged. 
 
 Miss de Burgh, commonly called Georgy, 
 was twenty years younger than her mother, 
 and consequently already at an age at which 
 the first timidity of girlhood may be consid- 
 ered over. She was tall, high-colored, with 
 hazel eyes, black curls, and white teeth, and 
 was of that style usually termed by middle- 
 aged half-pays at watering-places, "-a doos- 
 ed fine girl. 1 ' Of Georgy \s inner woman it 
 would be more difficult to speak with certain- 
 ty than of her black hair and high color, a 
 remarkable instability being, indeed, the 
 leading feature of her character. In Swit- 
 zerland, for instance, she sketched, rode, 
 crossed torrents, climbed mountains, or was 
 fast, to any extent which suited the college 
 men who might be "reading " at Interlachen. 
 
 At Heidelberg, the Kron-Prinz von H , 
 
 might have thought her the incarnation of 
 German sentimentality as she talked of ewige 
 Liebe with him under the lindens by moon- 
 light (Georgy spoke all languages well,) and 
 smiled as placidly as a German maiden 
 should while he smoked in her face. And, 
 if thrown accidentally with English clergy- 
 men, she could a disposition be high-church, 
 cloth-embroidering, architectural, mediaeval, 
 catholic ; or low-church, world-adjuring, dis- 
 trict'-visiting, tract-dispensing, papist-hating. 
 With the very young of the opposite sex she 
 was ordinarily amusing, rather dashing, and 
 not sparing of piquant anecdotes boys like 
 that style ; with the middle-aged she was 
 giddy, perhaps, but guileless ; said the 
 strangest things without knowing it, and, if 
 her mamma reproved her, would show as 
 much childish shame as could well be expect- 
 ed from a young lady of five-and-twenty 
 summers most of them spent on the conti- 
 
 nent ar.xj ,v3l\c^ yas J perfect^ Veil'' rea()' >iij 
 French novels. 
 
 With her personal attractions, her muta- 
 bility of character, and her mother's aristo- 
 cratic blood, it may seem surprising that 
 this young creature should still have contin- 
 ued Miss Georgy after nine years of charm- 
 ing womanhood. That it was not her owr\ 
 fault, however, must be admitted, and also 
 that instances are not rare in which the hard- 
 er sex remain long untouched by the pros- 
 pect of matrimonal bliss so readily and lib- 
 erally held out to them. 
 
 On the present occasion, having soon seen 
 that Mr. Mortimer was a knowing old card 
 Georgy could be very slang and no go, she 
 was deep in a flirtation with a handsome, 
 good-for-nothing Italian (brother to one of 
 the first singers in the world, by whom he is 
 allowed a hundred-a-year to live out of Eng- 
 land) just to keep her hand in. Young 
 Greenwood, the only other Englishman in the 
 boarding-house, was beneath her game for 
 marriage ; and Danby she handed over to 
 mamma. They believed him richer than he 
 really was; and, as the widow and her 
 daughter were always extremely well-dressed 
 and had such high connections, Danby also 
 took it into his head that their means were 
 not small. 
 
 He managed to keep clear of ' them for 
 some days after Mortimer left. His friend's 
 words had impressed him unpleasantly, and 
 he had no deliberate intention whatever, of 
 committing such folly as a second marriage. 
 He was perfectly comfortable in his snug, 
 old-fashioned way in Tavistock Street ; his 
 housekeeper kept everything in order, and 
 gave him well - dressed meals at regular 
 hours ; he had his friends to dine with him 
 occasionally, and dined with them in return ; 
 what more could he want? But " rhomme 
 propose." 
 
 Four weeks after the friends parted on the 
 pier, the stock- broker received the following 
 letter: 
 
 " DEAR MORTIMER, I should have writ- 
 ten to you sooner, but my time has been so 
 taken up since you left that I have not had 
 an hour to myself. Excursions, walks, boat- 
 ing parties, picnics, have been making quite 
 a young man of me and an old fool, you 
 would add, at my time of life. Well, the 
 fact, is, my friend, Mrs. de Burgh's daughter 
 (you remember Miss Georgy,) is naturally 
 fond of these kind of amusements ; but her 
 mother, with the reserve peculiar to our 
 countrywomen, does not choose her to enter 
 into them, even under her own chaperonage, 
 unless escorted by some gentleman, in whom 
 she. can place confidence as more than a mere 
 acquaintance ; and this circumstance alone 
 has led me into habits so unlike my usual 
 quiet ones. They (I mean Mrs. and Miss 
 Burgh), are only waiting here a few days 
 longer, until the arrival of Lord and Lady 
 
PHILIP EAKNSCLIFFE. 
 
 ieir "ousins, rvylio.ni *l.pv will ac- 
 coi]] pav to Paris ; and about the same time 
 you 'may expect to see me in London. It is 
 already past the time at which I should be 
 dressed for a donkey exhibition to some dis- 
 tant ruins; so I must conclude. 
 
 " And I am ever, dear Mortimer, your 
 faithful friend, GILBERT DANDY. 
 
 " JOHN MORTIMER, ESQ." 
 
 "Well ! " said Mortimer to himself, as he 
 finished the letter, " I did not really think 
 my old friend would have turned out such a 
 beastly idiot at sixty years of age ! ' Re- 
 serve 1 ' confidence 1 ' more than mere ac- 
 quaintance 1 faugh ! Well, if the man is 
 sill to tie saved, it sba'nt be my fault if he 
 marries either of them." And, at consider- 
 able inconvenience, Mortimer left town that 
 very afternoon, arrived at Boulogne by the 
 evening packet. Pie walked in high dudg- 
 eon up the pier, a garcon, from the hotel he 
 had always frequented before he tried that 
 
 boarding-house, carrying his carpet bag 
 
 behind, and when he was about half way up, 
 whom should he see but Danby, with the 
 widow on one arm and the daughter on the 
 other, looking very red and foolish, and the 
 ladies remarkably cheerful. Danby looked 
 more red and foolish still when he recognised 
 his friend ; while the widow simpered, and 
 looked conscious, in a manner that made 
 poor Mortimer absolutely sick. His manner 
 was none of the pleasantest when they all 
 stopped for greeting. 
 
 " Quite an unexpected pleasure, Mr. 
 Mortimer ! " 
 
 * Quite so, ma'am, to all parties ; " and he 
 glanced at poor Danby, who felt like a de- 
 tected school-boy. 
 
 " 1 hope you will stop longer this time 
 than you did before." 
 
 *' That all depends upon circumstances. 
 I mean to stop until I take my friend back 
 again with me." 
 
 Miss Georgy laughed; and, being in a 
 child-like mood, remarked, " That he might 
 have to escort a larger party than he thought 
 for." 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Bruff ! Who is to form 
 the addition, if you please? " 
 
 Mnrtimcr had heard the story about the 
 change of name ; and, being in a vicious 
 temper, threw this in accidentally, as a 
 chance shot t' at might tell upon some one. 
 Mr.s. de Burgh turned red, and clung to 
 Panbv's arm, while she whispered, some- 
 what hysterically, in his ear.. 
 
 "Mortimer!" said he somewhat deprc- 
 ratmgly. 
 
 "Sir!" 
 
 " Yon M-ein unaware that is it might 
 be as well " His voice got quite gurgly. 
 
 " Sir ! " repeated Mortimer, looking si r;ii;rlit 
 before him in a way not at all calculated to 
 jielp his friend out. 
 
 Several persons had by this time turned 
 
 round to stare at the irascible-looking, mid- 
 lle-aged gentleman, and the well-known 
 widow and daughter. The garcou rested 
 :he back of his hand upon his mouth, and 
 ittle French boys cried, " My God ! Adol- 
 >he ! regard then the English ;" while Dan- 
 >y wished himself fathoms deep in the sea. 
 
 " It might be as well," he went on, in a 
 ow tone, '* to let you know, as my oldest 
 friend, the peculiar and delicate" Mortimer 
 smiled politely "circumstances of the case. 
 My happiness may appear to you sudden ; 
 :uit, the fact is, I am in a few days to have 
 .he happiness I would say honor of be- 
 coming, or rather of Mrs. de Burgh becom- 
 ng, mv wife." 
 
 Mortimer listened quite quietly to the 
 end. 
 
 11 Garcong ! " " Yes, sare." 
 
 '* When does the next boat start for Eng- 
 land ? " 
 
 " De next boat ! " The garcon looked at 
 bis watch. " Tide high in fifty minutes in 
 one hour, sare." 
 
 " Very good. Then carry back my car- 
 pet-bag to the landing, and wait until I re- 
 turn ; I shall go by her." 
 
 " Yes, sare," utterly amazed, although 
 accustomed to Britons. " Will monsieur 
 not step to the hotel, he has plenty of time ? " 
 
 " And can look after himself, sir, thank 
 you ; which is more than every man of sixty 
 can do," and he glanced at Danby, who 
 seemed actually sinking with shame ; for one 
 or two idlers from the boarding-house had 
 now joined the knot of lookers-on. 
 
 * My dear Mortimer, surely you will stay 
 to witness " 
 
 I thank you, Danby. The time is gone 
 by when farces interest me, or executions 
 either. I wish you all the happiness you de- 
 serve, and your amiable future wife also, not 
 forgetting her youthful daughter your daugh- 
 ter, 1 should rather say ha! ha! excuse mv 
 good spirits ; and when the honey-moon is 
 over, if you can spare an hour, I shall be 
 still happy to see you in Portland Place, and 
 hear how you are going on. Pray do not 
 let me detain you; I have just time for a 
 cutlet." 
 
 And with a gny nod, but really boiling 
 over with rage, Mortimer passed on. leaving 
 the bridegroom-elect in much the same state 
 <!' feeling as a man who has received the last 
 good wishes of his relations, before being 
 hanged. 
 
 However, Daub} had fairly done it. His 
 friend returned the same evening t<> Folk- 
 stone ; and in a few days afterwards the 
 well-horn widow became Oil wile. That he 
 was not long in bitterly regretting his mar- 
 riiiiT' 1 , it is needless to say. What man of 
 sixty ever found his happiness increased by 
 marrying again, opeeially if his second wile. 
 be a widow, with a very gro\vn-up d:mu r h- 
 
 The new Mrs. Danby and Georgy 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 103 
 
 mightily disappointed when they reached 
 London, and saw the old-fashioned, hmn-drthn 
 style of their future home. Nor was Danby 
 less surprised on discovering the extremely 
 small means on which these ladies had hith- 
 erto contrived to keep up a good appearance. 
 And mutual recriminations ensued. 
 
 To overturn all his habits, and sneer at his 
 dowdv friends, and introduce a thousand in- 
 novations into his household, were the first 
 endeavors of the ladies. But Danby was no 
 fool in general although in one particular 
 instance he had so egregiously showed him- 
 self one and he would neither give up his 
 house, his friends, nor his economical habits. 
 He would have been as glad, after a few 
 months of step-paternity, as most people, to 
 get Georgy married. It would be one less, 
 at all events. But he could not see how this 
 was likely to be effected by following out the 
 same false, flashy system which had signally 
 failed for ten years already. So he resolute- 
 ly set his face against balls and parties in his 
 own house, and said " If Georgy wanted 
 to get a husband, she had much more chance 
 of doing so by stopping decently at home, 
 than by going to Hanover Square balls, and 
 trying to hang on to the disreputable skirts 
 of grand society." For he soon saw how far 
 his wife's acquaintance with titled people 
 was genuine ; and that, while the majority 
 of her noble friends were myths, the one or 
 two broken-down lords and tawdry "Ladv 
 Somebodies," whom she had managed to get 
 acquainted with at foreign watering-places, 
 and hunted up again in London, were people 
 whose character had long since thrown them 
 out of their own rank of life in England. 
 
 Danby had how, however, been married 
 for two years, and he had found out, like 
 many wiser men before him, that his great- 
 est chance of peace lay in allowing his wo- 
 man-kind, as far as possible, to have their 
 own way. They might go to their parties, 
 and occasionally have their *' reunions " at 
 home, at which he seldom appeared, so long 
 as they kept tolerably within bounds in 
 money ; and he dined with his old cronies, 
 and occasionally had them to dine with him 
 in return, generally selecting those days on 
 which Mrs. Danby and her daughter were 
 engaged elsewhere. Mortimer, when his 
 first irritation was over, had become just as 
 friendly as ever; indeed, it rather afforded 
 that old bachelor pleasure than otherwise, to 
 get Danby by himself to dinner, and listen, 
 with the grim cheerfulness of a friend, to 
 accounts of his domestic happiness. And as 
 every year made Georgy more alive to the 
 necessity of keeping on good terms with all 
 rich, single men, Mortimer usually received 
 a very civil reception in Tavistock Street, in 
 spite of that unpleasant manner of his on 
 the pier at Boulogne. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Mr. DANBY had just breakfasted ns the 
 postman came up to the door ; and in anoth- 
 er minute he was reading Earnscliffe's letter. 
 Percy St. John had been his last natural 
 ie in the world, and he was greatly shocked 
 at hearing so unexpectedly of his death. 
 The recollection of their youth, of his cous- 
 n's unworldly nature his ready forgiveness 
 towards himself the kindly letters he had 
 always written in his varied difficulties 
 overcame him ; and Danby covered his face 
 with his hands, thankful that he received the 
 tidings alone, with no wife or step-daughter 
 to witness his emotion. After a time he 
 took up the letter again, and read it to the 
 end. " You are his daughter's guardian, 
 and will, doubtless, at once receive her into 
 your care," were the last words. 
 
 44 Receive her ! Yes, poor child, that will 
 I ! " said Danby, half aloud. " Would God 
 it were a better home to bring her to. If I 
 had not married again, she would have come 
 like a child to me in my old age, for Percy 
 St. John's daughter must have something of 
 his nature in her, and I could have loved 
 her. Now, she will have Miss Georgy for a 
 companion, and become like her, perhaps ! 
 Well, I must hope for the best. I wonder 
 how Mrs. Danby will take it ! " 
 
 He rose, and paced up and down the room 
 for nearly an hour ; old and bitter remem- 
 brances thronging fast upon his mind, joined 
 to his musings on the young creature, whom 
 death had just thrown upon his care, and 
 was so deep in thought, that he quite start- 
 ed when the door flew open, and Geor- 
 gy, not in the neatest of morning costume, 
 entered the room. She considered a dress- 
 ing-gown, untidy slippers, and hair pinned 
 up tightly on her temples, quite attention, 
 enough for her step-father. 
 
 " Morning, pa." 
 
 " Good morning, my dear. Is your mam- 
 ma dressed ? " 
 
 *' I really could not say," seating herself. 
 "Coffee cold, toast tough: just ring the 
 bell, pa!" 
 
 He obeyed mechanically ; and as he did 
 so, she saw his face. " Gracious ! how palo 
 you are. Are you ill ? perhaps you ate too 
 much melon yesterday. Hot coffee and 
 toast ! " to the old servant who entered ; 
 " And are there no rolls ? " 
 
 44 No, there ain't, miss," was the reply ; 
 44 the boy forgot them." 
 
 44 Stupid wretch ! " returned Georgy, glan- 
 cing fiercely at the old woman, and leaving 
 it doubtful to whom the title was applied. 
 ** Everything is forgotten in this house ! 
 Make some toast, at once." And she 
 stretched barck in her chair, and patting her 
 knife up and down on her plate, discon- 
 tentedly, forgot all about her step-father's 
 pale face. 
 
104 
 
 HIILTP EARXSCL1FFE. 
 
 He continued to walk about tlio room, 
 without speaking; and after a few minutes, 
 Mrs. Danby entered. The greeting between 
 herself nnd her daughter was not much more 
 affectionate than had been that of the step- 
 father. 
 
 " Xo breakfast ready ! " said the lady of 
 the house, peevishly, as she seated herself, 
 without even looking at her husband. 
 
 " I have ordered some, hours ago," 
 Georgy answered, " but, as usual, the rolls 
 are forgotten, and now, I suppose the coffee, 
 too : ring the bell again, pa." 
 
 " My dear, "Wilkins has not had time to 
 get it ready ; besides, she does not like to be 
 hurried." 
 
 Georgy tossed her head. " When T have 
 servants, they must learn what / like, 1 ' she 
 said. 
 
 On another occasion, Danby would have 
 retorted that Georgy must wait till she li'id 
 servants : however, he wished now to keep 
 them both in good humor, and rang the bell 
 again. Wilkins came up immediately with 
 half-done toast and bad coffee, and remarked 
 '* she had had no time to get the things bet- 
 ter.' 1 It was singular what clear, strong 
 coffee, and hot rolls, always graced the mas- 
 ter's early breakfast-table, when compared 
 with those which appeared at the late meal of 
 the ladies. 
 
 " She is intolerable," said Mrs. Danby, 
 almost before the door was closed. " I shall 
 have some change in the establishment 
 soon." 
 
 ** There is likely to be one," interrupted 
 Danby, stopping short, and catching the 
 opening. " I have received a letter this 
 morning telling me of my cousin St. John's 
 death ; and as his young daughter is left my 
 ward, she will for the future find a home with 
 me." 
 
 Like all nervous people, when Danby did 
 bring out anything with an effort, he spoke 
 quick, and told it abruptly. 
 
 ''Oh!" exclaimed both ladies. "Has 
 she money ? " added the eldest one. 
 
 Dauby winced. It was the one sore point 
 on his conscience. 
 
 " Not much ; but I suppose the sale of the 
 old chateau where they live will realise 
 ometbing. However," he added, firmly, 
 " she will want for nothing while I live.' 1 
 
 His wife and her daughter exchanged 
 looks; and Mrs. Danby hated Marguerite on 
 
 tin- spot. 
 
 " lie died quite suddenly," Danby went 
 on. " Poor little child ! how desolate she 
 must be in that lonely place ! " 
 
 "Oh! she is only a child, then?" cried 
 Georgy ; and the vision of a brat of five, 
 who could live in the kitchen with Wilkins, 
 ila-hed MCI-O-.S her. 
 
 Dauby made our of those elabonte calm 
 litiODI by which Mime perxms find il MUtyf I 
 arrive ;it d.ito ; starting with his OW1 
 deducting ten, adding thirty, taking away 
 
 something else, and finally concluding that 
 Percy's child must be about sixteen. " And 
 ndeed," he continued, " in one of his last 
 etters, poor fellow ! he said she was growing 
 ip, and was very like her mother. If she is 
 >o, and has anything of his features too, she 
 must indeed be lovely ; for I have heard that 
 *iis wife was a very beautiful woman, and I 
 icver saw a more perfect face than Percy's." 
 
 There was an ominous pause. 
 
 "And you mean this Miss St. John is to 
 live with you ? " Mrs. Danby resumed. 
 
 ''Undoubtedly," replied Danby. "Her 
 Iiome will be with me, so long as she remains 
 unmarried, and I have a home to offer her." 
 
 His face had just the expression it always 
 assumed when his wife tried to persuade him 
 to dismiss his old servant, and she knew that 
 he would be firm. 
 
 " It might have been as well to have men- 
 tioned all this sooner," she said, peevishly. 
 " If I had known you were going to have 
 
 cousins and people coming to live with you 
 
 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Danby, I say it would have 
 been as well to mention these things before 
 you married me." 
 
 " I don't suppose it would have made any 
 great difference in your decision, Mrs. 
 Danby." He was roused at last at her cold 
 selfishness. " Besides, the question scarcely 
 involves yourself at all. I intend to take 
 one fatherless girl of sixteen into my house, 
 and to treat her God help me ! as though 
 she were my own child. You need not 
 trouble yourself about her, unless your own 
 feelings incline you to do so ; and the more 
 she* keeps at home with me, and the less 
 she goes out into your society the better." 
 
 "Very well, sir. I am glad I understand 
 the footing on which she is to be placed," 
 said Mrs. Danby, sharply. " And as you 
 will love her ' like your own child, 1 doubtless 
 you will introduce her to your own circle of 
 friends. When does the young person ar- 
 rive ? " 
 
 " Her father is not yet buried," Dauby 
 returned, quietly, " so I cannot say. Per- 
 haps you would like to see this letter, 
 Georgy? you are fond of distinguished peo- 
 ple, 1 ' he added, turning to her ; for Georgy 
 diil not led at all the same amount of spite 
 as her mother on the subject, and was look- 
 ing rather amused at the small fight. " After 
 all," she thought, " the girl won't interfere 
 with me, and. as she is half French, can help 
 me in my dress, and keep up my accent. 1 ' 
 Danbv saw that she was smiling, and thought 
 lie would try to win her over to his side. 
 
 ' Would you like to have the autograph 
 at the botloni of the letter:'" 
 
 " Philip Karnsclilfe ! " exclaimed Georgy, 
 in atoni>liment ; " what, the Philip K.uiis- 
 
 diffeP" 
 
 " I should suppose so ; the name is not a 
 common one." 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 105 
 
 She read the letter greedily. 
 
 " Goodness ! and how intimate he seems ! 
 * My excellent friend ' * poor little Mar- 
 guerite ! ' How on earth did they get to 
 know him ? " She was much too aufait of 
 all the scandal of London life, not to be per- 
 fectly aufait of Philip's private history ; and, 
 indeed, had seen him once or twice at the 
 theatre, and thought him " a dear, interest- 
 ing creature." Miss Georgy looked quite 
 excited. 
 
 *' I am sure I don't know how they be- 
 came acquainted," said her step-father ; " but 
 I do know that any man of education or 
 genius would be certain to take pleasure in 
 St. John's society." 
 
 " And he must be actuallv staying in the 
 house, ma ? Perhaps he will come over with 
 her. How I should like to know him ! " 
 
 Mrs. Danby felt mollified at the idea of 
 the St. Johns knowing Philip EarnsclifFe, 
 though she was too dignified to show it at 
 first. However, she made no more unpleas- 
 ant speeches for the present, and even con- 
 descended to say " she wished the child well, 
 and if they had friends in their own rank of 
 life, that made a great difference." 
 
 " I shall not be in time for his funeral," 
 Danby went on, " even if I start to-day. 
 Letters are so long coming from that remote 
 part of France ; but I must go over at once 
 for the poor girl." 
 
 Why? "said Mrs. Danbv. She had 
 been for some time meditating a trip to 
 Brighton for her own health, and foresaw 
 that Danby's journey to Brittany would just 
 swallow up the money she meant to spend on 
 carriages and doctors by the sea-side. " Why 
 at once, Mr. Danby? Indeed, if you cannot 
 be in time for your cousin's funeral, I do not 
 see the object of your going at all. It is not 
 likely Miss St. John would wish to leave the 
 home where she has always lived immediate- 
 ly, and she must have some friends in the 
 neighborhood to take care of her. At all 
 events, you had better write first-; express 
 your sorrow, and so -on, and take time to 
 think over it. But act as you like. You 
 know how the sea disagrees with you ; and, 
 indeed, that a long sea voyage is almost 
 dangerous for you to undertake with your 
 full habit of body. Act for yourself." 
 
 The last hint was not thrown out without 
 its effect upon Danby. The sea really dis- 
 agreed extremely with him, and if it were at 
 all stormy, made him ill for weeks after- 
 wards ; and he had often heard from Mr. St. 
 John how long and rough a passage it gen- 
 erally was from Southampton to St. Malo. 
 So he thought, and wavered, and hesitated, 
 between kindness for his little cousin, and 
 his own dread of sea-sickness, until his wife 
 saw how it would end. 
 
 "Think over it, Mr. Danby," she said, 
 mildly; "think over it. Write the letter, 
 you know; and then afterwards, if you think 
 it really necessary to go for Miss St. John, 
 
 and that the voyage will not hurt you, you 
 can do so." 
 
 "Well, it may be better to write, per- 
 haps," said Danby; " it would be different 
 if she had no English friends ; but Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe appears so really interested in her " 
 
 " Yes," interrupted Geor.gy. " And why 
 an't Philip Earnscliffe bring her over to 
 England, when she does come? You might 
 propose it, pa : it would be a good intro- 
 duction to him." 
 
 Danby promised to do so ; and that after- 
 noon wrote a letter to Earnscliffe, inclosing 
 a few lines to Marguerite. They were kind 
 and simple, and told her that, from hence- 
 forth, his home should be hers ; and that, as 
 far as possible, he would try to make up ta 
 her for her great loss. But Danby said 
 nothing about her coming immediately, nei- 
 ther did he make any allusion to crossing the 
 Channel himself. Mrs. Danby's hints about 
 sea-sickness, and his full habit, had done 
 their work ; and the following week they all 
 went down to Brighton, where Miss Georgy 
 made and improved the acquaintance of a 
 very long-coated young Anglican divine ; 
 and Mrs. Danby, who, since her marriage 
 had thought it necessary to be an invalid, 
 became a convert to homoeopathy, and an ex- 
 tremely soft-handed, black-whiskered apos- 
 tle of that faith. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 To all the dreadful minutisB of death. 
 Marguerite remained, happily, insensible, 
 She was very ill for many days ; and when 
 she could once more mention his name, her 
 
 father was lying in the cemetery of N . 
 
 Although her illness was chiefly the effect of 
 her sudden grief, the excitement and ex- 
 posure to cold and wet, on the day among 
 the Morgane caves, had produced actual fe- 
 ver; and for some time the good doctor 
 thought very seriously of her case. Philip, 
 who would otherwise have left the manoir at 
 
 once and taken up his quarters at N , 
 
 could not find the resolution to do so now 
 that Marguerite was ill, and remained on 
 from day to day his own pale and altered 
 face bearing token of the suffering through 
 which he passed. 
 
 Earnscliffe had had many trials already : 
 disappointment, sense of injustice, wounded 
 pride ; but this was his first sorrow. In his 
 nature was a store of deep tenderness that 
 had never yet been called into action, and 
 now, for the first time in his life, he utterly 
 forgot himself in his anxiety for another. 
 He wandered silently about the house ; he 
 took no food, except when Manon pressed 
 it upon him ; and when Marguerite slept, or 
 during the time that she was insensible to 
 
106 
 
 PHILIP EAEXSCLIFFE. 
 
 all external objects, lie would steal into her 
 room and watch over her with almost a wo- 
 man's tenderness, bathe her burning fore- 
 'liead, admit the cool air to her bed, and per- 
 form a thousand offices which all Manon's 
 honest love could not have supplied. And 
 Marguerite, unconscious though she was, 
 knew the gentle touch, and received the wa- 
 ter or medicine more willingly from Earns- 
 cliffe's hand than from the nurse. 
 
 One night she was delirious, and in her 
 delirium called upon Philip's mine repeated- 
 ly. From her lately-acquired habit, what 
 she said was in English ; but Mannn could 
 still detect the name, and her eyes stole 
 searching!}- to Earnscliffe's face as she lis- 
 tened. He could not become paler than he 
 already was ; but his lips quivered as he bent 
 over Marguerite, and heard again her inno- 
 cent love for himself told in the vague, un- 
 conscious language of delirium, ever min- 
 gled with her father's name and a dull re- 
 membrance of her recent loss. 
 
 " He loves me, dear father Philip loves 
 me. I shall be his little wife no, he is 
 married that can never be. Lady Clara 
 lie told me all, I must not love him. But 
 then, the storm the waves father, I could 
 not help it ! death was coming, and I told 
 him. It is over now it is all over ; he has 
 left, and 1 shall remain with you. I may 
 love you, father ; " and she tried to raise her 
 Lands as though to clasp his neck. Oh ! 
 not so pale those dark, dark streaks, fa- 
 ther; you are leaving me this is death. 
 The waves Philip, save him save us 
 both ! " and then the words came more wild- 
 ly still, until he could not distinguish what 
 she said. 
 
 Worn out by her long watching, Manon 
 at length slept heavily in the large chair by 
 the bedside ; and throughout the remainder 
 of that night Philip tended her alone. Again 
 and again had he to listen to words such as 
 those she had just uttered ; hear his own 
 name whispered with meek reproaches " that 
 he had made her love me," then watch her 
 parched lips writhe in sudden terror, as the 
 recollection of the storm, or of her father's 
 death returned, and vainly strive to calm 
 her incoherent cries for help. In all she had 
 a strange sense of his presence. If for a 
 moment he quitted her side, her face turned 
 beseechingly in the direction whither he 
 moved, and she would extend her helpless 
 hands towards him. It seemed to soothe 
 her when he leant over her and whispered 
 gentle words, although she could n.( have 
 understood their meaning; and when to- 
 wards morning, worn out by fever and de- 
 lirium, she sank to sleep the sleep which 
 saved her life Philip's arm supported her. 
 and her Hushed face was still upturned to 
 his. 
 
 Her longhair had become unloosened dur- 
 ing the ni^'lit, and hung in damp and heavy 
 masses upon her shoulders; one hand lay 
 
 helplessly on the coverlid of the bed, the 
 other was thrown upwards over the pillow in 
 the child-like attitude of sleep. She looked 
 so pure, so perfectly innocent as she lav 
 thus, that tears rose into Philip's eyes, more 
 like those of a father for his child than for a 
 lover for a mistress. He was not a man 
 easily moved to tears, but Marguerite had 
 stolen into the inmost depths of his heart. 
 He loved her as no human being can love 
 but once ; and as he bent over her through the 
 silent hours of this night alone, the dim star- 
 light that stole through the open window his 
 onlv witness, the best emotions of Earns- 
 elifFe's nature were stirred. The sinless 
 child whose head was pillowed upon his 
 breast seemed to him as a symbol of everv- 
 thing pure and perfect ; and as he bent down 
 over her unconscious face, thoughts returned 
 to him that he had not known for years. 
 
 He thought of his early childhood, when 
 he too was innocent, and his young mother 
 had hung lovingly over his little bed ; he re- 
 called her sweet face as she kissed him for 
 the night ; and thought with a pang, that no 
 pure kiss had ever blessed him since. He 
 remembered her love for his father how 
 they used to sit together by the evening fire, 
 hand clasped in hand, watching him as he 
 played at their feet and felt that such a life 
 would to him too have been happiness. ' If 
 she had been my wife," he added. And at 
 that moment Marguerite stirred slightly in 
 her sleep, and murmured " Philip ! " 
 
 When she awoke at length, after many 
 hours' deep sleep, the fever had left her. 
 All that now remaired was extreme weak- 
 ness, and in a few days she was well enough 
 for Manon to lift her to a couch by the win- 
 dow, where she might breathe the fresh air. 
 As yet, she had spoken very little. Her 
 mind was quite clear; and Manon could see 
 that she was fully aware of her father's death, 
 for she never alluded to him, nor to his ab- 
 sence from her room. She was conscious of 
 that, and of everything; but we are merci- 
 \illy organised that our own bodily weak- 
 ness takes away half the poignancy from 
 sorrow ; and as Marguerite, feeble and help- 
 ess, lay thinking of her father's death, it 
 was more with a feeling of thankfulness that 
 ie had pone to rest, and a wish that she too 
 night follow him, than with anything of grief 
 or his loss. 
 
 From the time of her improvement, Philip 
 never entered her room ; and on the second 
 lay after the fever left her he departed for 
 
 ST , where he took up his quarters at the 
 
 ustie eountrv inn. ll Marguerite missed 
 presence, she made no allu.-mn to him; 
 she asked tin questions, she showed no inter- 
 st when Manon accidentally mentioned his 
 lame everv kind of feeling seemed numbed 
 within her. lint about a week after her eri>is, 
 >ii a warm, sof) August morning, her nurse 
 tad carried her to the eoneh by the open 
 window, and the sight of the old familiar 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 107 
 
 garden without, and the feeling of the fra- 
 grant air, laden with the sound of birds and 
 insects, brought for the first time a look of 
 life into her wan face. 
 
 " Support me higher, Manon, I wish to 
 see my white rose." It had been her father's 
 favorite rose, from which every summer 
 morning she brought him a blossom. " How 
 fresh it looks, they are not withered. I 
 should like some flowers, I think." 
 
 "You have some already, ma mie ; but 
 you were not well enough to look at them. 
 See ; " and Manon brought an exquisite bou- 
 quet, which stood in water upon the table. 
 *' All fresh this morning." 
 
 A faint flush stole to the pale cheek. 
 " Give them to me. Ah ! they are very 
 sweet." She placed them in her bosom. 
 "Manon, are you quite sure that I shall 
 die ? " 
 
 ' Die ! Ma mie, ma cherie, why should 
 you talk of dying? You have been very ill, 
 but the fever has left you now; and the doc- 
 tor said this morning that you will soon be as 
 blooming as ever." 
 
 Marguerite turned away her face, and was 
 silent; but the nurse saw large tears steal- 
 ing down her cheek, and she let her weep 
 on, for Thibault said it would be good for 
 her to shed tears. After a time she looked 
 at Manon, and said " How worn you are, 
 poor Manon ! You look as though you had 
 never slept for weeks. Have you watched 
 and nursed me all alone ? " 
 
 " Not quite alone, darling. When you 
 were very ill, Monsieur Earnscliffe " (the 
 trembling fingers clasped tighter round her 
 flowers) " Monsieur Earnscliffe would watch 
 by you too, and during the worst night he 
 never left you. Ce pauvre monsieur! he 
 looks as pale as you, ma mie ; but, then, he 
 never had much color." 
 
 Marguerite was not pale now. The old 
 bright flush came over her face when she 
 heard that Philip had watched her in her ill- 
 ness ; and, looking once more towards the 
 sea, she said, softly, "I am so glad that I 
 shall live." 
 
 Poor Manon was delighted at these words, 
 and at her improved looks. Ever since her 
 master's death she had been in hourly dread 
 that her darling child was to be taken also ; 
 and now, in her sudden thankfulness, she al- 
 most forgot her late great sorrow. 
 
 " You will get strong, my child, quite 
 strong. We will carry you to the terrace in 
 a few days, and give you nourishing things, 
 and make you so well and blooming better 
 even than you were before your illness ; " and 
 her honest face was all beaming with happi- 
 ness. " See, there is monsieur on the ter- 
 race now. He told me he should remain 
 awhile, when he gave me the flowers for 
 you." 
 
 '* Remain? where is he then? has he left 
 Kersaint ? " 
 
 Manou explained that he had gone to 
 
 N , but came ovor every day to inquire 
 
 for mademoiselle ; and then she lifted Mar- 
 guerite on the couch, so that she could see 
 the terrace. The old soft expression stole 
 into her eyes as she watched Earnscliffe 
 slowly pacing up and down, and the color 
 lingered in her face. 
 
 " I am well like this, dear Manon. If 
 you have anything to do, you can leave me 
 awhile. I shall be happy alone." 
 
 Manon had much to do in her neglected 
 household ; and seeing the little invalid so 
 refreshed by the open air, she thought she 
 might safely ,go down-stairs to her work. 
 She returned every few minutes, but found 
 Marguerite each time in the same position, 
 and saying " she was not tired yet." In 
 about half an hour, however, Earnscliffe 
 finished his walk, and returned slowly to- 
 wards the house. He did not think of Mar- 
 guerite being up, and never looked towards 
 her window, little knowing how anxiously 
 her eyes were following him. When he wa:j 
 quite out of sight she called to Manon : "I 
 am weary of sitting up, the air feels so chilly, 
 and the sky is cloudy take me back to 
 my bed." And when she was placed there, 
 she turned her face upon the pillow, and did 
 not speak again for hours. 
 
 That very morning, while Marguerite 
 watched him, Earnscliffe had taken his final 
 resolution, to see her once more, when she 
 had sufficient strength for the interview, and 
 then quit her for ever. No vain sophistry 
 of staying to console her in her loneliness 
 led him astray now. Her father had died 
 asking him to be her friend, and, with the ac- 
 knowledged feelings of both towards the 
 other, the only way of fulfilling this request 
 was to part from her at once. " She is too 
 young for the wound to be very deep," he 
 thought. Yet, even as he did so, her ear- 
 nest face rose before him as she said, ** I 
 shall never change, I shall never forget you ! " 
 and strange inconsistency of our nature 
 Earnscliffe felt a thrill of pleasure in disbe- 
 lieving his own words. 
 
 He had told the doctor that he was mar- 
 ried, during Marguerite's illness, thinking it 
 right for her that their mutual position should 
 be understood in the neighborhood ; and 
 something that he had either seen or guessed 
 from Philip's manner made the kind-hearted 
 Frenchman form conclusions not far from the 
 truth ; while he fully concurred in the pro- 
 priety of EarnsclifFe's leaving Kersaint. 
 They both agreed that it would be well for 
 Marguerite to remain for several weeks, at 
 least, in her old home, during which time 
 Thibault and his wife could watch over her, 
 before going to her English relations. And, 
 indeed, she was now so weak, that some 
 time would be absolutely needful for her to 
 recover sufficient strength for the journey. 
 
 Mr. Danby's letter arrived in due time, 
 and Earnscliffe was not greatly prepossessed 
 by its tenor. Although the 'note to Mar- 
 
108 
 
 PHILIP EARXSCLIFFB. 
 
 guerite was kind, there was a constraint 
 about it, and an absence of all expressions 
 of sympathy from the women of the family, 
 \vhidi made him augur ill for Marguerite's 
 happiness in her future home. The letter to 
 Earnscliffe himself was plain and business- 
 like. " Mr. Danby regretted that he eould 
 not be in lime for his cousin's funeral ; and 
 also that circumstances 1 ' he did not mention 
 what these were " prevented him coming 
 himself for Miss St. John ; but that, as 
 soon as she was able to travel, he hoped 
 some of her friends would accompany her to 
 St. Malo, and he would meet her at South- 
 ampton." He then added that, in his una- 
 voidable absence, he should be glad if Mr. 
 EarnsclifFe would read his late cousin's will, 
 and make him acquainted with the contents. 
 44 Through an agent in Paris he should ar- 
 range for the sale of the property of Ker- 
 saint; and he remained Mr. Earnseliffe's 
 obedient servant. 1 ' 
 
 Philip flung down the letter upon the table. 
 He formed a worse opinion of its writer 
 than was altogether just ; and pictured to 
 himself Marguerite, afterher free, unfettered 
 life, and the sole companionship of one so 
 refined as her father, living in some close 
 London street, and associating with the 
 family of a retired tradesman. For Danby's 
 hand was a clear, round text ; the paper he 
 employed blue letter sheet; and the appear- 
 ance of the whole epistle unlike any Philip 
 had ever received in his life, with the ex- 
 ce[ tion of duns or communications from his 
 bookseller. 4< And I am unable to save her 
 from these people,* 1 he thought. " Would 
 God that I were free ! " 
 
 Marguerite gained strength daily now; 
 and in another week Manon announced to 
 Earnscliffe that she was well enough to see 
 him. The old servant's eyes had not been 
 closed all this time ; indeed, it was impossi- 
 ble for any one to have seen Philip under 
 the circumstances that she had done, without 
 discovering his feelings towards Marguerite ; 
 and, ignorant as yet of his marriage, she 
 fervently hoped that her darling might be- 
 come his wife, and be spared the miserv of 
 having to live among strangers. Of herself 
 she never thought. Of her loneliness, her 
 poverty, -when Marguerite should be gone 
 for she had no relations and had saved but 
 little money all this was nothing eompared 
 to Marguerite's welfare. She had always 
 been so completely treated as one, of the 
 family, that .she felt herself aetuallv one of 
 its members, not merely a hired servant, 
 whom a death or a marriage could at any 
 time throw upon the world as was now the 
 
 44 She will see you at once, monsieur; she 
 
 is looking quite herself (his morning. " 
 
 Philip had shrunk from the interview as 
 long as was i-ov-iMc. IJrx<l\ing that it 
 ihoald be the last he yet had not. courage 
 for the actual parting with the only being on 
 
 earth whom he had ever really loved, and 
 when Manon proposed that he should see the 
 invalid, had each day answered, " that ha 
 would rather wait until there was no risk of 
 the excitement harming her." But now he 
 could delay no more. Marguerite herself 
 wished to see him ; and as he followed Ma- 
 non through the long winding passages, 
 Philip's heart throbbed within him, as though 
 he were some boy-lover awaiting his mis- 
 tress, rather than a man of the world who 
 expected an interview with a girl of sixteen! 
 
 44 Viola Monsieur Philippe, ma mie ! " 
 
 Marguerite was lying on a couch by the 
 open window, dressed in deep mourning, 
 which gave additional whiteness to her com- 
 plexion ; but at Philip's name the blood 
 rushed crimson into her 'face for a second, 
 then retreated, and she felt her whole framo 
 turn cold. 
 
 " Marguerite ! " Monsieur ! " 
 
 Manon closed the door and left them, 
 never doubting that when she returned they 
 would be affianced lovers. There was a mo- 
 ment's silence; then Philip threw himself 
 upon his knees beside her, and kissed her 
 hands. 
 
 " You have suffered, my child you are 
 pale and changed." 
 
 44 Monsieur, he is gone." 
 
 " Call me Philip, Marguerite. This is 
 the last time we shall ever meet you must 
 not be cold with me now. 1 ' 
 
 44 The last time ! Not not,'' she falter- 
 ed, 44 the very last. Do not leave me yet. 
 Think of my utter loneliness without my fa- 
 ther," her voice choked. " Philip, think of 
 his last words to you ! " 
 
 44 I have thought of them day and night 
 since the solemn moment when they were 
 spoken." 
 
 44 Yet you leave me ! And he asked you 
 to be my friend." 
 
 Philip released the little fluttering hand he 
 held within his own, and then seated him- 
 self by her side. 
 
 " Marguerite," he said gravely, "your 
 words recall tome my own reproach. When 
 your father spoke to me as lie did, he was 
 ignorant of my marriage ; he knew only my 
 admiration my feelings towards you for 
 that it was impossible for me to conceal ; but 
 he knew not the grave di>lmnor of which [ 
 had been guilty in concealing my marriage." 
 
 11 Dishonor! Oh, Philip, that is no word 
 for you ! " 
 
 44 It expresses my conduct, and is there- 
 fore, a fitting one. This dishonor " 
 
 "No, no," she. cried, eagerly. 44 You 
 had told me of your marriage before be- 
 fore 1 
 
 11 1'icfure I spoke to you of love yes. 
 P>ut I loved you from the first hour that, [ 
 met vou. And while vour innocence, Mar- 
 guerite, rendered your misplaced love hlauie- 
 leM, mine from the beginning was guilty. 
 .Nothing can exonerate me to myself, or 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 109 
 
 lessen my own feelings of self-reproach : and 
 the only way a very poor one in which I 
 can carry out your father's trust, is that on 
 which I have resolved to leave you at once 
 and for ever ! " 
 
 He said all this very fast and resolutely, 
 and Marguerite's eyes filled with heavy tears 
 as she bent aside her head : then both were 
 silent. Philip dared not trust himself to 
 speak, scarcely to look at the sweet, sad 
 profile turned away from him. A torrent of 
 love was ready to burst from his lips, yet he 
 must restrain it, and remember, now in her 
 liour of desolation, tha*t it was dishonor for 
 him even to think of love ; so he sat moodi- 
 ly, his arms folded, and his lips compressed 
 with their sternest expression. At length, 
 Marguerite reached her hand to some flowers 
 Philip had sent her, which stood by her side, 
 and raised them to her lips. 
 
 ** I shall never care for them again when 
 you are gone." 
 
 The mute appeal, the childish submission 
 of her voice, were too much for Earnscliffe. 
 He was on his knees, and his arm around 
 her, in a second. " Oh, Marguerite! must 
 1 leave you ? " 
 
 He looked up at her his dark eyes soft- 
 ening, and his cheek flushed with all the pas- 
 sion of his impulsive nature ; never was his 
 face so dangerously beautiful to Marguerite 
 before. 
 
 " It is hard, Philip. I have loved no one 
 else in the world but my father, who is gone 
 from me, and you. Must we, indeed, part? 
 Think what parting is ! Long years of life 
 cold winter days sweet, warm summer; 
 but not together ! I can hardly bear to 
 think of my life without you; it seems so 
 long and objectless. If 11 she glanced at 
 him timidly " I might be anything else to 
 you I know that I can never be your wife, 
 but your companion, your friend I should 
 give no trouble ; I would follow you [ 
 would care for you when you were tired of 
 the great world, and you would be glad to 
 rwturn home to your poor little Marguerite 
 Philip, may I be this ? She laid her hand 
 upon his arm, and leant forward for his re- 
 ply, until her hair rested upon his cheek. 
 
 Had Marguerite been anything but what 
 she was, Earnscliffe would never have passed 
 through this fiery ordeal of temptation for 
 he was a man, and no faultless one. And, 
 somewhat lax as were his conventional prin- 
 ciples, somewhat undefined his religion, it is 
 doubtful if an abstract idea of right would 
 have prevented him from making Marguerite 
 his, and thus seeking to drown, in the love 
 of her fresh nature, all the past disappoint- 
 ments of his life. But her innocence, her 
 absolute and entire ignorance of the import, 
 even, of her own words, was her shield ; and 
 a stronger one with a man like Earnscliffe, 
 than all the barriers with which society at- 
 tempts to hem in the frail daughters of fash- 
 ion. 
 
 " Marguerite, "he answered, hoarsely, and 
 as though with a strong effort over himself, 
 ' some day, when you are older, you will 
 ook back upon this moment and pity me. 
 You know not the torture your own words 
 cause me ; you know not God forbid you 
 ever should ! the temptation through which 
 I am passing. Alone in the world, thirsting 
 for love that I have never found, you offer 
 me yours, yours in all the fullness of your 
 youth and beauty ; a very heaven is within my 
 grasp, and I must reject it. And the after- 
 recollection that I have acted with honor will 
 ill efface the agony of this mo mmt. You 
 love me, as you can love, in jwur childish 
 simplicity ; you grieve to part from me ; but 
 you cannot understand the bitter sorrow of 
 my breast the strength of my love." And, 
 burying his face in his hands, Philip sobbed 
 aloud. 
 
 Marguerite trembled at this strong emo- 
 tion. As Philip said, she was too young to 
 fathom the nature of his passion ; and the 
 sight of that strong, proud man weeping like 
 a child filled her with a kind of terror. She 
 turned her face upon the pillow, and waited, 
 cold and silent, until tho paroxysm was 
 passed. Then E'irnscliffe uncovered his 
 face, and rose slowly ; n he was deadly pale, 
 and his features were set, almost hard, in 
 their expression. 
 
 * Marguerite, good-bye." 
 "Not yet, Philip; I cannot bear it. At 
 least vou will write to me ? " 
 
 * Xo ; no half measures. You are not to 
 be mine forget me. 1 ' His voice was quite 
 stern as he turned away from her. 
 " And you leave me in anger?" 
 " In anger! my life my love." 
 He caught her in his arms, he pressed her 
 to his breast, he kissed her hair her brow 
 her lips, he called her by names never to be 
 forgotten until Marguerite's last pulse should 
 beat. Then he tore himself away. 
 
 "Philip, I shall die " every vestige of 
 color had ebbed from her face, and her small 
 hands were clenched tightly together " 
 shall die without you. But if you think it 
 right to leave me go. Let me hear from 
 you once let me have one letter of yours to 
 love and treasure and I will* be content. 
 Proaiise me that." 
 
 He promised her. Again he held her to 
 his bosom, and she threw her arms around 
 his neck. She told him she would never 
 love any other but him ; that, distant, she 
 would pray for him. She said a hundred 
 things which, from any lips but hers, might 
 yet have made Earnscliffe swerve. Then 
 gently she quitted him ! " 
 
 " Leave me, Philip ; I am stronger now 
 leave me ! " 
 
 He turned, and obeyed her without a word. 
 She saw him leave the room, heard his hasty 
 step as he descended the stairs, then the 
 heavy house door open and shut after him, 
 heard his steps still in the court-yard, then * 
 
110 
 
 PHILIP EARttSCLIFFE. 
 
 grow fainter and fainter, and was gone. Am 
 the sickening reality of her desolation over 
 came her. 
 
 " Philip, you have left me ! "' 
 
 Had he heard that tone had he seen the 
 anguish of her young face, the hopeless mis- 
 ery in which she sank back upon the couch 
 white, and cold, and tearless even then his 
 purpose might have failed him ! But Philip 
 returned no more ; and that evening, when 
 the twilight gathered over Kersaint, anc 
 Marguerite, attended only by her faithfu 
 servant, was weeping out her very heart in 
 the same room where Philip left her, he was 
 already far on his way to Paris. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 LOVE and its sorrows undoubtedly weigh 
 more lastingly upon women than men. No 
 man ever yet broke his heart for love, al- 
 though some few may bear the scars of dis- 
 appointment to their grave. The world, 
 ambition a thousand channels are open to 
 turn the mind from what, after all, is more 
 a pastime with most men than a serious oc- 
 cupation ; and, in nine cases out of ten, 
 other loves lighter ones, it may be spring 
 up to replace the first and pure one. But 
 women, in solitude and tears, hug this kind 
 of grief to their hearts ; and. from their lack 
 of any other engrossing pursuit, think un- 
 ceasingly upon the forbidden fruit whose 
 taste once changed their life into a paradise, 
 until it becomes even sweeter in recollection 
 than reality. Men may feel as much, but 
 they show 'it differently; and had Marguer- 
 ite been able to see Philip, three days after 
 he left her, at a large dinner in Paris more 
 gay and sparkling than ever, she would cer- 
 tainly have accused him. and unjustly, of for- 
 getting her. 
 
 Philip found many bachelor friends in 
 Paris on his arrival young London men, 
 who contrive to form a society of their own 
 then; when all the Paris world is in the coun- 
 try and he entered into their life with a fe- 
 verish kind of desire to escape from him.-el!' 
 and his own thoughts. The St. Legers, too, 
 li:i]ip"iii;d to be in Paris at the time; and the 
 idea, in itself, of being near his wife was 
 ciuiM^li to goad him almost to madness in 
 his pn-M-iit excited iiuiiMl, and make him lly 
 to any dissipation for forget fulness. 
 
 Let NTS from England awaited him. lie 
 had given his aiMre.s.s at Kersaint to no one; 
 but a host of notes, left at his lodgings in 
 town niter his hasty departure, with one or 
 two kind letters from old Miles, had been 
 forwarded to the I'.in> au'ent of his publisher 
 as he directed before leaving England. There 
 were ;i do/en despairing notes from id.-e 
 Elmslie, full of regrets that he should have 
 
 misinterpreted her, and reproaches at his ab- 
 rupt departure, et cetera-, but Philip could 
 scarcely read them through, and flung aside 
 the last without finishing it to the end. Had 
 he done so, a certain tone of sincerity in her 
 hints at some desperate purpose might have 
 struck him ; but, after the love of Marguer- 
 ite St. John, he was in no mood for the sen- 
 timentalities of Miss Rose ; and even a few 
 kind lines from little Fridoline were thrown, 
 half-read, into the pile of letters, carelessly 
 torn up, which lay on Philip's table the day 
 he left Paris. 
 
 For it was in vain he strove to forget Mar- 
 guerite. Her girlish figure, her sweet, lov- 
 ing face rose beside him continually ; and after 
 a weary fortnight of sleepless nights and hea- 
 vy days, Philip started for Switzerland- pale, 
 haggard, and out of health, and having of- 
 fended all his old friends with his querulous 
 moods and odd outbreaks of temper. 
 
 The resting place he chose was a little 
 hamlet nearMeran. It was now the time of 
 early vintage ; and in those southern nights, 
 when the purple mountains stood in their 
 clear softness upon the cloudless sky, and 
 the silence so peculiarly solemn among 
 mountains was around, EarnsclifFe's thoughts 
 became calmer than they had been for weeks. 
 The anxiety and excitement he had gone 
 through, during the time of Mr. St. John's 
 death, and Marguerite's illness, had physical- 
 ly weakened him; but, as the mountain air 
 restored his old elasticity of frame, his mind 
 returned more into its habitual state, until, 
 at length, he was able soberly to reason with 
 himself upon his last and deepest disappoint- 
 ment, and look forward to life from this fresh 
 starting-post; for every real disappointment 
 is an era from whence a man must, in some 
 measure, start anew, either for better or 
 worse. 
 
 He lingered among the Italian lakes, still 
 shunning every English person with whom he 
 came in contact, and spending whole, days, 
 and often nights, in an open boat upon the 
 water, alone, and silent ; l>ut, perhaps, once 
 nore happier then he would have chosen to 
 relieve. In the autumnal nights, the air 
 icavy with voluptuous odors from orange and 
 nyrtle groves on shore, under the rich, deep 
 sky of the south and still with Marguerite 
 n fancy beside him, and her soft hand in his 
 I am disinclined to think that Mr. Earns- 
 lill'e was utterly miserable. His youth was 
 ,'et too strong within him lor beauty, \vheth- 
 r human or that of Nature, to have lost all 
 ts old power. Although his truest love was 
 _nme fur ever, and the world and ambition 
 vere no longer what they had been, his 
 emperameiit was still a poet's, and too keen- 
 v alive to external enjoyment liir existence 
 o be as really dark as he hail pictured it. 
 
 At Milan lie found a long, kin. 1 letter I'roiu 
 Veville, full of busy projects for their CIIMI- 
 n ir winter together; and late one I>eccm- 
 bJr night, Philip first saw the spectral dome 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 of St. Peter's loom before him in the star- 
 light. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYII 
 
 BUT with Marguerite life went differently. 
 She wept for Philip until she could literally 
 weep no more wept with an intensity of 
 grief unusual in one so young, and rendered 
 more touching by her perfect gentleness and 
 submission of character. The doctor wished 
 to remove her from Kersaint to his own house 
 for a few weeks prior to her departure for 
 England, but this she so earnestly opposed, 
 that he was forced to let her have her own 
 wish and remain. 
 
 As the time wore on when she was to leave 
 France, she scarcely spent an hour of the 
 day within doors. Her bodily strength had 
 somewhat returned, and she would sit alone 
 among the rocks for hours, or wander over 
 the walks she had taken with Philip, and 
 pluck the few autumn flowers she could find 
 to be dried and carried with her to England. 
 In the evening Manon made her a bright 
 wood fire in the library, as in old days ; and 
 she would remain there for two or three hours, 
 never reading or working, but sitting on her 
 low stool, gazing in the fire, her head resting 
 on the arm of her father's empty chair, with 
 Bello crouching by her side. 
 
 Marguerite had written several times to 
 her cousin in reply to his letters ; and begged 
 that her father's books, and the old pictures 
 might not be sold. " The only things I care 
 to keep, 11 she had said. And Dan by promised 
 they should be sent after her to England. But 
 she looked upon her father's dog so entirely 
 in the light of a friend, that it never occurred 
 to her that he could be left behind, and had 
 not even mentioned to Danby that she 
 would bring a large deer hound to his 
 house. 
 
 The evening before her departure arrived, 
 and as she sat, tearless and wan, before the 
 fire, thinking drearily of the morrow and of 
 her long journey alone, poor Bello suddenly 
 gave one of his quick, impatient barks, and 
 licked her hand ; looking up into her face 
 at the s.ime time, as though to show that he 
 could understand and sympathise with her 
 sorrow. " Bello," she said, laying her 
 arm round his neck, " I must not forget 
 you. You are the only thing left to me." 
 
 "And I, mademoiselle?" exclaimed Ma- 
 non, who sat watching her with the devouring, 
 eager look of a mother about to be parted 
 from her own child. * What will be left to 
 me ? " 
 
 "My poor Manon! But, at least, you 
 will not leave France ; you will even remain 
 at Kersamt until until the old place is sold, 
 
 and afterwards you are to live at Jean d'Au- 
 bret's cottage, where you will have the bright 
 sea before you, and even see the roofs of Ker- 
 sairit in the distance. Oh ! you will be better 
 off than me." 
 
 '* Mademoiselle, you have been too jrener- 
 ous, and by your noble father's recollection of 
 me, and with my own savings, I shall be well 
 off, and never require to work again. I ana 
 grateful to the bon Dieu for his mercy ! But, 
 child, what is this if I am to lose you ? For 
 sixteen years, little one, I have nursed and 
 watched, and not one night or day been 
 without you. Sixteen years rand after to- 
 morrow I shall be alone. I shall never hear 
 your voice never look upon your face again. 
 Oh, child ! I did not think I was to lose you 
 thus. If things had been as I hoped, 
 
 and " 
 
 *' Manon," interrupted Marguerite, has- 
 tily, " I know what you would say; do not 
 give me the pain of hearing it. Speak of 
 nothing but your love for me to-night. God 
 knows I need to be told of it ! I am not 
 likely to meet with such love again ; " and, 
 going to her side, she laid her head upon 
 Manon's shoulder, and was silent. Her 
 grief seemed now of that dull, heavy nature 
 which cannot admit of the relief of tears. 
 
 " It pains you, ma mie," pursued Manon, 
 '* that I should speak of ce monsieur, but I 
 will do so nevertheless. How can I tell that 
 you will never meet him again, or others like 
 him, in his own country? and I choose to 
 warn my darling against such men. I am a 
 poor, rough peasant ; I know little of great 
 people, and, Heaven be praised ! less of 
 love ; but I could not be your father's ser- 
 vant for twenty years without learning what 
 the honor of a gentleman is like and Mon- 
 sieur Earnscliffe was not so." 
 
 " Manon, you forget yourself! " inter- 
 rupted Marguerite, starting to her feet, and 
 drawing up her stately young figure to its 
 full height. " You forget yourself strange- 
 ly in presuming to judge of Mr. Earnscliffe 
 or his actions ! I knew long ago of of 
 that he was married ; and, even if he had 
 never mentioned it, how could it have signi- 
 led to us ? None but you, Manon, would 
 lave ever indulged in dreams of my becom- 
 ng his wife ! He dishonorable ! you don't 
 know what you are saying you. speak in 
 your ignorance ! " 
 
 She turned proudly away ; but her heart 
 :,hrobbed painfully while she was speaking. 
 A sudden thought flashed across her that 
 there might be some truth in Manon's words, 
 although she had always disbelieved Philip's 
 self-accusations ; and that thought was agony 
 ;o her. She would rather have been guilty 
 lerself than have doubted him. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," returned Manon, meek- 
 y, " this is the last evening we shall ever bo 
 ;ogether, and for the first time in your lifo 
 fou have spoken harshly to me." 
 
 "You spoke against him, Manon. ! " 
 
112 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 " Why should you care, ma mie? he is 
 married." 
 
 " I know it; you need not remind me so 
 often that I am nothing to him. But that 
 does not prevent me from remembering Mr. 
 EarnscliSe with with respect and admira- 
 tion." 
 
 " Ah, mademoiselle, you are very young; 
 forget him." 
 
 Marguerite bent her head, and gazed long 
 upon the red embers. She was thinking of 
 tlif evening when she and Philip stood, side 
 "by side, in the fire-light, and she had listen- 
 ed for the first time to that voice, whose 
 slightest sound was afterwards such music to 
 her. She thought of all that had happened 
 since then the new light that had opened 
 upon her in his love, and her own her fa- 
 ther's death Philip's departure. All passed 
 "before her vaguely and dream-like, but leav- 
 ing, a dull shadow behind each as it passed 
 away, while she seized in the red embers. 
 
 44 Forget him ! " she repeated, after a long 
 silence, and startling Manon with her solemn 
 tone. " Would God I could forget him ! " 
 
 She reseated herself in her old place, and 
 began speaking of other things. " Manon, 
 while you are here do not neglect my flowers, 
 and when strangers come to Kersaint, if 
 there is any young girl among them, ask her 
 to take care of my white rose-tree. And 
 Manon, be kind to Bruno now, he will have 
 no other friend left, and if I can, I will try 
 to send him some money, poor creature ! 
 Tell Bon Aflfut I am gone, and wish him 
 pood-bye for me; and, above, all, take the 
 Blaisots the presents I have laid aside for 
 them. Say to Monsieur le Cure, I had only 
 a few books to send him, but I hope he will 
 in- vcr forget me, nor cease to pray for me. 
 And Manon, dear Manon, do not grieve too 
 much for me when I am gone. We may 
 meet again sooner than we expect, and I 
 will write to you as often as I have anything 
 to say ; and if I am ever rich," she tried to 
 smile, " you shall come and be my servant." 
 
 Manon strove vainly to repress her tears, 
 and speak cheerfully of the future. Ever 
 and anon a sob choked her utterance, as the 
 reality of the approaching separation forced 
 itself upon her; and at ten o'clock glad of 
 any excuse for action she made M arguerile 
 leave the study and go to rest, reminding 
 her of the early hour at which she muM si art 
 next morning. Then Manon undressed her, 
 as in old days when she wa* a little child, 
 and afterwards sat by the bedside, talking to 
 her of her mother, and of long past times, 
 until, at length. Marguerite's eyes grew 
 heavy, ;md -lie slept. 
 
 lint M;inon watched all that night count- 
 ed every breath of her child as she hung 
 Over her in her sleep saw, at length, tin- 
 cold glimmering of the day that was to di- 
 vide them ; and not until she. had kis-ed 
 Margiierit" fur the last time in the diligence, 
 and returned again to the solitary inanoir, 
 
 did she give way to her own passionate out- 
 burst of sorrow. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Est ce que cela vous gfrne, monsieur? " 
 
 " M'lis du tout, mademoiselle ! " with a po- 
 lite smile, as Bello extended his length in the 
 coupe of the diligence, and crushed up the 
 feet of the Frenchman who was Marguerite's 
 travelling companion. 
 
 " Du tout! Few things inconvenience 
 me." And the speaker, a ferociously ugly lit- 
 tle man, threw himself back in his seat, and 
 began to sing. " You like music, 1 am sure, 
 you must like it, with your face ? Then 
 your voyage will be a pleasant one, for sing- 
 ing is my forte." 
 
 His voice was worse than his face ; but his 
 utter, his appalling cheerfulness, so to speak, 
 aroused Marguerite in spite of herself. Ev- 
 ery small hamlet, every wretched clump of 
 houses that they passed, her companion let 
 down the window. 
 
 " Co7iducteur, how do they call this place? 
 Ah ! " evidently not hearing the reply, " very 
 well. How near are we to St. Malo? " 
 
 " Half a league nearer than when mon- 
 sieur inquired last." 
 
 " Just so ah ! " (Back in his place again.) 
 " Pardon, mademoiselle! your dog does not 
 bite, I believe ; just so. * Le plaisir d' lire 
 un soldatS I never was in the army though, 
 mademoiselle. It is right to tell you that; 
 for my appearance is military, and might 
 mislead. No, I have served my country in 
 another way. Conducteur, liola ! -where 
 does one breakfast ? " 
 
 And so on for about two hours, until they 
 stopped before the one hotel of a small dirty 
 town. 
 
 "Mademoiselle does not descend?" as 
 Marguerite declined getting out. " But it 
 is unheard of impossible on this raw morn- 
 ing to travel fasting. I implore I en- 
 treat " But Marguerite was firm ; and 
 
 the little man, "desolated" at her refusal, 
 ran in to breakfast alone. However, in a 
 few minutes he returned with coffee and a 
 roll * Mademoiselle, I supplicate you to 
 eat." 
 
 His ugly face was so earnest that Marguer- 
 ite took the coffee to please him, and was 
 better for it. The poor child had not been 
 able to touch a morsel before leaving Ker- 
 saint, and was actually faint from fasting and 
 all the tears she had shed. 
 
 " 1 am better now,' 1 she said, timidly, when 
 thev were once more on the road ; " the cof- 
 fee has refreshed me." 
 
 11 Mademoiselle ! " returned the French- 
 man, solemnly, " you are very young, very 
 young sixteen years, perhaps ; lam forty- 
 t\vo; an immense dilfci encr a liletime. in 
 fact ; permit that I give you u counsel. You 
 are doulitless a young person of sensibility, 
 so \vas I. You' have had sorrows already 
 probably, not greater than mine were. You 
 love music, so do 1. There is then 
 
PHILIP EAPvXSCLIFFE. 
 
 113 
 
 similarity of disposition of disposition only ; 
 I am aware of external differences, and also 
 of your thoughts at this moment. You prob- 
 ably consider me the most hideous person you 
 ever saw." 
 
 " Mais, monsieur!" 
 " Deny it ! " 
 " Oh, monsieur ! " 
 
 *' Mademoiselle, you shrink from giving 
 me pain, when, in fact, your admission of 
 my ugliness would be the greatest compli- 
 ment you could pay me. I hate to be like 
 other people, and, as I am not handsome, I 
 am proud of my plainness. It is a distine- 
 t.on, mademoiselle, to be the ugliest man in 
 a society, which I invariably am a very 
 great distinction." He paused, a little out 
 of breath, then resumed with sort of a jerk, 
 "Ah! my counsel to you; pardon me for 
 wandering from my subject ; you did not 
 know I had one, I have though. My coun- 
 sel to you is this. In all your trials, your 
 sorrows, your disappointments for, even 
 with your youth and beauty, you may have 
 them eat and drink. When I was young, I 
 had a dreadful grief, a grief that went to my 
 /heart's core (you can guess its nature, per- 
 haps,) and at first I really thought I should 
 never get over it. But I happened at that 
 time to be staying in Perigueux, and to that 
 circumstance I owe my very life; for a pate 
 de Perigueux accidentally taught me one of 
 the greatest secrets of man's existence. 
 
 ' ' It happened on the third day after my 
 bereavement, I may call it, I came down 
 from my room. I was living in an hotel, the 
 Chene Vert, at the time, pale and haggard ; 
 figure to yourself that I had eaten nothing 
 f for about sixty hours. I entered the salle a 
 manger with no better intention than to have 
 ;one cup of cafe noir, and then go out and 
 -put an end to myself. Well, as luck would 
 have it, neither of the garcons were there, 
 or answered to my call, and I was just leav- 
 ing the room again, when my eyes fell upon 
 the most lovely little breakfast you ever 
 saw, laid out for one person on a side-table. 
 I think I see it now, a pate de Perigueux, a 
 ,cold capon, and a bottle of Chateau Mar- 
 ,gaux. Now, mademoiselle, the devil may 
 .have put it into my head ; but when I saw it 
 all, although I knew it was for a fat old col- 
 onel of dragoons, who came there regularly 
 every morning to breakfast, I resolved to eat 
 .it myself. ' As I shall be a corpse by noon- 
 day, 1 I thought, the old fellow cannot call 
 me out. 1 And with that I sat down and be- 
 ,gan. 
 
 " Ma foi ! I think I taste that pie now. 
 <Never, before or since, have I eaten anything 
 so delicious. I finished the whole of it; I 
 ate half the capon, and I drank the wine. 
 .Then I looked through the window, and saw 
 the colonel coming along, stroking his beard 
 and clanging his sword as he walked. Place 
 aux morts! 1 I thought ; I shall so soon be 
 dead, that it is only "fair a living ma,n shoul I 
 8 
 
 give me his breakfast.' So T jumped up, 
 took my hat, and got out just as my colonel 
 swaggered in, and the waiters all rushed up 
 to show him into the salle. 
 
 " Well, when I got into the streets, every- 
 thing seemed changed. The sun was shining 
 on the old cathedral, the people in the mar- 
 ket looked happy and cheerful, and by the 
 time I had got to the bridge that was to wit- 
 ness my death, I never felt in better spirits in 
 my life. I went back to the hotel, where 
 the old colonel was swearing eternal perdition 
 to the scoundrel who had eaten his breakfast, 
 and frankly confessed my delinquency, and 
 that it had saved my life. And from that day 
 to this I have always known that eating and 
 drinking is a sovereign remedy against bad 
 spirits or misfortune. 
 
 " But, mademoiselle, I have often thought:, 
 from the look of his eye, when he heard my 
 explanation, that greedy old beast of a col- 
 onel would much sooner I had jumped off 
 the highest bridge in France, than have eat- 
 en his breakfast. Such is human nature ! " . 
 
 Marguerite listened, and tried to smile at 
 her companion's stories, but she felt wearied 
 and spiritless. To be alone, and travelling 
 to unknown people, and a new home, was 
 enough in itself to depress her, even had it 
 only been for a visit ; but when continually 
 the thought arose, that she had seen Kersaiat 
 for the last time, and that strange faces and 
 new scenes were henceforth to be her life, 
 the great tears rose in her eyes, and her wan 
 face became paler and paler. Late in the 
 day the diligence stopped at St. Brieux for 
 dinner. 
 
 " Mademoiselle ne descende pas?" again 
 inquired the waiter, in astonishment, as Mar- 
 guerite hesitated. 
 
 44 Certainly," answered the little man at 
 her side, fiercely. " We both descend." 
 
 And Marguerite felt grateful for his pro- 
 tection, as they entered the large room, at 
 which the table d'hote dinner had already (Com- 
 menced, and about twenty bearded faces 
 looked up in visible admiration at her as she- 
 came in. 
 
 "Bring some hot soup," said her smalt 
 companion, when they were seated. " Soup 
 is what you want, mademoiselle,' 1 he whis- 
 pered. " Wine would not suit you, and a 
 choking sensation in your throat prevents 
 you from eating solid food. However, as 
 you pay three francs, whether you eat much 
 or little, you can help yourself from the 
 dishes as they come round, and make over 
 what you don't want to your dog." For Bel- 
 lo, faithful to his old trust of protector, kept 
 close to Marguerite's side, and made angry 
 demonstrations, when the waiters tried to 
 turn him out. 
 
 "I think I shall have to pay for Bello," 
 said Marguerite. " In the diligence they 
 made me pay a coupe place for him." 
 
 "Poor child!" returned the little man^ 
 kindly. ** When you are eu voyage you 
 
114 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 must not pay everything they demand. "\Vas 
 no one with you when you paid for the dog ? " 
 
 " Only Manon, and you know she does 
 not understand travelling." 
 
 "Manon oh, yes! I see. Garcon ! la 
 .carte. Chateau Morgaux La Rose St. 
 Julien that will do. A half-bottle ah ! " 
 Marguerite thought the long dinner would 
 never end, and was astonished at her little 
 companion's powers of reception. Fish, 
 flesh, and fowl, solids and sweets there was 
 room for all ; and when the conducteur of 
 the diligence came in to announce that the 
 horses were ready to start, he emptied two 
 or three dishes of walnuts and bonbons into 
 his pockets, to amuse himself with on the 
 way. 
 
 The shadows soon began to deepen, and 
 in another hour it was night night ! for the 
 first time, and with strangers. Marguerite 
 looked out upon the barren tracts of country 
 through which they were passing, and over 
 which a watery moon occasionally broke forth 
 through the mist, and trembled as the cold 
 autumn wind swept in upon her cheeks. 
 The Frenchman, tired out at last, slept in 
 his corner. Bello lay motionless at her feet, 
 and only the cracking of the condueteur's 
 whip, as they rattled through some solitary 
 village, broke the monotonous rumbling of 
 the wheels. 
 
 Sick and weary, Marguerite laid her head 
 back in the corner of the diligence, and at 
 length an uncertain and restless slumber 
 overcame her. She was roused by a more 
 vigorous cracking of the whip than usual, 
 and the rattling of the wheels over rough 
 pavement ; and looking out, she saw that they 
 were in a town, rolling along narrow, ill-lit 
 streets, and rousing up the peaceful inhabi- 
 tants from their midnight slumbers. They 
 stopped suddenly before the Hotel de France, 
 and the Frenchman awoke with a start. 
 
 ' Sacre Moit ! Where are we? Con- 
 iucteur, are we here ? " 
 
 " Monsieur, we are here." 
 
 " Dieu sait beni ! Mademoiselle, we are 
 in St. Malo." 
 
 He jumped out with his little sac de nuit, 
 his only luggage (it is wonderful with how 
 few changes a Frenchman can travel), and 
 then assisted Marguerite to descend. " How 
 many pieces have you? "he inquired. '* 1 
 will see after your baggage for you." 
 
 11 Nous ne dechargeons pas le soir," said 
 the conducteur, sleepily. 
 
 " But I start early to-morrow by the steam- 
 er for England, 1 ' Marguerite, interposed. 
 
 "All in time!" returned the man, who 
 was now unharnessing the horses. " Kntre/, 
 entrez, mftdflmoueUe." 
 
 " I hope it is all right," she said, turning 
 to her friend. " Manon told me never to 
 lose sight of my things." 
 
 " l>o not f-ar. I will take care of them 
 for you. At what o'clock dors the steamiT 
 tart to-morrow, garcou ? " to the half awaken- 
 
 ed porter, who, candle in hand, was impa- 
 tiently waiting for them to enter. " Cinq 
 heures et demie. Bon ! show mademoiselle 
 to a sleeping-room. I shall remain in the 
 salle," the little man thought. " It is nearly 
 one, now ; and it is not worth paying for a 
 bed for four hours. I can sleep sweetly OQ 
 a chair." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 " CINQ heures, mademoiselle. Vous nYvez 
 qu'un petit quart d'heure pour le dejetiner." 
 
 Marguerite started, and saw a rosy, good- 
 tempered peasant-girl standing by her side. 
 
 " Where am I, Manon? " she exclaimed. 
 
 "You must not delay, mademoiselle I 1 * 
 called out a discordant voice in the passage ; 
 " the steamer starts precisely." The tone 
 recalled to her the events of the past day, 
 and after hastily bathing her face, and smooth- 
 ing back her long, uncurled hair, she followed 
 the bonne down stairs ; and found her little 
 travelling companion awaiting her in the 
 great vacant salle, where some coffee stood 
 ready on the table. 
 
 " Monsieur, I hope you have not risen so 
 early for my sake ? " 
 
 "*Not at all, mademoiselle ; in fact, I have 
 not risen at all, for I perferred not going 
 to bed. Take some breakfast, I entreat: if 
 you are a bad sailor, it will not make you 
 worse to eat ; if you are a good one, it will 
 save you buying it on board, where, as it is 
 an English boat, the coffee will be execrable, 
 and the price enormous." 
 
 Marguerite seated herself, but she could 
 eat verv little. " I wonder where my lug- 
 gage is ? " she suggested, timidly. 
 
 " Give yourself no trouble : I know," said 
 the Frenchman. " Have yon really finished ? 
 Then, mademoiselle, we had better start ; the 
 tide is low, and you must take a small boat." 
 
 Outside the hotel stood a porter, waiting 
 for them, with all Marguerite's luggage. 
 The day was now just beginning to dawn, 
 but the narrow streets were so dark, she 
 would never have made her way without 
 her guide, who gave her his arm, and assisted 
 her over the rough, dirty pavement. At the 
 harbor, a crowd of noisy boatmen assailed 
 them, ami attempted each to seize some of 
 the luggage; but tlie little man waved his 
 hand imperiously, and made his way to a 
 better-looking boat than the rest, into which 
 he helped Marguerite, Hello elosely follow- 
 ing. 
 
 The steam was just up when they reached 
 the vessel, and the Frenchman had only timo 
 to run up the companion-Udder, and seo 
 
 Margin-rite and all her tilings salcly on board 
 before tin- bell rang, and it waa time for him 
 to return. 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 115 
 
 " Monsieur, I cannot thank you sufficient- 
 ly." Marguerite extended her hand. The 
 little man touched it, then bowed low. 
 
 " Here is rny card, mademoiselle," he re- 
 plied, producing a very glossy one from his 
 waistcoat-pocket ; ** and in the vilain pays to 
 which you are going, I shall be too honored 
 if my name is not forgotten in your thoughts 
 the last Frenchman, remember, to whom 
 you have spoken before you exile " 
 
 " Going with us, mounseer? " said a sail- 
 or, jogging his elbow. 
 
 " No, I dank God, sare. I not vis you." 
 
 " Well, you must look sharp, then ; we're 
 just off." 
 
 The Frenchman, with much dignity, de- 
 jcended the ladder, and in another minute 
 'lie steamer was in motion. 
 
 Marguerite glanced at the card, on which 
 was written, " Achille Jules Cesar le Grand, 
 Alarchand Tailleur," and then at the small 
 hero himself, who was sitting in the boat 
 watching her. She waved her hand kindly, 
 *,nd was ashamed to feel the tears come into 
 L**r eyes. " This little tailor is perhaps the 
 b*st person who will show kindness to me," 
 slrfj thought. Just then, another idea flashed 
 across her she had paid nothing in the hotel 
 or boat, and of course Monsieur Achille 
 would be responsible for all, '* and he was 
 too delicate to tell me of it!" she said, as 
 the steamer swept out of the harbor, and he 
 vanished out of her sight. " And only a 
 tailor!" 
 
 Her further reflections upon her own for- 
 getfulness were here interrupted by warlike 
 sounds from Bello, who was resenting the 
 attempts of two sailor lads to remove him 
 from Marguerite's side. 
 
 " Blow the great ugly brute ! " said one ; 
 " whoever heard tell of passengers bringing 
 such as you aboard, before ? " 
 
 " You had better not touch him," inter- 
 posed Marguerite, in her soft, foreign ac- 
 cent; "he is so fierce to strangers! If he 
 must not be here, 1 will go where you like 
 to take him, and he will follow." 
 
 Both lads touched their caps. " We 
 didn't know he belonged to you, miss; 
 there's a regular place for dogs below, but it 
 ain't fit for you to come there." However, 
 Marguerite went with them, and saw Bello 
 safely consigned for the voyage, and then 
 returned to her place. 
 
 It was a fresh autumn morning, with a 
 rising wind from the west ; and the heavy 
 cross sea soon sent the other passengers be- 
 low. But to her the roar of the waters, and 
 the cold spray dashing across her face was 
 delightful, and she remained on deck, silent- 
 ly watching the coast of France until it van- 
 ished in the hazy distance. At about ten 
 o'clock they reached Jersey, where they had 
 to change into a larger steamer, and this time 
 she was forced to see herself after the lug- 
 gage and Bello : no pleasant task for one so 
 young and timid, and /ith the consciousness, 
 
 that she spoke like a foreigner. However) 
 she managed pretty well ; and though no 
 English gentleman came forward to assist, 
 the common sailors were all civil, and touch- 
 ed their hats when they spoke to her. 
 Marguerite was dressed, of course, in the 
 deepest mourning, and, according to the 
 provincial French fashion, a long crape veil 
 nearly reached her feet. But her fresh 
 young face was one that black became ; and 
 a certain air of timidity, perfectly distinct 
 from shyness, joined to her graceful and dig- 
 nified carriage, told even the commonest 
 sailor-boy that, though she was travelling 
 alone, she was of gentle birth. 
 
 There was a great many passengers from 
 Jersey, and some ladies seated themselves 
 beside Marguerite. One of them was young 
 and good-looking, and as the steamer passed 
 along the varied coast of the island, Mar- 
 guerite said to her gently, " It is beautiful, 
 this little island, madame ! " 
 
 The lady stared, and then laughed, and 
 then, with the slightest possible bow, turned 
 away and went on talking to her compan- 
 ions. 
 
 "Heavens! are these Englishwomen ; can 
 they be compatriots of Philip's ? " thought 
 Marguerite. However, this little incident 
 served as a warning to her to speak to no 
 more strangers ; and she sat alone and silent 
 the whole remainder of the day, eating only 
 a few biscuits, and declining to go below to 
 the cabin dinner. 
 
 It was quite dark when they reached 
 Southampton, and, as she had forgotten to 
 mention the exact day when the steamer 
 sailed, no one was there to meet her, and 
 she had alone to disembark and go to an ho- 
 tel, where the enormous bill the next 
 morning made Marguerite blush with shamri 
 as she thought of Monsieur Achille, and 
 wondered if he had paid so much for her at 
 St. Malo. 
 
 " Four shillings for my supper ! I thought 
 I had nothing," she ventured to suggest to 
 the magnificent head-waiter. 
 
 " For D's supper, miss. Allow me to rer 
 fer. Ah ! your large dog ; two more for his 
 breakfast." 
 
 She paid without a word, but hoped, ment 
 tally, meat would not be so dear in London 
 as at Southampton, or her cousin would have 
 to pay a good deal for Bello's keep. 
 
 " Do you have a commissioner to clear 
 your things, miss? He will bring thorn to 
 the station, and save you all trouble." 
 
 " Oh, if you please." 
 
 " And a carriage for yourself? " 
 
 " Certainly." And with all these small 
 expenses, together with similar ones in Lon- 
 don, Marguerite reached her cousin's house 
 with just sufficient money left in her purse to 
 pay the cab, and very nearly dead with the 
 fatigue and excitement she had gone through. 
 
 Danby met her himself at the door. 
 
 "My poor cln'ld, you are heartily wel* 
 
116 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE 
 
 frigi 
 
 come." The kind tone of voice was a pleas- 
 ant surprise to Marguerite, who had pictured 
 him to herself as very different ; and a 
 brighter expression came in her face, as she 
 followed him upstairs to the drawing-room. 
 ** If you had told me what day you were 
 coming, my dear, I should have met you at 
 Southampton." 
 
 "Oh! thank you, sir. I should indeed 
 have been glad to see you on my arrival ; I 
 felt so lonely travelling by myself." 
 
 Danby opened the drawing-room door; 
 and, entering, Marguerite saw her future 
 companions, Mrs. Danby and Georgy, both 
 seated together on the sofa, and looking 
 id and stately. 
 
 The room was not a large one ; the win- 
 dows were hung with rose-lined muslin cur- 
 tains and gilded scrolls, and a rose-colored 
 ilk portiere replaced the old-fashioned fold- 
 ing-doors, communicating with the small 
 back drawing-room (which, when the stained- 
 glass window was open, overlooked the Tav- 
 istock Mews) ; endless trinkets, and gew- 
 gaws, and gaily bound books adorned the 
 table; Chinese monsters of doubtful antiqui- 
 ty, stood on braequets in the corners: a 
 score of family miniatures (most of them 
 picked up in Hanway Street) hung on each 
 side of the mantlepiece ; water-color draw- 
 ings of Miss Georgy's graced the walls. 
 But, in a moment, Marguerite detected the 
 flimsy, bad taste of the room, and saw that 
 neither fresh flowers, nor well read books, 
 nor signs of occupation, gave it the look of 
 home. She glanced at the De Burghs, and 
 knew they were neither of them prepared to 
 like her. 
 
 " Mere is little Marguerite," said Danby, 
 rather nervously. " Mrs. Danby, my dear! 
 your new cousin. 1 ' 
 
 Mrs. Danby extended three languid fin- 
 gers to her " new cousin," and the expres- 
 sion of Georgy's face betokened anything 
 but a hearty welcome. She had troubled 
 herself very slightly about Marguerite, as 
 soon as she found that EarnsclilFe would not 
 accompany her, and only expected to see an 
 awkward country girl of sixteen, who would 
 not be much in her own way, and probably 
 some day go out as a governess ; and when 
 Marguerite entered in all her Hush of strik- 
 ing beauty, and with us much grace of man- 
 ner as though .she had been accustomed to 
 good society from h-r cradle, the surprise 
 was by no means agreeable. She did not 
 want a lovely girl, ten years younger than 
 herself, to attract away the attention of the 
 few men they managed to get at the lmu>e, 
 knd at once foresaw a desperate rival in 
 Margin-rite. 
 
 " How do you do, Miss St. .John ? You 
 must excuse my surprise ; but from vmir 
 h-tler.-, we expected quite a little girl." 
 
 "Ah!" returned Marguerite, in her rich 
 voi'-i- and foreign accent, " I expre^ mv 
 Knglish, so ill ; no doubt you thought my 
 
 letter childish; but I am, indeed, sixteen 
 sixteen and a few days. 11 
 
 " You look very much older." 
 
 "Yes? Oh! I do not look at all old 
 without my bonnet." 
 
 " You have, your father's eyes, child,'* 
 said Danby, very kindly. 
 
 The little speech went to Marguerite's 
 heart, and she turned and kissed the old 
 man's cheek: "Oh, cousin! he so often 
 spoke of you." she whispered, while the 
 ready tears gathered in her eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Danby tossed her head, and Georgy 
 said something about scenes. Marguerite 
 looked very calmly from one to the other. 
 She knew intuitively they did not like her, 
 and drew nearer to Danby, as to her only 
 friend. 
 
 " You must be very tired, dear," he wen't 
 on, " after your long journey. Dinner will 
 be ready in about an hour. Georgy, take 
 your cousin to her room." 
 
 Very slowly Miss Georgy rose ; and she 
 was leisurely approaching Marguerite when 
 the door burst open, and in Hew Bello, near- 
 ly upsetting two great china jars as he en- 
 tered, and leaving marks of his muddy feet 
 upon the carpet. Dauby was very timid 
 with dogs it amounted almost to a peculi- 
 arity with him and he exclaimed as loud 
 as the two women at the intruder. 
 
 " Poor Bello ! " said Marguerite, quietly ; 
 "it is all so strange to him ; but he will 
 soon get used to vou." 
 
 " Miss St. John," exclaimed Mrs. Danby, 
 actually rising from the sofa with outraged 
 dignity. " You do not mean that that mon- 
 ster is yours ? " 
 
 " Undoubtedly he is, madame." 
 
 " And you have brought him with you to 
 this house?" 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " My dear," interrupted Danby, " there 
 must be some mistake ! You cannot mean 
 that you wish that very large hound to be- 
 come my guest. 
 
 " Cousin, he was my father's favorite 
 his constant companion." 
 
 " Oh ! was he ? Ah, poor Percy ! Well, 
 we will see/ 1 
 
 Danby fidgeted about, and winced as Bel- 
 lo glared savagely at him and showed his 
 teeth. 
 
 " But, to tell the truth," he went on, 
 more resolutely, " 1 am not loud of dogs/' 
 
 " Not fond of dogs ? Oh! sir, you must 
 like Piello. When once he knows you well, 
 he will be so faithful ! It. is his very sagaci- 
 ty that prevents Ins taking to strangers." 
 
 "Yes, exactly; but in the meantime " 
 
 " In the meantime, 11 interruplcd Mrs. 
 Danby, "you will recollect. Miss Si . Jolin, 
 I dii ; t allow such creatures in my drawing- 
 room. What your cousin may permit in his 
 sitting-room, I know not ! 11 
 
 " fVrliaps \Vilkiiw likes dogs," hesitated 
 poor Dauby. 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE 
 
 117 
 
 "Perhaps something temporary might 
 be arranged in the coal-hole," cried Miss 
 Georgy, wittily. 
 
 Marguerite looked from one to the other 
 of the speakers, her dark eyes dilating, and 
 her lips parted. She really scarcely under- 
 stood them at first. That 'any one profess- 
 ing regard for her father should hesitate at 
 the slight inconvenience of receiving his dog, 
 was something she could not believe ; but at 
 Miss Georgy 's remark, and the sneer accom- 
 panying it, her cheek flushed crimson. 
 
 "'Am I to have a room to myself? " she 
 said, turning to Danby. 
 
 " Of course, of course, my dear, and " 
 
 " Then, please may Bella come with me? 
 He shall trouble no one else." 
 
 44 That brute in one of the bed-rooms ! " 
 said Mrs. Danby. 
 
 " Oh, madame ! would you turn him into 
 the streets? He is old, and will not live 
 very long, and he is all remaining to me of 
 my home." 
 
 "Mrs. Danby turned away coldly from the 
 supplicating young face, and addressed her 
 husband. 
 
 " Just settle all this as you like, Mr. Dan- 
 by; but spare me any more scenes with this 
 young person for the future. I am not in a 
 state to bear these shocks on my nerves ; 
 and as it is, I shall be ill and unstrung for 
 the rest of the day. And, Mr. Danby, sir " 
 (her voice became prophetically shrill) , 
 " turn out that creature, that monster, and 
 take away the young person I am faint- 
 ing ; " and this excellent woman sank back 
 hysterically on the sofa. 
 
 So Danby himself showed Marguerite to 
 her room, a very small one, overlooking ex- 
 tensive ranges of chimney-pots, with a dis- 
 tant glimpse of the Foundling Hospital, and 
 a mews in the foreground. And here, with 
 Bello crouching by her side, she wept like a 
 child, as she was, at her first coming to her 
 new home. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 " AND why did not Mr. Earnscliffe bring 
 you ! " was Georgy's first distinctly-addressed 
 question to Marguerite in the course of the 
 evening. " I thought, he was such a great 
 friend, he would not have let you travel 
 alone ! " 
 
 The sudden mention of his name made 
 Marguerite color up, and start, in a manner, 
 that, caused Georgy to fix her eyes searching- 
 ly upon her face, and draw all sorts of con- 
 clusions in a moment. 
 
 " Mr. Earnscliffe had left, he was only 
 paying us a visit." 
 
 " Returned to England? Shall you know 
 him in London, then ? " 
 
 "Oh, no!" replied Marguerite, very 
 quickly. "I shall not see him any more; 
 he is going to Italy, to remain abroad some 
 years." 
 
 " Ah ! I never thought it would be much 
 of an acquaintance ! " said Mrs. Danby scorn- 
 fully from her throne on the sofa. 
 
 But Georgy, with sharper eyes, saw that 
 it had been an intimate acquaintance, and 
 that Marguerite winced at the name. " Tell 
 us what Earnscliffe is like ? " she went on, 
 happy in her power of making the poor 
 child's face blush and her eyes fill. " I have 
 seen him, but not near. Is he very good- 
 looking? " 
 
 " Yes," said Marguerite, in a low voice, 
 and gazing straight into the fire, round 
 which they were sitting; "he is considered 
 very handsome." 
 
 " Considered? but what do you think? " 
 
 " I I hardly know, madame." 
 
 "/Madame! 1 " said Georgy, laughing 
 rudely. " It is not the fashion in England 
 to call young ladies ' madame.' How long 
 did he stay with you? " she went on, relent- 
 lessly. 
 
 "Three months altogether." 
 
 "A visit of three months goodness! 
 What was there to amuse him ? had you any 
 neighbors, or parties ? " 
 
 " Oh, no," replied Marguerite, hoping to 
 escape from speaking of Philip ; "we knew 
 no one but the cure and the doctor, and I 
 never went to a party in my life." 
 
 " No one would say it from her manner," 
 Danby ventured to remark. 
 
 " No ; there are some people without any 
 natural timidity," replied his wife; "and 
 Miss St. John appears to be of them." 
 
 "But how did you amuse Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe?" went on Georgy, untiring in her 
 sport. 
 
 " He never wanted to be amused ; he was 
 perfectly happy, conversing with my father, 
 or wandering through our wild woods with 
 me," replied Marguerite, turning her large, 
 dark eyes full upon Miss de Burgh. " Our 
 life was delightful to him after having had so 
 much of society in London." 
 
 Utterly unused to what English young la- 
 dies term " quizzing," Marguerite had de- 
 tected the bent of Georgy's inquiries ; and 
 her spirit rose at the idea of being cross- 
 examined. 
 
 " Oh, how pastoral ! " returned Miss 
 Georgy, with a sneer. "From all I have 
 heard of Earnscliffv, he must be just the 
 kind of man for these innocent pleasures and 
 companionships ! " 
 
 "And who has educated you, dear?" 
 said Danby, upon whom this little by-play 
 was lost; " for educated I am sure you are/' 
 
 " My father taught me in English for two 
 hours every day," replied Marguerite, 
 "while he was strong enough to do any- 
 thing ; and monsieur le cure has taught me 
 in French from my infancy." 
 
113 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLTFFE. 
 
 ** Monsieur le cure!" interrupted Mrs. 
 Danby. " I trust, sir," addressing her hus- 
 band, " that you have not introduced a papist 
 into this house ? " 
 
 " "You are not a papist, my dear?" said 
 Danby, nervously " surely you cannot be 
 one ! " 
 
 "Papist, sir?" 
 " Yes ; a Roman Catholic." 
 " Oh, no! Much as I admire their form 
 of worship, I have been brought up to mv 
 father's faith." 
 
 "Admire their form of worship!" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Danby, with pious horror. 
 " Idolatrous wretches ! " 
 
 "Ma, I wish you would drop those ex- 
 pressions," interrupted Georgy ; " they are 
 so wounding to the feelings of persons of 
 Catholic spirit." 
 
 "Oh, Lord! if they have, begun that 
 ejaculated Danby, his head sinking hopeless- 
 ly between his hands. " Marguerite, do you 
 know the difference between Anglicans and 
 Evangelicals? because you soon will, if you 
 are uninformed on the subject." 
 
 It was a singular thing that Mrs. Danby 
 and her daughter, being both so perfectly 
 worldly, as people in general would judge, 
 and having lexl a life abroad the reverse of 
 devout, should now consider it incumbent 
 upon them both to entertain very strong doc- 
 trinal opinions, for which they were ready, 
 at all times and all places, to do battle. 
 Each had her own church, her pet parson. 
 Mrs. Danby attended a crowded West-end 
 chapel, where an eloquent young extempore 
 preacher, of sleek face and white-handed 
 appearance set forth to a fashionable congre- 
 gation the hottest amount of low-church doc- 
 trine that could be diluted into a discourse 
 of an hour and a quarter; and, with great 
 self-complacency on the subject of his own 
 election, pronounced judgment each Sunday 
 on the heathenish idolatry and perfect cer- 
 tainty of perdition of the larger majority of 
 Christendom. And Miss Georgy frequented 
 a certain mysterious church, where the dim 
 light scarcely enabled young ladies to read 
 the illuminated letters on their gilt prayer- 
 books, and where intoning, and candles, and 
 flowers, and chorister-boys, gave much 
 M-andal to a Protestant churchwarden and 
 the mass of the parishoners. As may be 
 imagined, the ladies' opinions clashed not a 
 little; and as both were very firm, and both 
 invited their spiritual directors very frequent- 
 ly, a good many passages of arms were the 
 result. 
 
 "I never heard of either Anglican or 
 Evangelical," said Marguerite, in answer to 
 Danln 's question. " My father was < 'hurch 
 land. 11 
 
 *' Oli. that is quite old-fashioned now, my 
 dear. However I am old-fashioned myself, 
 and I will take you to WeslminMer Abbey, 
 for you to hear the English service, next 
 
 Sunday. Of course you have never heard 
 our Liturgy ? " 
 
 " Only read by my father; but it scarcely 
 could sound more beautiful than that. We 
 used to have our service together every Sun- 
 day evening." 
 
 " Well, I am glad to hear you were 
 brought up with English ideas, and have not 
 got into the foreign ways of breaking Sun- 
 day," Danby observed. 
 
 "Oh, Sunday was always such a happy 
 day in my childhood," said Marguerite, her 
 face gladdening as she spoke. " In winter, 
 Manbn and I used to dance in the great salle ; 
 in summer, when father was well enough, we 
 made excursions into the woods, Manon and 
 all, and dined under the trees ; then, after- 
 wards, I would sit making wreaths of the 
 wild flowers we had gathered on the way, 
 
 while I sang songs and " 
 
 " Danced ! sung songs ! made wreaths, 
 my dear ! Are you speaking of Sunday ? " 
 "Yes, sir; it was our fete-day God's 
 day, father told me the day of happiness." 
 "Hum!" answered Mr. Danby, shaking 
 his head doubtfully, while the two extremes 
 of church opinion exchanged looks, and met 
 for once in this condemnation of such a fla- 
 grant case of immorality, Mrs. Danby de- 
 precating with her hand as though to say 
 that the state of this young woman was, in- 
 deed, past recall. 
 
 " When you are at Rome, act like the Ro- 
 mans." 
 
 At Wiesbaden and Mainz the De Burghs 
 had flaunted, many a score of times, in gay 
 silks and bonnets, to listen to military bands 
 on a Sunday afternoon ; but they were now 
 in England, which made a very great dif- 
 ference, and they both regarded Marguerite 
 with the fierce eyes of outraged excellence. 
 
 " But," pursued Danbv, wishing to smoth- 
 er over everything, " 1 am sure you will con- 
 form to English opinion now, and not dance 
 or sing on Sundays. It might be very well 
 
 in those wild places, but " 
 
 " Ah, sic," interrupted Marguerite, mourn- 
 fully, "you need not tell me: I shall never 
 Irish to do either here. Those were in the 
 happy times before my father was so ill." 
 
 " And can yon speak French pretty well ? " 
 Georgy inquired. 
 
 "Oh," replied Marguerite, in French, "it 
 is much more familiar to me than Knglish. 
 1 greatly prefer speaking it.;" and she con- 
 tinued talking with that perfectly French in- 
 tonation and accent to which no foreigner 
 can ever attain. 
 
 " It is no gift," (leorgy interrupted. "Of 
 course, when you are born and brought up 
 in the country, it would be very strange if 
 \oii could not >peak the language ! Can you 
 sing or play ? " 
 
 " I have not l.-arnt the pi.mo yet, but, I 
 can play accompaniments to my songs on tho 
 guitar, and 1 have a very good voice." 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 119 
 
 " And no bad opinion of yourself," Geor- 
 gy added, half aloud. 
 
 " It is fortunate Miss St. John has such 
 confidence in her own power," Mrs. Danby 
 remarked; "her accomplishments she will 
 probably find needful in her future walk of 
 life. A French accent, above all is desirable 
 for a governess. Oh ! how wearied I am ! 
 
 And rising with languid dignity, the mis- 
 tress of the establishment rang the bell, and 
 then commanded a hungry-looking young 
 housemaid, with much asperity, " to summon 
 the servants " i. e., Wilkins and an unhap- 
 py attempt at a page " to evening read- 
 ings." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE winter and spring passed by, and 
 Marguerite became at least accustomed to 
 her life. Mrs. Danby and her daughter 
 both disliked her in their own way, and 
 strove to make her home as miserable as 
 possible, in the hope of forcing her to go out 
 as a governess ; but Dauby loved his little 
 cousin, and in the absence of his step-daugh- 
 ter at her gaieties, or of his wife during her 
 fancied illnesses, Marguerite was his only 
 companion. 
 
 She liked him, and was grateful ; but, as 
 she lold Earnscliif'e, hers was not a nature 
 readily to take to strangers ; and even had 
 any of her new associates been more refined 
 or congenial than they were, she would have 
 been long in becoming attached to them. 
 
 As it was, Georgy, whose nearer approach 
 to her own age naturally attracted Marguer- 
 ite the most, continually jarred upon her. 
 But Mrs. Danby repulsed her even more. 
 The inanition, the selfishness of this woman's 
 life was something so new to Marguerite, 
 after the gentle, uncomplaining sufferings of 
 her own father, that she could scarcely even 
 assume a tone of sincerity in inquiring after 
 her -fancied complaints, and in time rarely 
 entered the drawing-room, where Mrs. Dan- 
 by passed her time between her tawdry 
 morning callers, and homoeopathic doctors. 
 When the weather was fine, Danby took her 
 long walks about London, to show her the 
 sights, with most of which she was very dis- 
 appointed. The Exchange, and the Tower, 
 and the Bank, seen ankle-deep in mud, and 
 through chocolate fogs, were so unlike the 
 London that Philip had described, and she 
 imagined ! And Danby was often quite sur- 
 prised at her very mild enthusiasm. 
 
 " Is this the best part of London that we 
 have seen, Cousin? is there nothing more? " 
 asked Marguerite, one February afternoon, 
 when Danby had shown her Regent Street, 
 and Piccadilly, and Trafalgar Square, and 
 they were walking koine in the dusk. 
 
 "Nothing more?" Why, child, what 
 would you have ? I thought, after passing all 
 your life in a ruined old French house in 
 Brittany, anything would appear grand." 
 
 "Ah! that was home. But then I im- 
 agined London so different to what it is. Mv 
 own childish fancy misled me I suppose." 
 
 " I am afraid you are not happy in your- 
 self, dear, and therefore nothing appears 
 bright." 
 
 " Oh ! I am happy with you, Cousin. Our 
 evenings are very pleasant together in your 
 own room, when the others are out, and 
 poor Bello may lie before the fire. It was 
 very kind of you to let me keep him, and to 
 tell me nothing of your own antipathy to 
 dogs. I should be very miserable without 
 Bello!" 
 
 " Urn the dog is old." 
 
 "Yes; I sometimes think he will not live 
 very long ; the air is so different for him 
 here ; and then living down in the area, you 
 see, instead of wandering where he likes " 
 
 " Well, my dear, you know that I have 
 tried to have him more up-stairs ; but " 
 
 " Yes, Cousin, you have been very kind 
 in that, as in everything else. You always 
 try to take my part ; and, as the others do 
 not like me, I am sure that my presence does 
 not make you any happier in your own house. 
 It would be fir better for rne to go out as a 
 governess, Miss Georgy says, and perhaps 
 she is right; but, then, I do not like to leave 
 Bello. Do you think I might take him with 
 me if I was a governess, cousin ? " 
 
 The childish gravity with which she asked 
 the question made Danby smile ; but it quick- 
 ly faded from his face, and he replied" Mar- 
 guerite, you would not speak of becoming 
 a governess if you knew how deeply it 
 wounds my feelings to hear you. As I have 
 told you, it was through me that your father 
 became poor; and while I have a home you 
 shall never leave it. Besides this, you are 
 in no dependent position. When Kersaint 
 is sold, and the money it realises invested, 
 you will have a nice little income of your 
 own enough, on my death, with what I 
 shall leave you, to 'live very comfortably. 
 If you never marry, little Maggy ! you are 
 not quite an old maid yet, you know." 
 
 " I shall soon be seventeen, sir. How 
 time goes on ; It seems only yesterday that 
 I was a child." 
 
 " And, pray, what do you consider your- 
 self now ? " 
 
 " Well, Miss Georgy says that I look two- 
 and-twenty, and have such an old manner ! " 
 
 " Does she? It struck me Georgy looked 
 very glum the other evening at their grand 
 reunion, as they call it, when you, in your 
 black frock and the flower I gave you, 
 attracted so much attention from all her 
 friends." 
 
 " I wished afterwards I had not appear- 
 ed," replied Marguerite. " I never will 
 again, but Mrs. Danby told me to do so, and 
 
120 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 said my singing would make the party ' go- 
 off/ " 
 
 " Georgy's quondam admirer, that long- 
 t'oated young parson, seemed to have a good 
 deal to'say to you, Maggy." 
 
 "Mr. Ignatius Shirley? Oh, cousin, he 
 told me I was a true Anglican ! I had no 
 idea of it before. And then, when 1 was 
 describing our cathedral at home, he stared 
 BO in my face, and repeated some half-sacred 
 lines, that yet seemed to apply to me. I 
 could not understand him." 
 
 "Nor could Georgy either, I take it. She 
 told me the next morning you were a thorough 
 flirt, Maggy ! " 
 
 Marguerite colored. " Georgy does not 
 like me," she said, " and calls me by that 
 odious name, because I dislike it so much. 
 We shall have a nice evening alone to-day, 
 however. They are both going to the thea- 
 tre." 
 
 "Not quite alone, dear. I asked Mr. 
 Mortimer this morning." 
 ' "Oh! . r. Mortimer does not disturb us. 
 You and he fan talk and play chess after 
 dinner, while I sing my old songs to myself. 
 He never minds my singing, he is so good- 
 natured. I really like Mr. Mortimer.' 1 
 
 They reached home, and found the ladies 
 ready dressed in the drawing-room ; for they 
 had 'dined early, as they usually did when 
 they went to the theatre. Marguerite's face 
 all glowing with health and freshness, as she 
 entered ; and, in spite of her dingy mourn- 
 ing, its exceeding beauty made Miss Georgy 
 feel spiteful. 
 
 " How fond you are of the London streets 
 after dark, Marguerite! I wonder at your 
 taste for a young lady so pastorally brought 
 up." 
 
 " We have seen so much to-day. I never 
 thought of being out late otherwise I dis- 
 h'ke walking on these dark, foggy after- 
 noons." 1 
 
 "Oh, of course ! Mamma, why has she 
 kft off her vail and turned her hair back 
 from her face ! A young woman of her age 
 should not be dressed so childishly it looks 
 quite ridiculous." 
 
 It is very immaterial how Miss St. John 
 dresses, 11 drawled Mrs. Danby. 
 ' "I doirt agree with you ! People see 
 Margin-rite going in and out of our house, 
 and naturally look upon her as belonging to 
 tw." 
 
 " Perhaps that was the reason your young 
 parson admired her so much," said Danby, 
 " for he used to be very fond of you, Geor- 
 gy- 11 
 
 " Admin' her, indeed ! " echoed Mi 
 Hurgh. " I do not call Hint admiration. 
 Any ^irl with u sort of look and manner can 
 get young mm to talk to her." 
 
 "I think it highly wrong," said Mr-. 
 Danby, languidly. " to put such ludirrnus 
 idea.- intoMi-.x St. .Jolm'x head. Her future 
 position will be one in which no ropcctublc 
 
 young woman ever allows herself to be ad- 
 dressed by the other sex unless, indeed, 
 some male dependent of the family should 
 make her an offer of marriage. I remember 
 my dear delightful friend, Lady Louisa 
 Drysdale, used to say it was charming when 
 the governess and butler were engaged. 
 ' It makes them cheerful, 1 she said, ' and 
 prevents them running after my sons. 1 " 
 
 "Lady Drysdale be ! " interrupted 
 
 Danby, aroused out of his usual placidity. 
 " What has all this cursed trash of butlers 
 and governesses to do with Marguerite? If 
 any one turns out of my house it won't be 
 her, ma'am you may be very sure. Come 
 here to me, Maggy darling ! " 
 
 But Marguerite had become suddenly 
 pale, though she never spoke a word. She 
 walked straight to the door, then up to her 
 own room. 
 
 " Can I bear it? " she exclaimed, passion- 
 ately, when she was alone. " Can I live 
 with these people any longer ! Oh ! I will 
 be a governess anything sooner than re- 
 main with them. A governess classed with 
 servants ! I was not made for it. Father, if 
 you could see me now ! " 
 
 She did not weep. She never wept after 
 an insult from these women ; but her cheeks 
 burnt, and her heart beat painfully, and she 
 paced up and down her small room impa- 
 tiently, until she heard the house door close 
 after* them. Then she bathed her face, 
 smoothed back the dark masses of hair from 
 her temples, and came down slowly and weari- 
 ly to the drawing-room. A figure stood alone 
 in the uncertain light before the fire, and 
 thinking it was Danby Marguerite approach- 
 ,ed softly, and laid her hand upon his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 " Cousin, it is hard to bear all they say to 
 me." 
 
 " All who say, Miss St. John ? " 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Mortimer, forgive me! I mis- 
 took you for my cousin." 
 
 " What is it so hard to bear? " 
 
 " Nothing nothing that I can tell you, 
 sir." She seated herself by the fire, and 
 strove hard not to cry, while Mortimer stood 
 silently looking down at her averted face. 
 He had looked very hard at Marguerite of 
 late. 
 
 41 You are left a good deal alone." In- went 
 on. 
 
 Yes, I like that. Mr. Danby and I are 
 quite happy together." 
 
 " Do you never wish to accompany Miss 
 de Burgh to her gaieties, then?" 
 
 " Oh, never ! " Margin-rite glanced at her 
 black dress. "I would not go to any gay 
 
 place." 
 
 ' Not now, of course. Hut afterwards, I 
 suppler, \nii will go out with them P 1 
 
 Nevi'-r! In the lir-t pi ice " M arum-rite 
 gri-w bolder at his kind tone " I don't think 
 I should ever like the same places or people 
 us Georgy does j in the next, 1 am goin^ to 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 121 
 
 be a governess. Although my cousin does 
 not much like it, I have quite made up my 
 mind " 
 
 "You are going to be a governess, 
 Miss St. John ? " exclaimed Mortimer, lay- 
 ing an emphasis on each word of the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " Yes they often tell me it would be best, 
 and I feel it so now. I hope that the chil- 
 dren will not dislike me, and that I may take 
 Bello," she added in a tearful whisper. 
 
 Mr. Mortimer gave a kind of sound be- 
 tween an indignant exclamation and a chuckle. 
 An odd sound it was, that made Marguerite 
 look Up, and wonder what he was thinking 
 about. 
 
 " MisS'Georgy has recommended this plan, 
 I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes and Mrs. Danby too. They find 
 me so useless here, and they say my French 
 accent will make it easy for me to get a good 
 situation. The only thing I doubt about is 
 Bello. Do you think it likely a governess 
 will be allowed to keep a dog ? " 
 
 Mortimer's reply was prevented by the en- 
 trance of Danby, who carne up and kissed 
 Marguerite kindly, then joked her upon 
 flirting with Mortimer in the dark. 
 
 " I shall tell Georgy," he said. " You 
 must know, Maggy, that Mortimer is an old 
 admirer of hers." 
 
 " Am I ? " returned Mortimer. " Yes, I 
 admired the whole lot at Boulogne, didn't I? 
 and I admire them more this evening than I 
 ever have before, even " 
 
 " Dinner is announced," broke in Mar- 
 guerite, quickly, afraid lest he should repeat 
 her half-confidences. " Who will take me?" 
 She laid her little hand on Mortimer's arm, 
 and they went down silently, Danby follow- 
 ing. During dinner the two old men talked 
 as usual about their cronies, and the stocks, 
 and a misty kind of politics of their own ; 
 while Marguerite, with Bello by her side, for 
 a treat, paid very little attention to either of 
 them. She was still turning over the gov- 
 erness scheme in her head, and thinking that, 
 after all, it might be very much better than 
 her present life. " If I could be with nice 
 people," she thought, " people something 
 more like my father or Philip, who would be 
 kind and not say the bitter things they do 
 here, I might be happy, especially if the 
 children cared for me. I wonder what Ma- 
 non would say, if she knew I was to be a 
 governess ? " 
 
 " Lord St. Leger is on the verge of ruin 
 again, I am told," said Mortimer, in the 
 middle of a small radical disquisition upon 
 the aristocracy. The name roused Marguer- 
 ite's attention in a second, she remembered 
 that he was the father of Philip's wife. " I 
 hear all about it from a friend of mine, who 
 once had the folly to accept some of his 
 bills. He has gambled away nearly the 
 whole of his last inheritance already." 
 
 "I remember the man well, years ago in 
 
 my younger days, when I used to go to the 
 Derby and Goodwood," said Danby. " A 
 cadaverous-looking fellow he was, and a pro- 
 fessional gambler." 
 
 "Yes; he has been black-balled at half 
 the clubs in London ; and can only now prey 
 upon his fellow-sharks or young lads in the 
 dens about St. James's street." 
 
 " Has he any sons?" asked Danby. 
 " No, only one daughter; and she made a 
 miserable marriage three or four years ago. 
 She married Earnscliffe, the writer, who like 
 all other geniuses, was a bad husband, and 
 after two or three years' wretchedness they 
 separated." 
 
 "What, legally?" 
 
 "Oh, no! nothing of that kind. Mere 
 incompatability of temper. You know, Dan- 
 by, the old story." 
 
 " By-the-way, Maggie knows Earnscliffe," 
 said Danby, evading the question of domestic 
 happiness. 
 
 "Indeed! Ah, talking of authors, do 
 
 you remember " and Mortimer began a 
 
 very long story about somebody they had 
 both known thirty years ago. 
 
 He had never looked at Marguerite nev- 
 er seen the sudden flash, the paleness, the 
 nervous clasp of her hands, at the mention 
 of Earnscliffe's name had he done so, her 
 future life might have been a very different 
 one. For Mortimer would have married no 
 woman knowing that she had had a former 
 lover. 
 
 They went on with their drowsy talk as 
 before ; but all Marguerite's thoughts were 
 changed. With Earnscliffe's name came back 
 old hopes, old dreams, old sunny plans for 
 the future. Oh, compared with these, how 
 blank and dreary seemed her prospects now ! 
 Her head drooped, and her cheek grew so 
 pale, that at last Danby noticed her ; and 
 he exclaimed abruptly "Maggie child! 
 what ails you ? Are you ill ? " 
 
 " No, cousin," she answered, mournfully. 
 
 " You must cheer up, my dear," went on 
 Danby, " and sing to us presently some of 
 your French ballads." 
 
 " I could not sing to-night. I have a 
 choking sensation in my throat. Cousin, do 
 you not hear ; I can scarcely speak ? " 
 
 " Have you taken cold, child? Were we 
 out too late for you ? " 
 
 ** No, it is not that ; I am oh, cousin ! M 
 (with a sudden outburst of tears) " I am SO 
 wretched ! " 
 
 "Marguerite!" it was so unlike her to 
 complain before a stranger, that Danby knew 
 her sorrow must be great " my poor child, 
 you shall tell me all this another time." 
 
 " Mr. Mortimer knows ; Mr. Mortimer is 
 very kind" her voice grew thick "I do 
 not mind saying it before him." 
 
 "But what is this sudden sorrow? I 
 know " he spoke hastily " what Mrs. Dan- 
 by said to you this evening, and that your 
 feelings were hurt not more deeply than 
 
122 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 mine, perhaps but that is nothing new. 
 You have had to bear similar things be- 
 fore." 
 
 " Cousin, you have always been so good, 
 I grieve to leave you; and I think that 
 is one of my greatest troubles to-night." 
 
 " Yes," broke in Mortimer, " I hear that 
 
 >u are going to lose Miss St. John, 
 anby." 
 
 " I have heard nothing of it." 
 
 " Dear cousin, you know what I said to 
 you to-day. Well, I have quite made up my 
 mind now. It will be far better for me to go 
 out as a governess." 
 
 " You never shall, Marguerite never ! " 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Mortimer! speak for me. It 
 may be hard to be dependent and a gover- 
 ness ; but it is worse far worse to live 
 with relations who are unkind to me ! I 
 know that I am barely tolerated here, and 
 that all my cousin : s kindness makes him more 
 miserable in his own home. Speak for me, 
 sir ; tell him that it would be far better ! " 
 
 Mr. Mortimer rose and walked to the fire, 
 looked into it for a few minutes, then turned 
 round, and grasped his coat tails ; and, 
 supported and flanked as it were by this 
 familiar position of fifty years' standing, he 
 spoke deliberately, but with unusual quick- 
 ness for him, and a certain agitation of 
 manner. 
 
 " Dan by, I'm a plain spoken man, as you 
 know. Miss St. John, I'm an old man, as 
 you see. I can't make fine speeches to either 
 of you, but this I have to say : If, Miss St. 
 John, you will not forget my age, and my 
 great unfitness to be your husband, but over- 
 look it. and become my wife, you shall have 
 settlements a duke's daughter might be proud 
 of, and all the devotion a plain old fellow 
 like myself can offer." 
 
 Danby literally sprang from his chair in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Mortimer, are you in earnest? " 
 
 ** I don't look as if I was joking, do I ? " 
 
 " After all you have said about marrying 
 in one's old age, to offer yourself to Maggy ! 
 Adopt her, man. You can give her a hap- 
 pier home than mine, adopt her as your 
 daughter. She's only sixteen she's a 
 child!" 
 
 *' Thank you, Danby. I have made up my 
 mind with respect to my own determination 
 long before to-night, though I never could 
 bring it out. I only wish to hear what Miss 
 St. John says; how slut takes the idea of 
 having such a husband as me. ! " 
 
 lie bftd never glanced at her yet, since he 
 ; to speak ; and he had kept his eyes 
 fixed upon Danby, even while addressing 
 rit". But now he turned slightly and 
 i at h'-r. lie expected to see her, at 
 i little a, r i':itel it is conventional to 
 believe that yo'ing women are 8 >, when re- 
 ceiving an oll'-r of marriage, even from a 
 man tour times their own age to see her 
 bl ..sh, or tremble, prrhap.s shrink from him: 
 
 but Marguerite did neither. She watched 
 him intently watching the real emotions, 
 the earnestness of his plain face, and feeling 
 with delighted surprise that again one human 
 being on the earth had conceived an affection 
 for her. 
 
 " Sir," she said, at length, '* you are very 
 good. I little thought you eared so much 
 for me. How can I thank you enough for 
 your offer?" rising to his side and looking 
 up at him. 
 
 ' ' Maggy ! " 
 
 " Miss St. John ! am I indeed so happy? ' 
 
 Her cool acceptance surprised them both. 
 It was so unlike what either expected, and 
 for a moment the same thought flashed across 
 them: "Can money so readily win even 
 her fair, young heart? " But one glance at 
 her face that face where all the sinless 
 trust of childhood yet rested undid the sus- 
 picion ; and then a sharp regret ssnote Dan- 
 by as he thought Marguerite was promising 
 she knew not what in her desire to leave 
 his house. 
 
 " Oh, Maggy ! I wish / could have made 
 you happier." 
 
 " Dear cousin, you have done your best. 
 It was the others who never liked me " 
 
 " Miss St. John Marguerite, will you 
 indeed accept me?" said Mortimer, very 
 gently, and bending over her. 
 
 *' Yes, sir, if you will be troubled with 
 me." 
 
 Mortimer stooped and kissed her forehead, 
 "May God make you happy, child!" he 
 said, solemnly. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 MORTIMER remained late, and they all 
 sat talking round the fire. Mortimer, whose 
 manner had still the quiet agitation of some 
 new-found happiness, although Marguerite 
 did not perceive it, arranged everything as he 
 thought would please her most; where he 
 should take a new house what carriages 
 what books what pictures she should have. 
 
 "And Bello!" added Marguerite, strok- 
 ing the old hound, as he pressed do^e up by 
 her side, " Poor Bello! You will not object 
 to him, sir? and all the dear old b. >!;s from 
 home when they come ? " 
 
 Bverjrtbidg of yours, Mis-; St. John, will 
 be (if value to me." 
 
 " Poor old Kerviint ! " she went on, " I 
 suppose it will be sold so. in, or let." 1 
 
 " Well, said Dauby, " 1 heard from the. 
 agent in Paris a few days ago. and he tells 
 me tliere is great ditHciilty in liiidiu^ ;l ten- 
 ant for such an out-of-the-way place, and 
 that it will lie much better to s .-ll. A neigh- 
 boring farmer has made a tolerable bid tor 
 it already he wants the land/' 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 123 
 
 " And he will destroy the garden, perhaps 
 pull down the manoir itself," added Mar- 
 guerite, sadly. 
 
 '* It must "pain you to part with your old 
 house, docs it not? " asked Mortimer. 
 
 *' Yes, I cannot bear to think of it belong- 
 ing to strangers. However it must be- 1 ' 
 
 " Not now. The old house shall be kept 
 as it is, in case you ever like to pay it a 
 visit. It would be a pleasant summer ex- 
 cursion." 
 
 " You will keep Kersaint ? Oh ! Mr. Mor- 
 timer ; and may Manon live there, and poor 
 Bruno ? Can it be really true that I shall 
 see home again ? Cousin, I am so happy ! " 
 springing to her feet, and clasping her hands 
 in excitement. 
 
 " Poor little Maggy ! You look brighter 
 than I have ever seen you. I wonder what 
 they will say ! " added Danby, abruptly. 
 They always meant his women-kind. 
 
 Mortimer chuckled a little. ** It will be 
 rather a surprise for Miss Georgy, I imag- 
 ine, this failure of the governess scheme." 
 
 " I am sure Georgy will be glad," said 
 Marguerite. " For she does not like my 
 living here, and " 
 
 " Well, Maggy; why do you hesitate? " 
 
 '* Oh ! Georgy has often said how eccen- 
 tric it was of Mr. Mortimer not to marry ; so 
 she will be glad to see him married at last." 
 
 " Delighted, I have no doubt, and her 
 ' mamma 1 also!" said Mortimer, drily. 
 
 " I am very sure they will be delighted at 
 my departure, if they are not at your mar- 
 riage," cried Marguerite, laughing. " But 
 they will be surprised ! Only this evening 
 Mrs. Danby spoke with such certainty of 
 my being a governess." 
 
 "A governess!" echoed Mortimer, half 
 aloud. " Such a glorious creature as that 
 a governess ! " 
 
 Certainly Marguerite did not look much 
 suited for one at that moment, as she stood 
 before him in an attitude of the most child- 
 like and unconscious grace her face flushed, 
 her bright curls falling in a perfect cloud 
 about her shoulders. 
 
 " Surely you never thought of it in earn- 
 
 " Indeed I did; although my cousin was 
 so good he never liked to hear of it. Per- 
 haps I should have got on pretty well. I 
 don't know. But, oh ! Mr. Mortimer, I like 
 my new prospects so much better ; I feel as 
 if I had a home again, now that Kersaint is 
 not to be sold," And she turned her eyes 
 to his with a soft, warm expression that made 
 Mortimer's heart thrill, as it had never done 
 during his sixty years of hard life. 
 
 "Cousin Danby must come often; must 
 he not, to see us ? " Us. How sweet the 
 word sounded from her lips ! " Whenever 
 you are alone I shall hold you engaged to 
 me, cousin remember." 
 
 ' I shall miss you terribly, Maggy. Noth- 
 ing but the thought of your own increased 
 
 happiness could reconcile me to your mar- 
 rying so young. You seeia such-a child still 
 not seventeen, and " 
 
 " Danby, don't begin about adopting 
 again," interrupted Mortimer, quickly. 
 " You have preferred marrying a lady of 
 experience ; it is my happiness to have vron 
 a girl of sixteen." 
 
 " And Heaven grant your choice may turn 
 out the best, my friend. I am sure I ought 
 not to offer advice on such subjects, with my 
 own fate as an example of my judgment " 
 
 A thundering double knock at the door 
 here made the quiet trio start, and Danby 
 turn quite pale. "Who is to tell them?" 
 he said, nervously. " We must decide at 
 once." 
 
 " Not I," said Mortimer, evidently enjoy- 
 ing his friend's discomposure. " Of course, 
 you are the proper person. You are Miss St. 
 John's guardian." 
 
 " Well, the fact is I am rather " 
 
 " Oh, I will, cousin. I knew you would 
 rather not say it. And they cannot be angry 
 with me now that I am so soon to leave." 
 And Marguerite ran to open the door. 
 
 Judging from the tone of both ladies as 
 they entered, their dissipation had been rath- 
 er a failure ; at least, Mrs. Danby was com- 
 plaining peevishly of fatigue, and Georgy, in 
 no pleasant voice, was expressing her dis- 
 gust for some person or persons unknown. 
 
 " I knew them so well at Baden-Baden, 
 and afterwards at Boulogne, and to-night 
 they scarcely looked at me never returned 
 my bow. What are you doing, Marguerite, 
 up, still? Go and cut me some sandwiches, 
 and move quick, Miss." Pushing her rude- 
 ly aside. " I want to come in and warm my 
 feet." 
 
 " I have something to tell you, Georgy." 
 
 " Move away, Miss St. John," cried Mrs. 
 Danby's sharp voice. " This dog again!" 
 as Bello's gaunt face peered through the open 
 door. " For the last time, I say, I will not 
 suffer it." 
 
 ** Oh, Mr. Mortimer ! " exclaimed Georgy, 
 in a suddenly cheerful voice, as she caught 
 sight of him. " I did not know you were 
 here. Marguerite, love, why did you not 
 tell me?" 
 
 They both entered and shook hands with 
 Mortimer, who greeted them in his usual 
 quiet way. " An unexpected pleasure ! You 
 did not tell me that Mr. Mortimer was com- 
 ing to dine with you, dear," said Mrs. Dan- 
 by. 
 
 Danby knew what that " dear" portend- 
 ed, and replied, " No, ma'am ; Maggy and 
 I were so tired when we came in, that we 
 forgot all about it, didn't we, Maggy ? " 
 He looked, and spoke nervously, wondering 
 all the time how his wife would take the news, 
 and what his own life would be for some 
 months after the stock-broker had proposed 
 for " Maggy," not Miss de Burgh. 
 
 " Take away my cloak, Marguerite," 
 
124 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 whispered Georgy ; she had of late tried to 
 convert Marguerite into a sort of waiting- 
 maid for herself. "And tell me how my 
 hair looks." 
 
 *' Very uncurled/' Marguerite replied, 
 meekly, taking away her cousin's wraps, and 
 laying them on a table. " But it does not 
 much signify. Have you had a pleasant eve- 
 ning?;' 
 
 " Never mind," was the rejoinder ; but in 
 a tone too low of course for the guest to hear. 
 
 " How d.ire you sit alone in this way when 
 there was a visitor ? Your face so red, and 
 your hair all flung about in that ridiculous 
 manner. You shall have it cut before you 
 go out as governess." 
 
 ** Georgy, don't be angry with me. I shall 
 not trouble you long now." 
 
 Mortimer heard her voice in a second, and 
 came a step nearer. 
 
 *' Miss de Burgh, it seems you are to lose 
 your young friend soon. You will be lonely 
 without her." 
 
 Georgy was sweet and affectionate in a 
 moment, and regretted that circumstances 
 compelled dear Marguerite to go out on the 
 world, and so on. 
 
 "Well," returned Mortimer, "most 
 young ladies go out in a similar way, and ap- 
 pear rather anxious to do so than otherwise. 11 
 
 '* Ah, yes ; and Marguerite is very patient, 
 poor thing." 
 
 " I hope her patience will never be so 
 much tried again, Miss de Burgh, as it has 
 been lately." 
 
 "Marguerite!" said Georgy, looking 
 round sharply at her, with an expression that 
 plainly said, " Have you dared to complain ? " 
 
 " Explain, Maggy, explain," Danby in- 
 terrupted. " Mortimer and Georgy are at 
 cross purposes." 
 
 " The truth is, then," said Marguerite, 
 very calmly and quite composed, as she ad- 
 dressed herself to both the women, " all my 
 prospects have changed this evening. After 
 you had left I thought deeply over what you 
 have so often recommended to me, and de- 
 cided it would really be best to follow your 
 advice although cousin Danby would not 
 hear of it and become a governess. I men- 
 tioned this before Mr. Mortimer, and you 
 will scarcely believe in such kindness lie 
 has asked me to marry him, and live in his 
 bouse for ever." 
 
 " Mr. Mortimer to marry you !" gasped 
 Georgy. 
 
 " Impossible ! " said .Mrs. Danby. 
 
 But Mortimer's face soon shoued them that 
 it was only to- true; and they had to force 
 out Mimetliing like congratulations. 
 
 " You must really excuse our surprise," 
 aid Georgy, at length, with a desperate at- 
 tempt at .-prightlinc.ss ; " but we have always 
 looked upon you as such :i confirmed old 
 bachelor, Mr. Mortimer. However, 1 hope 
 your marriage may prove a happy one." 
 
 ' Thank you, ma'am ; I believe it will. /, 
 
 at least, have every prospect of happiness, if 
 Miss St. John can be content ; " and he drew 
 Marguerite to him and laid his hand on her 
 shining curls. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THERE were few preliminaries to be gone 
 through before the marriage. Mortimer 
 wished it to take place at once ; and Mar- 
 guerite did not plead for delay. He made 
 the most ample, unconditional settlements 
 upon her ; took a new house at Wimbledon, 
 with gardens and" conservatories to suit her 
 taste ; bought pianos, pictures, books 
 everything that could externally make the 
 home of a young girl happy. 
 
 And Marguerite? She was very calm at 
 first. Simply and childishly happy in the 
 thought of her release from the De Burghs, 
 or the prospect of being a governess, deeply 
 grateful to Mortimer for his kindness in 
 marrying her, and giving her such a home ; 
 and for some time she connected all this 
 scarcely at all with Philip and the unaltered 
 love she still bore him. But as the day ap- 
 proached, when the wedding-dresses were 
 actually being made, and the thought was 
 realised of her approaching marriage, her 
 spirits sank, her color went and came, her 
 manner was fitful and nervous. 
 
 "You are not repenting your decision, 
 Maggy?" said Danby, one evening, when 
 they were alone, and he had been intently 
 watching her face for some time. " It is still 
 not too late." 
 
 " My decision about what, cousin ? " with 
 a slight start. " Had I anything in particu- 
 lar to decide upon to day ? " 
 
 " I was not speaking of silks and pearls, 
 or patterns of damask and ormolu, Mar- 
 guerite; but of the great decision your 
 decision of marrying Mortimer. Do you 
 ever wish it revoked ? " 
 
 " No," answered Marguerite, slowly, and 
 without raising her head ; "it was to be, I 
 suppose. I had no other prospect ; and 
 Mr. Mortimer seems very well content. I 
 am sure Mr. Mortimer will he kind to me. 
 1 heard from Manon, my nurse, to-day, in 
 answer to my announcement, and she is SO 
 delighted, and thinks it such a good thing 
 for me. Although she is only a servant, 
 Manon is very sharp-sighted, and I am glad 
 to hear her opinion. How much she v ill 
 think of me next Thursday." 1 
 
 "Next Thursday!" repeated Danby. 
 " Onlv three days more! She has never 
 known love," he thought, as he continued to 
 watch her almost infantine face. " She can- 
 not realise the sacrifice of all such feeling that 
 she is making in marrying an old man. Her 
 PCI feet ignorance will In- her safeguard. 11 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 125 
 
 The two following days passed by the 
 evening before the marriage came and 
 Marguerite was looking at the white silk and 
 orange blossoms she was to wear next morn- 
 ing. A vague, wild hope was there, that yet 
 it would never be ; that at the last something 
 would happen, some one die Philip appear, 
 and tell her that he was free, and she would 
 marry him. She could not feel, that to-mor- 
 row she would be Mortimer's wife ; and once, 
 when she woke suddenly from a dream of 
 old days in the night, the desperate thought 
 crossed her, even now, to break it all off 
 return and live at Kersaint with Manon do ' 
 anything, rather than place another barrier I 
 against the possibility of ever becoming j 
 Philip's. But with the morning came Georgy ; 
 to help her to dress, and she heard the un- 
 usual stir of servants in the house, and the 
 gun shone cheerfully into her room, as with a 
 good ornen for her happiness, and the half- 
 formed resolve vanished. 
 
 " You do look well, I must confess, 11 said 
 Miss de Burgh, when the bride's dress wits 
 completed. " Toilette de Mariee is so 
 exactly suited for peach-colored complexions 
 and downcast blue eyes. I never could look 
 the bride that you do ; and then, as you 
 don't intend to cry, the effect will not be 
 spoiled. Most girls cry, you know, and 
 red eyes are the result ; but that is not your 
 style." 
 
 " When girls are leaving home," said 
 Marguerite, gently so gently that even 
 Georgy softened" I can imagine their 
 crying, but there is nothing to make me shed 
 tears." 
 
 " Your home has not been too happy here 
 I must confess." 
 
 '* Oh, my cousin Danby has been very 
 kind; and, if you have not liked me, per- 
 haps it has been my own fault. I hope you 
 will often come and see me now. 11 
 
 Upon which Miss de Burgh kissed her 
 with great unction, and was sure, if she had 
 ever hurt dear Marguerite's feelings, she 
 wished to be forgiven. 
 
 Marguerite being of course still in mourn- 
 ing, the wedding was to be a very quiet one ; 
 so there was only a small party at breakfast. 
 It went off as such things generally do. 
 Miss Georgy was in an hysterical kind of 
 good spirits, Mortimer radiant, Danby very 
 silent; but Marguerite, who had kept up 
 pretty well hitherto, grew paler as the day 
 proceeded ; and when, at last, her lace and 
 orange-flowers were exchanged for a travel- 
 ling-dress, and the moment arrived for her 
 and Mortimer to leave together, the very 
 liue of death was upon her face. Pie felt her 
 tremble violently as she entered the carriage, 
 partially saw the stricken expression of her 
 features when she first found herself alone 
 with him, and thought it was all girlish timid- 
 ity. 
 
 4< Philip, till this moment I never knew 
 half my love for you ! " was her thought. 
 
 And so they started for their honeymoon 
 in the Isle of 'Wight. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 FOR some time after Philip's arrival in 
 Rome, he was as silent and misanthropic as 
 is the wont of disappointed lovers. His ex- 
 periment of going into the world again had 
 proved so signal a failure in Paris that he 
 now went into the opposite extreme, shunning 
 all companionship but that of Neville and a 
 few of his artist friends, and wandering like 
 a ghost among churches and picture-galleries, 
 taking lonely rides in the Campagna, and 
 being excessively brief with any unfortunate 
 English people who made advances to him. 
 When, by chance, he was forced into any 
 kind of society, he compared the English- 
 women he met with Marguerite, and they dis- 
 gusted him. Their faces had no glow, their 
 voices no music, after hers ; and he came 
 back to their lodgings Neville and he lived 
 together invariably with a fresh accession 
 of ill-humor on these occasions. 
 
 You should go more among foreigners, 
 
 Phil," said Neville, one evenim 
 
 You 
 
 would get on better with them ; and the Ital- 
 ian women would be sure to like you, with 
 your pale face and se ntimental conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Let us speak of a more interesting sub- 
 ject, Neville. I am wearv of the whole sex 
 English, French, or Italian." 
 
 " A la bonne heure ! I wish from my soul 
 you were. But you are only in a state of re- 
 bound. I know you so well. Just the state 
 I from which men fall into their worst errors 
 ! Some pretty face will arise, and undo all 
 | your woman-hatred in an hour. The carni- 
 val is next week ! " 
 
 I shall go into the country while it lasts. 
 It makes rne sick to see the buffoonery with 
 which human beings can be amused." 
 
 " Well, I am one of the common herd ; I 
 shall lock up my studio, and be as happy as 
 any school-boy of fourteen. It does the eye 
 and brain good to be relieved from work a 
 few days : one returns to it with such zest 
 afterwards. And then there are groups of 
 form and color to be seen in the carnival 
 I better worth studying than the old masters 
 themselves." 
 
 " You have such an object in life, Neville ! 
 Everything is sweet to you that can minister in 
 the slightest degree to your one passion 
 ambition." 
 
 " Why do you not call it love of my art? 
 But you would be far happier too, Earns- 
 clitfe, with any ' one passion,' as you are 
 pleased to term it. Your longing for dis- 
 tinction was feverish once ; but, as soon aa 
 
126 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 won, you are wearied of it, as of everything 
 else ! " 
 
 44 I have not wearied of anything. Exact- 
 ly that of which I could never weary, I have 
 never possessed." 
 
 44 The reason why you think it beyond the 
 reach of satiety." 
 
 " You have never loved, Neville. It is a 
 subject utterly beyond, or beneath you." 
 
 ** You are wrong, both in fact and infer- 
 ence. I have loved, and with an intensity 
 equal to your own perhaps greater, for 1 
 have only loved once, and I have analysed 
 the passion as deeply as you have done." 
 
 44 Neville, you have actually loved ! " 
 
 " I am past thirty." 
 
 " Oh, of course, every man feels what he 
 dignifies by that name. Not one out of a 
 hundred love." 
 
 *' I have, and have been deceived, like the 
 rest of us. But to return to yourself. You 
 believe that if you had possessed the object 
 of your last adoration (you have made such 
 half-confidences that I shall probably, unwit- 
 tingly, hurt your feelings), your heaven 
 would have lasted ; that, having lost it, you 
 and she will be eternally miserable. My 
 friend, you will be a very happy man five 
 years hence, when you have passed the age 
 of sentiment, and are beginning to care for 
 position, and have entered the House and 
 shone in your first speech ; and as to the 
 young lady, perhaps she is married by this 
 time at all events, she will not be constant 
 to your memory for a year." 
 
 44 She may marry : she will not forget me ! " 
 replied Philip. 
 
 44 And so add another to the scores of 
 guileless young creatures who every year 
 swear to love and honor one man with the 
 warm words of another yet thrilling in their 
 heart ! I thought your idols were all perfect, 
 Phil." 
 
 44 This one was ! Too perfect for you and 
 me to speak of, Neville." 
 
 " Thank you. Well, we will profane her 
 no longer. Come and tell me how you like 
 my last sketch." 
 
 Philip rose to look, and their conversa- 
 tion dropped for the present: but the next 
 morning, when they were wandering beneath 
 some ruins a few miles from Rome, he return- 
 ed to it. 
 
 44 Neville, tell me more of your own love. 
 1 am in a state when it is pleasant to hear of 
 the disappointment of one's friends ! " 
 
 Neville seated himself on a broken frag- 
 ment of marble, and leisurely drew from his 
 pocket, first a cigar-case, then his sketch- 
 book. 
 
 44 I will talk of my love, mon ami, if there 
 is any chance of curing your* by doingso; but 
 I must smoke and sketch at the .same time. 
 Jt is a subject that send* me to sleep by itself: 
 it requires accompaniments." 
 
 44 Give me a cigarette, Neville." 
 
 44 Ah, you are mending ! You have re- 
 fused to smoke hitherto." 
 
 " The open air the fact of lying at one's 
 length among the dasies makes smoking a 
 necessity." 
 
 44 Don't apologise. I have seen you look 
 enviously at my meerschaum every' evening 
 for the last week, and knew what was coming. 
 I cannot conceive why you ever gave it up. 
 In my troubles when the committee of the 
 R. A. rejected my first picture and hung my 
 second ten feet high in the octagon-room, for 
 example I smoked more fierce than ever." 
 
 44 And in your love affair? " 
 
 Neville smoked away in silence, and half- 
 closed his eyes, as though intently watching 
 the effect of light and shadow upon the blue 
 Campagna, but there was a dreamy look 
 upon his face. 
 
 41 It was years ago," he exclaimed, sud- 
 denly; 4 ' I was quite a boy." 
 
 44 And which was false ? or was either? " 
 
 44 Philip, it is not a pleasant remembrance ; 
 but as you seem to care about it, you shall 
 hear. I started in life young: you remem- 
 ber what I was when I left Harrow. I came 
 at once to London, with few friends, no con- 
 nection ; and I had to make my way alone 
 unassisted, except by my own energy. 
 
 41 1 lodged in the house of a Scotchwoman, 
 a widow, and a person of a certain position 
 in life. She kept a kind of boarding-house 
 for young men medical students, young ar- 
 tists like myself, who preferred this kind of 
 life to common lodgings or chambers. The 
 house was respectable ; I was recommended 
 to it by decent people; and everything was 
 in appearance quiet and as it should be. 
 
 44 This Scotchwoman had an only daugh- 
 ter, a girl of seventeen, lovely as an angel, 
 with fair, bright hair and Madonna-like eyes, 
 that seemed too soft to reflect any human pas- 
 sion. All the young men in the house ad- 
 mired her, of course ; but I, before, I had 
 been there three weeks, was wildly in love 
 with her. I could neither eat nor sleep; I 
 trembled if her dress touched me as she pass- 
 ed ; it maddened me if she spoke or smiled 
 with another man. She haunted me till I 
 could not draw a line ; and my companions 
 all used to laugh at my white lace and my al- 
 tered manner. In short, I loved her as boys 
 can love. 
 
 44 I got over my timidity ami spoke. She 
 trembled, she Mushed, faltered, and burst in- 
 to tears. 4 It was madness; we must not 
 think of it, we were so young. Hut she 
 loved me ! ' I went half wild with < 
 of happiness. 
 
 " With stolen interviews, a whispered 
 word when we passed each other on the, 
 stairs, a pressure of her hand night and 
 morning, 1 was fiirced to be content (or some 
 months. Hut at length I grew impatient. 
 I told her that I would wait no longer ; either 
 she must My with me and become my wife by 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 127 
 
 a Scotch marriage, or I would leave her for- 
 ever ; I could not live on in the same house 
 any longer and be as strangers. She hesita- 
 ted, wavered, consented to become mine. 
 Phil, even now I feel the rapture of that 
 moment." 
 
 Neville drew his wide, artist-hat more over 
 his eyes, as though to shade them from the 
 slanting sun, and leisurely cut one of his 
 pencils, but his hand trembled very slightly. 
 
 "We planned to go to Scotland, and be 
 married ; then return at once, and ask her 
 mother's forgiveness ; and I should work for 
 both, and we should all live happily together. 
 This was the project. As you may imagine, 
 I had very little money not enough to take 
 two people half-way to Scotland ; and, with 
 much shame, I was obliged to confess this 
 to rny beloved, and to tell her that a few 
 days 1 delay would be necessary for me to try 
 and obtain sufficient for the journey. To 
 my surprise, she answered by taking a little 
 purse full of gold from her pocket, and lay- 
 ing it in my hand. ' It was a present from 
 her god-father. She had had it for years.' 
 
 " I don't know whether the circumstance 
 aroused any suspicions in my mind, or wheth- 
 er it was a kind of natural instinct ; but, 
 after I had taken the purse and carried it 
 away with me, I felt strangely excited and 
 ill at ease. Though I believed her implicity, 
 the thought would arise, ' Why had she so 
 much money? was it girl-like so quickly to 
 offer it?' 
 
 " We had settled to elope that very night, 
 and I had gone out of the house to evade 
 suspicions, but was to return silently when 
 every one was still, and we should then steal 
 out together. I remember I walked on and 
 on through the crowded streets, but saw noth- 
 ing that was passing around ; I felt dull and 
 stupefied, as though under the influence of 
 some narcotic. I at length turned my steps 
 homewards, resolving to remain quietly in 
 my own little attic at the top of the house 
 until the appointed hour. 
 
 " I entered with my latch-key, and met 
 one of the women-servants in the passage. 
 4 Where was Mrs. M ? ' I asked, as cool- 
 ly as I could. ' Gone out.' ' And Miss ? ' 
 
 4 Oh, in her own room ; she was not very 
 well.' This was so exactly like the plan we 
 Bad determined upon, that I felt re-assured, 
 and ran upstairs towards my own room, 
 when, on the second floor, I heard voices 
 that arrested me in -a moment. Hers I 
 should have known its slightest sound among 
 a thousand and that of a man. 
 
 "Her own room was on the first floor; 
 that from whence the voice came was a small 
 sitting-room of her mother's, to which none 
 of the boarders were usually admitted. I 
 walked up to the door. I stood still there, 
 and listened (for the only time in my life, 
 Phil, it was excusable at such a moment) 
 listened and heard thank God ! not my 
 shame, for she was not yet my wife. 
 
 " I must tell you there was one inmate of 
 the house, towards whom I had always felt 
 an uncontrollable dislike, a young Pole of 
 high birth, and rich, but who was boarding 
 in the family for the sake of learning Eng- 
 lish. He was there some months before I 
 came, and I had never anything to do with 
 him ; but a certain air of impertinent supe- 
 riority in his manner made me conceive an 
 instant dislike for him the first day we met. 
 I never saw him speak to Miss M , be- 
 yond a passing word of recognition at din- 
 ner, if he was placed near her. Indred, 
 she seemed less friendly with him than with 
 any of the other young men, towards most 
 of whom I had in turn entertained some 
 boyish jealousy. 
 
 " She loved him. Had loved him long- 
 guiltily, as I knew the first moment I heard 
 the tones of their voices together. And the 
 money that was to have assisted in making 
 her my wife came from him ! 
 
 " * Difference of position,' I heard him 
 say, * would not allow him to make her the 
 reparation of marriage. But Neville will 
 do it,' he added, laughing, ' and we can 
 hoodwink him hereafter, as we have done 
 already.' 
 
 44 1 entered the room at once ; not burst- 
 ing with fury, as you might imagine, but 
 quite cool and collected ; only I felt that my 
 face was bloodless, and my teeth clenched. 
 
 44 'Good God!' she exclaimed, starting 
 up, and advancing towards me for a second, 
 then shrinking back to him as though for 
 protection. I only looked at her once- 
 never spoke to her; but I walked up to him. 
 
 44 . 4 Monsieur Neville, your return is unex- 
 pected, and, permit me to say, undesirable. 
 You have mistaken your room, I think.' 
 
 44 Phil, I wonder I did not kill him, for I 
 had the strength of a young Hercules at all 
 times, and now the whole fire of my nature 
 was up ! I dragged him to the top of the 
 landing lost though she was, I respected 
 her presence sufficiently for this and then, 
 I repeat, I wonder I did not kill him ! When 
 his cowardly white face was undistinguish- 
 able from the mass of blows I had rained 
 upon it, I hurled him with all my force down 
 stairs ; and have a dim recollection of wo- 
 men shrieking, and doctors being sent for, 
 
 and Mrs. M wringing her hands as she 
 
 came in and found her best lodger lying a 
 bleeding mass in the passage ; but I left the 
 house without even collecting my things, and 
 saw none of them again. 
 
 44 Of course, I expected to hear from the 
 count, for he was'nt dead; but no message 
 came, and one of the other boarders, a fellow- 
 student of mine, told me they seemed anx- 
 ious to hush the matter up, and prevent it 
 from being known out of the house. 
 
 44 Two or three days afterwards I discover- 
 ed the purse still in my pocket, and sent it 
 
 back to Miss M by my friend, who was 
 
 just going to leave for Italy ,* and from that 
 
123 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 day I never liave known what became of 
 her, or whether the mother had connived at 
 the whole tiling or not. In short, I have 
 never heard their name, nor have breathed 
 it until now. But, Phil, I have never loved 
 again. Loved, mind ; for that was pure, 
 perfect love. I have felt as others do a doz- 
 en times. 
 
 . "Pah! my cigar is out. Give me a light, 
 old fellow, and let us go on before the noon- 
 day heat. I can finish my sketch at home." 
 
 They walked on silently for some time, 
 then Philip exclaimed, " But you must ad- 
 mit, Neville, that yours was an entirely ex- 
 ceptional case, one from which no sweeping 
 deduction can be drawn." 
 
 "Yes, in the utter depravity of so young 
 a girl, it was exceptional. Without precise- 
 ly resembling my own case, however, are 
 there not thousands of others where one or 
 both have been as miserably infatuated, then 
 deceived ? Look at yourself, you have been 
 so a dozen times already." 
 
 44 Ah ! but none of this dozen was the 
 true one. You confuse the Eros with the 
 Anteros. I have not been deceived now." 
 
 44 Well ! " replied Neville, impatiently, 
 * 4 but something circumstance Fate what 
 you will, has stepped in and thwarted your 
 devotion and your happiness. Give up such 
 love, as I have done. Be content with the 
 common hopes, the coarser pleasures of hu- 
 manity." 
 
 '* I wish I could," returned Philip. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Late in the evening of this day, when Ne- 
 ville was at work, and Earnscliffe, lazily out- 
 stretched, was reading the English papers, 
 an exclamation broke from him which made 
 the artist start round. 
 
 *' Good God ! Neville, she is married ! " 
 
 The Times fell from his hands, and Ne- 
 ville, picking it up, read at the head of the 
 list of marriages, "William Charles Morti- 
 mer, of Portland Place, London, and Chest- 
 nut Grove, Wimbledon, Esquire, to Mar- 
 guerite Lilla, only child of the late Percy St. 
 John, of Kersaint Manoir, Brittany, Es- 
 quire." 
 
 44 It is soon, Phil; sooner than I expect- 
 ed. But it was sure to be so; and these 
 things are much better 4 got over ' at once. 
 If your wife had died you might have mar- 
 ried Mi-s Si. John, and both have been 
 wretched for lif< it is much better as it is. v 
 
 " She will not forget me!" said Philip, 
 abstractedly. 
 
 ' 4 The devil she wont ! " exclaimed Ne- 
 ville. " A pli-a<ant prospect for William 
 Charles Mortimer, of Portland I'lace and 
 Chi-Mnul Grove! However, I suppose \ou 
 will return to life, now that the dream is 
 over." 
 
 It is not over. My love was just as hope- 
 less before a.s it is now that we arc both 
 tied, yet I indulged it." 
 
 44 VV'jll, for every body 's sake, it is to be 
 
 desired that you will keep away from Eng- 
 land lor the present at least. When Mrs. 
 Mortimer is an elderly matron, with grown- 
 up children, you might see her again with 
 safety." 
 
 44 I have no wish to do so, I can assure 
 you. Except an occasional visit to my un- 
 cle, while he lives, I shall spend my life 
 abroad." 
 
 44 A few years of it only. The objectless, 
 nugatory life of continental Englishmen would 
 not suit you after thirty, as it may now." 
 
 44 I shall begin a new book to-morrow," 
 said Philip, after a long silence. 
 
 4 'Bravo! You would not have written 
 for six months to come but for Miss St. John's 
 marriage. And, Philip, I predict that this 
 will be your best work better even than 
 that famous one wherein you felled and 
 trampled upon all your great friends. I sup- 
 pose womenkind will come in for their share 
 of sarcasm in this? " 
 
 44 On the contrary, there will be very lit- 
 tle about them. I am weary of the subject." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 Two years had now elapsed since Mar- 
 guerite's marriage two uuchequered and 
 serene years, wherein no one month had 
 greatly differed from the preceding or fol- 
 lowing ones. But surrounded by all that 
 wealth can give, and Mortimer unchanged 
 in his kindness and devotion, her life palled 
 heavily upon her. The worn out simile of a 
 bird imprisoned in a golden cage could never 
 have been more aptly employed. She rose 
 each day, and her French lady's maid attired 
 her in her elegant morning dress ; she break- 
 fasted with Mortimer from Sevres and Dres- 
 den, after which he started for the City, and 
 then she had only herself to please for the 
 remainder of the day. She might look at 
 her costly rooms, or walk into her conserva- 
 tories and gaze at their rare contents, or or- 
 der her carriage or her horse, or play on her 
 magnificent piano, until dinner-time; then 
 
 Sevres and Dresden and her husband again. 
 Alter dinner lie fell asleep, and there was 
 the evening to be passed in somewhat tho 
 
 same manner as the morning. 
 
 Oh, how she wearied oi it all ! With ;i 
 feverish longing she would think of her old 
 free life, that sweet, untrammelled liberty of 
 her childhood, and (eel how gladly she would 
 give all that she now possessed to return to 
 it. No (lower in her conservatory gave her 
 the pleasure of those wild-Howers on the 
 IJreton heaths. She felt that her lile was 
 void; and although her great JWeetnesa of 
 temper, ami the real regard and gratitude 
 slit- (i-lt towards Mortimer, prevented her 
 manner from ever cxprc.-oing discontent, 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 129 
 
 there wore often times when her youth would 
 rise irresistibly strong within her, and the 
 want of her existence become an actual pain. 
 The indistinct yearning she had experienced 
 at Kersaint, before she ever knew Philip, 
 returned now with tenfold strength ; for this 
 vague desire was no longer without an object. 
 Marguerite, in the interval, had loved with 
 all the strength of a deep and fervent nature : 
 and her heart actually sank, as she looked 
 forward to years and years her whole life, 
 in fact still spent in the same way as now. 
 No other love than what she felt for her 
 husband, no higher object than her own 
 amusement. 
 
 Her husband's acquaintance were, for the 
 most part, men of about his own standing ; 
 he had never cared much for women 1 s so- 
 ciety, and knew little of their wives and 
 daughters ; and the few families they did vis- 
 it were none of them congenial to Marguer- 
 ite. Once or twice a month he dined out : 
 occasionally they had a dinner party of old 
 men at home. The conversation, on these 
 occasions, as may be conceived, was not of a 
 nature likely to afford her much interest. 
 The presence of Georgy de Burgh was quite 
 a relief to her at these festivals, especially 
 when Mrs. Danby was not able, from her 
 delicate health, to attend; and Marguerite 
 was only too happy to lend her her carriage 
 or riding-horse, or to send her bouquets of 
 hot-house flowers ; she was quite glad when 
 these things could give any one else more 
 pleasure than they did herself, and had long 
 forgiven the petty slights which Georgy had 
 shown her in her cousin's house. 
 
 "Are you very happy, dear? " inquired 
 Miss de Burgh, as they sat on the sofa, after 
 one of Mortimer's dinner-parties, and while 
 the men were still in the dining-room ; "you 
 look so pale to-day." 
 
 . " Happy ! " Marguerite started and color- 
 ed. " Oh. yes ! He is very kind to me ; I 
 have everything I wish." 
 
 " I see under similar circumstances, I 
 should be happy. You think too much of 
 Philip Earnscliffe, dear." 
 
 " Georgy ! indeed ! " 
 
 " No, Marguerite ; don't deny, nor wince, 
 as if I had done, you some dreadful injury. 
 I do not blame you in the least ; still it is a 
 pity that you should do so. You are quite 
 losing your fine color, and look years older 
 already." . 
 
 " I am glad of it. It makes the differ- 
 ence seem less between Mr. Mortimer and 
 myself." 
 
 "Oli, oh, Marguerite! /cannot believe 
 that you wish to pass for a ' Goody Two- 
 shoes ; ' but every one else will, if yon talk 
 in that way. Fancy a woman of your age 
 liking to look old ! 'The fact is, you are too 
 much moped no going out, no society (for 
 these fusty old dinners are worse than noth- 
 ing). Why in the world don't you go to the 
 opera, like other people ? " 
 9 
 
 " Well, I have thought of it; but Mr. 
 Mortimer comes home tired, and we dine so 
 late and, besides, I do not think he cares 
 much for music I mean, not as I do." 
 
 " But these are no reasons why you should 
 not go. So fond of music as you are, it is 
 absolute cruelty that you never have any op- 
 portunity of hearing it." 
 
 " I should like it very much indeed" said 
 Marguerite, her eyes glistening. " How 
 kind of you to think of it for me ! " 
 
 " Nothing about my own place in your 
 box," thought Georgy. Then aloud 
 " Well, dear, I really do not like to see you 
 leading such a lonely life. I shall speak to 
 Mr. Mortimer about it this very evening." 
 
 "Oh, I will ask him, thank you. He 
 would prefer it from me. I need only go on 
 those evenings when he dines out, so he will 
 not miss me. And would you come with me 
 the first time please ? I have never been to 
 a theatre in my life ? " 
 
 " To be sure I will," Georgy cried, de- 
 lighted at the success of her manoeuvre. 
 " There is to be ' Lucia 1 to-morrow, and it 
 will be a benefit night in addition. Make 
 your husband take us places for it, even if 
 he cannot decide about a box." 
 
 " Oh, I know that he will get a box the 
 very day I ask for it," returned Marguerite, 
 simply. " It gives him such pleasure if I 
 express a wish for anything." Her face was 
 still lit up with the child-like pleasure the 
 thoughts of the opera 'had awakened, when 
 some of the men entered. Mortimer was 
 one of the first. He came to his wife in a 
 second, looking, with his red face and portly 
 figure, as unlike her husband as possible. 
 
 " How merry you seem. Marguerite, 
 Miss de Burgh, you must come and see us. 
 oftener. You brighten up my poor lonehr 
 wife." 
 
 " Ah, we are conspiring," said Marguer-- 
 ite, with her sweet smile. " Perhaps you 
 will not be so well pleased when you hear 
 what we are speaking about." 
 
 " Try me. I am not often offended with, 
 you." 
 
 "Well, T am so very fond of music, ami 
 Georgy has been saying tha-t the opera 
 would be such a treat to n>e sometimes, if 
 you thought you would not mind taking & 
 box for me." 
 
 Mortimer looked delighted. Although h 
 was always trying to please her, Marguerite, 
 would seldom ask him lor anything. 
 
 " Come here, Danby ! * he cried to his 
 friend, who had just entered, " and see how 
 we are all changing. Yoitr demure little 
 ward has just asked me- to get her a box at 
 the opera ! " 
 
 "Ah! Georgy must have had a hand in 
 that, I suspect," said Danby. " Madgey 
 never heard of operas at Kersaint. Did 
 you, Mrs. Mortimer? " 
 
 " Never that is " her perfect truthful- 
 ness compelling her to speak. " Cousin, I 
 
130 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 did hear of them once," and Marguerite 
 blushed deeply. 
 
 " Well, there was no great harm if you 
 did, child/' said her husband. " What "are 
 you looking so red for ? ' 
 
 " Who used to talk of operas at Ker- 
 saint?" went on Danby; "Philip Earns- 
 cliffe, I suppose." 
 
 Oh, what would Marguerite have given 
 to master herself better ! When Earnscliffe's 
 name was mentioned, or even any other sub- 
 ject that remotely bore upon him, the blood 
 would always rise crimson to her very tem- 
 ples, and her hands turn cold in a second. 
 Was she never to overcome her old girlish 
 feelings, now that she was another man's 
 wife ? 
 
 * Come here, Marguerite," cried Georgy, 
 who was watching her narrowly, " 1 want 
 you to tell me about your new songs, and to 
 know if you can lend me some waltzes ? " 
 
 Marguerite felt only too thankful for the 
 interruption, and going quickly to Miss de 
 Burgh's side, leant down over a heap of new 
 music until her long hair almost covered her 
 burning face. 
 
 "Take any you like, Georgy," she said, 
 in a low voice. " I have not even tried them 
 over yet. Mr. Mortimer brings me some- 
 thing new every day." 
 
 "Marguerite," interrupted the other, in a 
 whisper, "you are very demure, and very 
 excellent; out if I were your husband, I 
 would not wish Philip Earnscliffe to appear 
 in London." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 WHEN her toilette was complete the fol- 
 lowing evening, Marguerite surveyed herself 
 with more pleasure than she had felt in her 
 own appearance since her marriage; and, 
 devoid of vanity though she was, she could 
 not be insensible of her own extraordinary 
 beauty. Her luxuriant hair was partly 
 gathered round her head, partly fell upon 
 her neck, in a style peculiar to herself, and a 
 magnificent set of pearl ornaments a present 
 from her husband that day well became her 
 youth, and fair, satin-like skin. In her 
 boMMii was a bouquet of rare hot-house 
 flowers, all white. 
 
 " Am I, indeed, aw beautiful as Philip 
 said? " she thought, when her maid had left, 
 ami she was waiting (or the :innomieeineiil of 
 the carriage. " What would he think of me 
 now ? " 
 
 She started, and turned from the glass, as 
 her husband's sk-p was heard entering her 
 ng-room. 
 
 " Wei!, Mad^ey, ehild, how do you look 
 in ; -.IIP finrry! Not so had upon my 
 
 word ! " lie tlrew her to him, and kibscd her 
 
 forehead. "You seem very happy, little 
 woman, at going out alone for the first 
 time." 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Mortimer! T should be more 
 glad if you were coming too." 
 
 " Quite sure, Marguerite? " 
 
 " Quite ; I mean " with her usual sincer- 
 ity " if it were anything but to the opera. 
 But, perhaps I shall enjoy that more alone, 
 than if you were there, and T knew you 
 were wearied to death with the music." 
 
 Mortimer looked the least in the world dis- 
 appointed, then he replied, kindly, " Mar- 
 guerite, you are a good child to speak the 
 exact truth. It is not likely that what pleas- 
 es you should me. See the difference be- 
 tween us ! " He pointed to a cheval-glass, 
 where the two figures stood reflected. 
 " What do we look like, Madgey ? " 
 
 " Father and daughter, sir : I have always 
 said so. And no father," she added, gent- 
 ly, " could ever have been kinder to a child 
 than YOU are to me, or have more merited 
 
 her gratitude." 
 
 "Ah, Marguerite! if I was a younger 
 man you would feel very differently. Grati- 
 tude never enters into love, I am told. How- 
 ever, you know nothing about that" she 
 turned her face quite away "and, perhaps, 
 you are as happy as many who make love 
 marriages. At all events, what has never 
 been felt cannot be missed ! " 
 
 * I have every reason to be happy," said 
 Marguerite in a low voice ; "I have no wish 
 ungratified since I have been your wife." 
 
 " Well, enjoy yourself as much as you can 
 to-night. I hope the opera will be a now 
 source of pleasure to you ; perhaps you have 
 been too much alone hitherto." 
 
 Georgy was ready dressed when the car- 
 riage stopped in Tavi stock Street, and ap- 
 peared in high spirits when she jumped in. 
 
 " Marguerite, how exquisite ! I never saw 
 
 Margin 
 those pearls before.' 
 
 dav 
 
 Mr. Mortimer gave them to me to- 
 
 And that darling little cloak?" 
 
 " Another present." 
 
 " And your lorgnette, and your bouquet; 
 oh, and mine!" as Marguerite gave her ono 
 containing all the rarest flowers of the sea- 
 son, and Miss (icorgy held it up to the light. 
 People say riches cannot make happiness ! I 
 ant sure they could make mine! I ^ hope wo 
 shall l>e in a good place! You will create 
 quite a f'umre with your style and your 
 newness! Perhaps you will condescend to 
 say what you think of me." 
 
 (ieor;_rv was really looking very handsome 
 in a pink satin dress, unusually t/f<>fiti, and 
 a profusion of diamonds in her hair. Her 
 hi^h color, jetty curls, and cool, undaunted 
 air, formed an admirable foil to the delicate 
 hues of Marguerite 1 ! complexion, and her 
 youthful, girlish manner; ami when they en- 
 tered the i><>\, whieh was one of the best and 
 most conspicuous in the house, they did, to 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 131 
 
 Georgy's intense delight, create quite a sen- 
 sation. 
 
 " Who is she ? " " What is she ? " passed 
 from mouth to mouth, the moment Marguerite 
 appeared, and always with the same reply. 
 No one knew. The overture was nearly 
 over, but Marguerite's attention was instant- 
 ly riveted to the music ; and, listening to 
 Grisi and Mario, such a new world of de- 
 light, such undreamed-of enjoyment opened 
 upon her, as would have paralysed all power 
 of expression, had she attempted to give ut- 
 terance to her feelings. Her eyes glistened 
 and the color went and came in her cheek, 
 as she leant forward, her hands clasped to- 
 gether over the front of the box, in an atti- 
 tude of the most unconscious attention, 
 while the eyes of half the men in London 
 were fixed upon her. 
 
 '"At length!" exclaimed Georgy, as the 
 first act ended. " I have spoken to you in 
 vain about eight times. Now, will you kind- 
 ly be a little more like other people ? Per- 
 fect though hands may be, it is not usual to 
 clasp them together at a theatre, as though 
 you were praying. And so very unconscious 
 of all the men who are staring at you ! " 
 
 "Hands praying!" echoed Marguerite, 
 dreamily. " Oh! Qeorgy, have I done any- 
 
 thin 
 
 mproper 
 
 " 
 
 " Not at all, dear! You have succeeded, 
 however, in being singular; and, as every 
 lorgnette in the pit appears to be upturned 
 to your face, you are probably satisfied." 
 
 Unwilling though she might have been to 
 offend a connection who would take her to 
 the opera, and ask her to dinner, this young 
 creature's jealousy could never repress itself 
 at Mrs. Mortimers superior beauty ; and 
 Marguerite, feeling by the tone that she 
 meant to be spiteful, colored deeply as she 
 leant back in her chair. The flush remained 
 on her cheeks, making her tenfold lovelier, 
 and people looked at her more that ever. 
 
 " How every one looks at me, Georgy ! " 
 she whispered. " It is not very polite of them 
 to do so, even if they see how unused I am 
 to these places ! Have I done anything very 
 strange ? " 
 
 *' For pity's sake, remember there is no 
 one to hear, and do not be so simple with 
 me," replied her companion, harshly. " Ac- 
 cept your r61e of new beauty, and play it 
 through. The men will not look at you half 
 so much when you are known, or some new 
 face has arisen to eclipse yours." 
 
 " I hope not," answered Marguerite, quiet- 
 ly ; and then (seeing that Georgy was not 
 in the sweetest of tempers at the small at- 
 tention her own satin and diamonds excited) 
 she remained silently gazing about the house, 
 whose lights, and tiers of brilliant women, 
 seemed like the realisation of one of her 
 childhood's fairy tales. 
 
 In the next box to their own was one in- 
 dividual whose eyes scarcely for a second had 
 quitted Marguerite's face ; but it was not un- 
 
 til the middle of the performance that her. 
 own glance carelessly rested upon him. For 
 an instant her heart leaped wildly she 
 thought it was EarnsclifFe ! The delusion was 
 momentary : it was one of those accidental 
 likenesses more of contour and general style, 
 than of feature, or even expression; still, it 
 was sufficiently strong to arouse a thousand 
 old feelings in Marguerite; and, even while 
 Mario was singing, to make her glance timid- 
 ly at the stranger's face. 
 
 " Do you know him do you know him ? w 
 whispered Miss de Burgh. " You seem to 
 be looking at him a great deal." 
 
 "I oh! I know no one; but I should 
 like to know his name." 
 
 Georgy knew : she knew everything. 
 " The Marquis de St. Leon a young man. 
 of very high birth, and rich. I wonder 
 whether he remembers me ! I danced in the 
 same quadrille with him one evening, three 
 or four years ago, at Homberg ! I shall bow 
 when he looks next ! " 
 
 " Please do not bow, Georgy," returned 
 Marguerite, quickly. 
 
 " Why not, Mrs. Mortimer? May not 
 one person, out of all your admirers, be per- 
 mitted to look at me ? " 
 
 Marguerite felt that their neighbor was 
 not looking at Georgy ; but she was silent, 
 knowing that in her present temper, any op- 
 position would make her more resolute, and 
 also that it was not in the De Burgh nature to 
 let a living marquis be unmolested, if there 
 were the slightest clue to acquaintanceship. 
 
 Not until the conclusion of the act, could 
 Georgy attract the attention of the young 
 Frenchman, who was still intently watching 
 Marguerite's averted profile, while he appar- 
 ently listened to the music; but when at 
 length the curtain fell, and Marguerite levant 
 back, so that her face was hidden from him, 
 his eye casually rested on that of Miss de 
 Burgh. She bowed, and smiled in a mo- 
 ment. The marquis half rose, and made a 
 profound salutation, but with the most un- 
 equivocal look of surprise, for of course 
 Georgy's face was utterly foreign to him ; 
 and this circumstance, united to her general 
 appearance and dress, gave him at once an, 
 impression the exact reverse of favorable of 
 the lady. 
 
 " Grisi est ravissant ce soir monsieur," 
 leaning over towards him. 
 
 ' ' Mais oui madame ! " with a stare of as- 
 tonishment at her coolness. 
 
 " I see, Monsieur le Marquis, that you do 
 not recognise me." 
 
 He was about to reply in a strain more 
 complimentary than respectful, when he 
 glanced towards Marguerite who felt what 
 was going on, and her blush of shame her 
 innocent young face made him retract his 
 unfavorable opinion of her companion. 
 
 " Mad, probably," he thought ** utterly 
 mad, like all other Englishwomen." Then 
 aloud, "Madame, I must infinitely regret 
 
132 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 that I do not recall to myself the exact cir- 
 cumstances under which I formerly had the 
 honor " 
 
 " It was at Homberg ! " cried Georgy, de- 
 lighted with her progress. " We used to 
 meet nearly every evening at the Kur Saal, 
 and once, Monsieur le Marquis, I had the 
 pleasure of dancing with you at a grand ball 
 given to the Duchess Stephanie !" 
 
 The pain on Marguerite's face was now be- 
 coming so evident that the marquis told Geor- 
 gy he remembered her perfectly, and that his 
 near sight must plead his excuse for not hav- 
 ing done so sooner ; and he was soon so po- 
 Ktc, and so evidently anxious to improve the 
 acquaintance, that Georgy grew radiant 
 not considering how small a share she had in 
 the cause of his empressement . 
 
 Tlioy continued talking for some minutes, 
 and then Georgy touched Marguerite's arm 
 thinking it must appear strange to the French- 
 man that her companion looked so steadily 
 away from him. 
 
 " Monsieur, allow me to introduce you to 
 my cousin, Mrs. Mortimer, nee De Josselin 
 St. John." 
 
 "The marquis slightly started, then bow- 
 ed very .gravely. " De Josselin !" he re- 
 peated. 
 
 " Her mother's name," Georgy hastened 
 to explain. "The De Josselins of Beau 
 Manoir in Brittany a very ancient fami- 
 ly.' 1 
 
 " I may then claim relationship as an in- 
 troduction," he remarked, in an extremely 
 different tone to the light, easy one in which 
 he had been chatting with Miss de Burgh. 
 " My father and the mother of madame, 
 were, if I mistake not, cousins german." 
 
 " And we are all related ! " cried Georgy, 
 "how delightful!" 
 
 But Marguerite looked at him very ear- 
 nestly, and with the most perfect simplicity, 
 said : 
 
 " Monsieur, it gives me real pleasure to 
 have met you. You are the first of my 
 mother's familv I have ever seen." 
 
 " I must demand a thousand pardons," 
 aid the marquis, now speaking in his own 
 language, and bending towards Marguerite, 
 " for having looked so often at your face this 
 evening; but I have been vainly endeavor- 
 oring to recollect where and when I have 
 met you before. Now the mystery explains 
 itself. I am in possession of a miniature, 
 in which there exists the most extraordinary 
 likeness to yourself, and that miniature, 
 madame, is the portrait of your mother, 
 Lilla de .losselin, taken in her early youth ! " 
 
 "My mother's portrait!" repeated Mar- 
 guerite, eagerlv. " Ah, I possess no likeness 
 of her!" 
 
 "And is she no longer living? Pardon 
 me, but it is years since I heard the news of 
 any one Ix-aring the name of DC .losselin/ 1 
 
 " Mv mother died when I was born, mon- 
 icur. The tears started to her eyes. 
 
 " Need I say the pleasure it would afford 
 me to be allowed to restore the picture to 
 one who has so strong a claim upon it? " 
 
 J Would you really give it me? I scarce- 
 ly like to rob you of such a treasure !" 
 
 " I prize it," replied the young man,, 
 gravely, " as having belonged to my own 
 father, who valued it above everything on 
 earth ; but it would give me infinite pleasure 
 to see it in your possession." 
 
 " Then come and see us to-morrow, and 
 bring it with you, if you will, indeed, be so 
 generous. Oh ! this is unexpected pleasure. 
 How much I shall have to teli Mr. Morti- 
 mer ! " 
 
 " Can it be possible that she is mar- 
 ried !" thought St. Leon. "She has the 
 face and simplicity of a child. And what a 
 face ! " 
 
 His manner soon displayed such intense 
 admiration, that Miss Georgy, although well 
 content that she could claim any connection 
 with a marquis, felt by no means pleased at 
 the turn things were taking, and the earnest 
 conversation in which she bore no part. 
 
 "You are forgetting the beloved music, it 
 appears," she whispered maliciously. 
 
 Marguerite felt her meaning, and turned 
 away towards the stage ; but her heart was 
 full at the unexpected meeting with one of her 
 own race and nation, and for a moment she 
 could hardly repress tears at Georgy's un- 
 kindness for she always could discern by 
 the tone one of Miss de Burgh's little im- 
 plied sarcasms. Soon, however, in the ab- 
 sorbing interest of the last scene in that 
 touching opera, into which Grisi's genius 
 throws so deep a pathos, she forgot even her 
 new cousin ; and when the last notes of 
 "Lucia "died away, Marguerite was trem- 
 bling and breathless with excitement. 
 
 " Is it over?" she said, turning nervously 
 round. She was looking so strange that 
 Georgy was startled, and exclaimed, " Heav- 
 ens! Marguerite, what ails you? are you 
 going to faint?" And the marquis, who 
 had already risen to depart, bent towards 
 them and inquired anxiously "if madamo 
 was ill ? " 
 
 " Oh, no," returned Marguerite, trying to 
 smile; " I am only rather nervous. It is 
 vcrv foolish, I know; but this is the first 
 
 opera I ever saw." 
 You sillv child ! " 
 
 silly child!" said Georgy. " Did 
 vou think Grisi was really dead?" 
 
 " If I might presume to offer my es- 
 cort? " St Leon hesitated. 
 
 44 We shall lie really grateful, 11 ictiirncd 
 (Jeorury, promptly ; M for, .strange to say, we 
 are alone this evening." 
 
 He joined them at the door of their box ; 
 and tliey were soon endeavoring to make, 
 their way through the crowded lobby. 
 
 " Lean on me, madame, I entreat," ho 
 he said to Margucrile. " You look terribly 
 overcome." 
 
 " It is nothing," she whispered; " only a 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 133 
 
 passing faintness. I am unused to these 
 great crowds, and shall be better the moment 
 I breathe the air." 
 
 Just then one of Georgy's former friends 
 happened to pass them on his way out ; a 
 young lordling it was that she had once pick- 
 ed up in Switzerland, when he was still in 
 jackets, and with whom she had contrived at 
 intervals to keep up a bowing acquaintance 
 ever since. Seeing her with the new beau- 
 ty, and accompanied by so well known a man 
 as St. Leon, he condescended to be civil, 
 and thev shook hands the lady very warm- 
 
 iy- 
 
 "What an age since I have seen you, 
 Miss de Burgh ! Will you take my arm ? 
 it's too crowded for three. Good evening, 
 marquis. Deuced hot, aint it? " 
 
 St. Leon answered with a stately bow. He 
 was, however, overjoyed to get rid of Miss 
 de Burgh, and be able to devote all his at- 
 tention to his lovely companion. 
 
 When they reached the vestibule, Georgy 
 and her young friend were nowhere to be 
 seen. 
 
 " Tfiey are probably in advance," said St. 
 Leon. "Let me conduct you outside for a 
 few moments ; the air will refresh you. In- 
 deed, unless you wait very long, you will 
 probably be obliged to walk some distance 
 to your carriage, owing to the crush to- 
 night." 
 
 The cold night air revived Marguerite in- 
 stantly. "I am better now," she said, 
 glancing up at her cousin. His figure looked 
 so like EarnsclifiVs, seen in that uncertain 
 light, that involuntarily her hand pressed 
 upon his arm then trembled a little. 
 
 " That is right," he answered. " Let us 
 walk on, madame, somewhat apart from the 
 crowd. The air is the best thing for you 
 now, and it will give your friend time to 
 join you ; they are probably detained by the 
 crowd." 
 
 Miss de Burgh was not likely to hurry 
 when resting on the arm of a lord ; and it 
 was fully twenty minutes before they all met. 
 During this time the marquis had learnt the 
 name of Marguerite's husband, and their 
 address, and had promised to bring the 
 miniature the following day, *' if madame 
 would do him the real favor of accepting it."' 
 And her glistening eyes, as she turned to 
 thank him. were sufficient reply. After Miss 
 de Burgh had joined them, they had still to 
 walk to the carriage at some little distance. 
 And all this time the young Frenchman was 
 thinking that he had never, in all his experi- 
 ence of beauty, met with any woman to 
 compare to his English cousin, and compla- 
 cently exulting at her very amiable reception 
 of himself; while Marguerite's quiet reflec- 
 tion was, " He is like Philip certainly like 
 him, but not a hundredth part so handsome 
 or so noble-looking ; all the fine intellect is 
 wanting, and the resemblance half pains me 
 from its incompleteness." 
 
 When they were on their way home, Miss 
 Georgy displayed a great accession of 
 spirits. 
 
 " What a delightful evening a lord and 
 a foreign marquis ! I saw those odious Miss 
 Malcolms looking at me as we came to the 
 carriage. They were stalking by with their 
 mother, like three great spectres in the moon- 
 light, and no vestige of a man wkh them ! 
 
 Lord was so attentive, and he is coming 
 
 to call. I heard you asking the marquis. 
 Do you admire him, Mrs. Mortimer? " 
 
 " Yes or rather there is something about 
 him which attracts me." 
 
 " Indeed ! Well, you are candid." 
 
 "A nameless something. I cannot ex- 
 plain what it is, Georgy." 
 
 " Do not trouble yourself; I perfectly un- 
 derstand. Heigh ho ! here we are at my 
 hideous old home. Thank you for my pleas- 
 ant evening, Marguerite, and take me again 
 as soon as you like." 
 
 And Miss Georgy, yawning extensively, 
 ran up the paternal door-steps, leaving Mar- 
 guerite to drive home in the moonlight with 
 the sweet notes of the " Lucia" still vibrat- 
 ing through her brain ; and the voice, not of 
 St. Leon, but of Philip, in her heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 FROM that evening a new life seemed to 
 have opened for Marguerite. Delighted that, 
 at length, something could be found affording 
 her real pleasure, Mortimer insisted upon her 
 frequently going to the opera ; and it was a 
 source to Marguerite of such genuine, un- 
 mixed enjoyment, that soon these two, and 
 often three evenings in the week, were look- 
 ed upon as a matter of course, and anticipat- 
 ed each time with all the zest of a child. 
 
 She loved music passionately ; she went 
 for the music, and listened to it as few Eng- 
 lish people can listen came home to dream 
 of it, and sing what she heard to her own 
 piano, and for herself. Her voice had great- 
 ly improved ; and after the constant instruc- 
 tion, for two years, of the best masters in 
 London, Marguerite N now sang as not many 
 in private life are ever heard to sing. She 
 often, thought of Philip's prediction about 
 her voice, and wondered, with a half-sigh, 
 what he would think of her now that she had 
 so much improved. 
 
 Of Philip himself she never heard. One 
 long letter he -had written her from the Ty- 
 rol, two or three months after they parted 
 a letter that had been read and re-read until 
 known by heart, and then stored away with 
 her other most precious relics but after this 
 she heard no more. Still, however, she 
 thought of him still was his name never 
 forgotten in her prayers still his books were 
 
134 
 
 PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 treasured and all this with the most entire 
 unconsciousness of wrong. But, perhaps, 
 that which kept Philip's image most strongly 
 alive was the likeness that she traced to him 
 in her cousin. 
 
 The young marquis called on the follow- 
 ing day after their first meeting,' with the 
 portrait of Mrs. St. John, and Marguerite 
 had received him with all the unreserved 
 cordiality of a relation, and made him stop 
 to be introduced to Mortimer, and dine with 
 them. From that day he became intimate at 
 the house. Although his society possessed 
 no charm for Marguerite, she "liked him. 
 He was refined, well-educated, superior to 
 'every one else around her, and had all those 
 minute graces of conversation and manner in 
 which a well-bred Frenchman excels. But 
 he was artificial, and to Marguerite this de- 
 prived him of all the interest he might other- 
 wise have inspired. Everything that in 
 Earnscliffe was natural, St. Leon seemed to 
 have learnt. Although, he was never vapid 
 seldom actually common-place he rarely 
 said anything forcible or striking. 
 
 "I shall be jealous of your handsome 
 French cousin, little wife,' 1 said Mortimer, 
 one evening. Marguerite accompanied by 
 Georgy and St. Leon, had been spending a 
 long morning at the Exhibition. 
 
 " Jealous, sir ! surely you cannot mean 
 it. Do you wish to be like Gaston ? " 
 
 " Not that kind of jealousy, my dear. 
 Jealous ! jealous of his being your com- 
 panion so often." 
 
 Marguerite laughed. " Don't you think 
 Georgy de Burgh would like to marry him ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " I think Georgy would marry any one." 
 
 "Oh, yes; but I sometimes think she 
 really likes Gaston." 
 
 "And do not you, Maggy?" looking 
 rather earnestly in her face. 
 
 "Yes I like him very much, at times; 
 and then, he is my only relation, except my 
 cousin Danby. But he seldom really inter- 
 ests me. This morning, among the pictures, 
 even, I forgot so often what he was talking 
 about. When we were looking at that ex- 
 
 ?uisite thing, ' The Awakened Conscience, 1 
 had just read all tin* story of the girl's life 
 in her suddenly anguished fare, and, turning 
 t < i iston, I began telling him it; when he 
 interrupted me, and said, 'the finish on the 
 
 rarpet was painted a ////// /' It was so like 
 liim. He cannot appreciate the wild-flowers 
 in my wilderness half as much as the rare 
 exotics in your hot-hou>es, sir." 
 
 " Well,' I don't Maine him there," said 
 Mortimer, complacently. "Our flowers at 
 Wimbledon are the finest of any near Lon- 
 don (uithout doubt the young man never 
 faw anything like them in his own country, 
 for all he's a man|uis) : and your wilderness, 
 {is you call it. M.i'_ r '_ r > . i> :i horrid damp hole. 
 However, if !] dors nut like your weeds, I 
 am Mire yon .seem to like the same books ; 
 
 or I find you reading together, or talking 
 of what you have just read, when I come in. 11 
 
 " Yes," said Marguerite, smiling, " but 
 we never agree in our criticism. Gaston al- 
 ways admires the very parts that I pass over, 
 and detests anything like sentiment, which, 
 you know, I do like." 
 
 "Poor Maggy! you like what you don't 
 understand. But I am glad to hear I need 
 not be jealous." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Mortimer! what is cousin Gas- 
 ton to me ? " And the perfect truth in her 
 face must have dispelled it, if a slight shade 
 of jealousy had really crossed his mind. 
 
 " It was very kind of him, though," Mar- 
 guerite went on, "to persuade this grand 
 countess to call and invite me to her house ; 
 but I don't care much about going. I am 
 not shy ; still I tremble a little at appearing 
 among hundreds of strangers, and knowing 
 no one but Gaston. 1 wish you would go, 
 Mr. Mortimer ; it is not too late for you to 
 change your mind." 
 
 " My dear, I am not suited for the Coun- 
 tess of E 's parties. With your beauty 
 
 and manners, you are fit company for the 
 Queen; but it "would spoil the effect for me 
 to be shown as your husband. Besides this, 
 I'm not fond of music, and ten to one but I 
 should fall asleep when some of the grand 
 singers are in the middle of their bravuras, 
 or else clap my hands when I ought to be 
 silent. No, child; go and enjoy yourself. 
 I shall be quite content with your descrip- 
 tion to-morrow morning. It is time for you 
 to dress, Marguerite. Go and see how 
 grand you can make yourself." 
 
 " I do not care about it," she replied, 
 slowly preparing to leave the room. " I 
 would much rather be going to the opera." 
 
 " But / care for it," said the husband. 
 " With your own appearance, and my mo- 
 ney, you ought to be in the best society in 
 England ! " 
 
 From the first moment he knew her, St. 
 Leon had longed to see his lovely young 
 cousin in the same world as that in which he 
 himself moved. "\Vith Mortimer's great 
 wealth, the fact of his being on '< Miange was 
 a misdemeanor it was just possible lor the 
 English aristocracy to forgive ; and, for 
 some months past, he had been thinking 
 over evcrv possible plan for obtaining an 
 introduction for Marguerite to the house of 
 some of the leaders of fashion, whose mystic, 
 stamp would afterwards enable her to puss 
 current among the rnnt'i-i-nt' of London e\- 
 clusivism. At length lie had been partially 
 
 successful. The ('ountess of K , at 
 
 whose house he had long been intimat". was 
 about to give the largest musical entertain- 
 ment that had been at'empted during tho 
 season; and at this entertainment St. Leon 
 determined Marguerite should be. 
 
 " Your party \\ill I.e charming." he said 
 to theeniintess.'as he Ml next her at a dinner 
 party, the day after the cards were issued. 
 
PHILIP EAIttSCLIFFE. 
 
 135 
 
 "All parties at H House must be so. 
 
 But as yet your invitations have not included 
 the best amateur voice in London." 
 
 " Is it possible ? I thought I had asked 
 every one." 
 
 "But this is no one.'" 
 
 ** Ah ! The fact is, marquis, I have often* 
 attempted those sort of people at my large 
 musical parties ; but they are invariably fail- 
 ures " 
 
 " But the lady I alluded to is ' no one ' in 
 the language of London life ; but I have the 
 honor of being her very near relative," re- 
 marked St. Leon, a little stiffly. 
 
 "Oh, a foreigner! But, do you know, 
 my dear friend, that that makes 'all the dif- 
 ference ? A foreigner may be of the highest 
 rank, yet not have chanced to bring intro- 
 ductions to England. I shall be delighted 
 to make the acquaintance of your charming 
 relation." 
 
 The countess had three exceedingly plain 
 daughters, and lost no opportunity of being 
 gracious to young men of good property. 
 
 " My cousin is, however, married to an 
 Englishman," St. Leon pursued, demurely ; 
 *' Mr. Mortimer, a very rich stockbroker." 
 
 " Heavens, what have I got into ! "thought 
 the lady. " It will be such a crush," she 
 mentally added, " that perhaps these dread- 
 ful people will not be seen, or pass for pro- 
 fessionals." Then aloud, *' You must tell 
 me Mrs. Mortimer's address, or write it down 
 for me. My poor head is so overladen with 
 names of people I care nothing about, I may 
 forget those whom I should like to know." 
 
 But St. Leon did not allow her memory 
 to fail in this instance ; and a day or two 
 afterwards, to Marguerite's surprise, the 
 
 card ot the Countess of E was left in 
 
 Portland Place, accompanied by an invitation 
 to H House, for the 15th of the follow- 
 ing month. 
 
 " What does all this mean, Gaston? " she 
 cried, when he paid his next visit. "I am 
 sure you know something about it." 
 
 " It means this : The Countess of E 
 
 is one of the leaders of your London society, 
 and has so constantly heard me speak of my 
 accomplished cousin, Mrs. Mortimer, that at 
 length she has ventured to call and ask you 
 to her house : when she sees you, .she will 
 find how great a gainer she is by the intro- 
 duction." 
 
 " Fi done! You have so often promised 
 to pay me no compliments. Am I really to 
 go, Gaston? do you think Mr. Mortimer 
 would like it?" 
 
 "Mr. Mortimer ! toujours Mr. Mortimer ! 
 can you never pronounce for yourself what 
 you would like, rna cousine ? " 
 
 4 * Well, I think I wish to go; but he will 
 decide best he is so sensible ! " 
 
 And Mortimer, who soon afterwards came 
 in to luncheon, gave his opinion, with very 
 little hesitation, in the affirmative. Mar- 
 guerite thought St. Leon's account quite sim- 
 
 ple about Lady E 'g wish to know her ; 
 
 but her husband was more flattered and 
 pleased at the unexpected grandeur than ho 
 cared to acknowledge. To do him justice, 
 the feeling of gratification was for her, not 
 himself; and he hastened that very after- 
 noon to order her new diamonds and a new 
 dress, in his desire that her first appearance 
 should be a brilliant one. 
 
 From the beginning Mortimer very sensibly 
 declined the invitation for himself, and said 
 his pleasure would be in Marguerite's enjoy- 
 ment. But, when in her sheen of white bro- 
 caded silk and diamonds and, more than, 
 this, in her glorious bloom of youth she en- 
 tered the dining-room for his approval on 
 the evening of the concert, the natural 
 thought crossed him of the admiration and 
 flattery to which she would be exposed, and 
 the charm this new life must soon possess for 
 one so young as his wife ; and something 
 painful was in the thought. 
 
 " Marguerite, you are indeed magnificent I 
 Dress and diamonds can add even to the per- 
 fection of your face. We grow more like 
 Beauty and the Beast every day ! " 
 
 " Mr. Mortimer, I will not hear you say 
 those things ; tell me you do not mean it, 
 sir ! " coming close to him, and looking 
 steadily in his face. " Does it give you the 
 slightest pain my going without you to this 
 grand party ? " she added. 
 
 " No, Maggy. Have you ever known me 
 so selfish ? " 
 
 She did not reply, but still looked at him 
 very earnestly, as though striving to read the 
 expression of his face ; then she repeated, 
 " I wish I had not decided upon going." 
 
 "What! when it gives me such pleas- 
 ure?" 
 
 " Yes; I feel that it would be better for 
 me not to go." 
 
 Was it some unbidden presentiment of the 
 future, some dim foreknowledge that in the 
 great world of London life she would again 
 meet EarnsclifFe, that influenced Marguerite 
 as she spoke ? 
 
 The carriage was announced, and her hus- 
 band led her to it ; then kindly kissing her, 
 bade her be happy, and sing her very best. 
 Afterwards, with dignified pride, he told the 
 
 coachman to drive to H House. But, 
 
 when he returned to the empty dining-room 
 still thinking of his wife, and this ncwr 
 sphere of admiration and excitement into 
 which she was thrown there was a mixed 
 feeling in Mr. Mortimer's appreciation of 
 their freshly-arisen grandeur. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THERE was actually a hush of admiration 
 when Marguerite made her appearance in 
 
136 
 
 PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 the Countess of E 1 s stately reception- 
 rooms, unattended, unknown ; but with the 
 quiet self-possession that was innate in her, 
 and covered with diamonds that might have 
 formed the dowry of a young duchess. 
 
 Lady E was exceedingly civil in her 
 
 reception of Marguerite, and her regrets 
 that Mr. Mortimer was unable to come ; for 
 St. Leon was already at her side, and hear- 
 ing every word she uttered. 
 
 " I am really indebted to you," she whis- 
 pered to him (but so loud that Marguerite 
 beard it). " At the close of a season, such 
 a face, such matchless grace as your cousin 1 s, 
 is indeed refreshing among all the well-known 
 pale faces of London ! Mrs. Mortimer, al- 
 low me to introduce my sister to you Lady 
 Millicent Gore." 
 
 A pale, interesting-looking woman, seated 
 near the countess, bowed to Marguerite, 
 and made room for her by her side. " My 
 sister is so engaged in receiving her guests, 
 that you must allow me to take her place in 
 introducing you to our friends, Mrs. Morti- 
 mer. As a foreigner, most of the people 
 about you must be strangers." 
 
 " I know no one, madame, except Gas- 
 ton," glancing at her cousin, who remained 
 hovering about her, as though to afford her 
 encouragement. *' I have never been out 
 before ! " 
 
 The lady, of course, thought she meant in 
 England, and returned, " I fear our English 
 society will not please you as much as your 
 own. All my early life was spent abroad, 
 and when I first returned to England. I was 
 incessantly struck wirh the great difference 
 in the tone of our manners the want, above 
 all, of that perfect ease and absence of re- 
 straint which characterises good foreign so- 
 ciety, that of Paris especially." 
 
 " I was never in Paris. Until T came to 
 England, all my life was spent in Bretagne." 
 
 Gaston advanced to her side. 
 
 " More of the old noblesse of France, and 
 of their old courtly manners, yet linger in 
 Bretagne than in any other of our provinces, 
 madame," he said, addressing Lady Milli- 
 cent. 
 
 " So I have heard ; and that strangers are 
 very rarely admitted among them. From 
 what part of Brittany do you come. Mrs. 
 Mortimer? " 
 
 " From the very wildest part of the ex- 
 treme west a part that few English people, 
 1 find, have ever heard of." 
 
 " Von speak English so well with scarce- 
 ly any foreign accent." 
 
 "My father was English so either lan- 
 guage is familiar to me." 
 
 " You speak it better than your cousin, 1 * 
 *aid Lady Millirent. "The maiquis has an 
 excellent aeeent, but lie has not our idiom." 
 
 " No," replied Marguerite ; " and lie will 
 nlway render Freneh idioms into Knglish, 
 word lor word. Gaston, do you hear that 
 
 mine is pronounced the best English ? We 
 often argue that point.' 1 
 
 Some acquaintances of Lady Millicent's 
 stopping to speak to her, her attention was 
 taken from Marguerite, who turned towards 
 St. Leon. " Gaston " (in French) " how 
 kind of you to be here already for my sake ! 
 I know that you dislike going to early par- 
 ties." 
 
 " But you do not want my protection, Mar- 
 guerite. You look as composed as though 
 you had been to every party this season." 
 
 "I do not feel so, I can assure you. My 
 heart beat violently when I came in. Do you 
 know, at the. very last, I tried to persuade 
 Mr. Mortimer to accompany me? " 
 
 " Thank all the gods he stayed away," 
 thought Gaston. "Ah! you will not mind 
 going out alone the next time," he said, 
 aloud. " Ce n'est que le premier pas qui 
 coute ! " 
 
 " Yes, that is all very well ; but T do not 
 suppose I shall have any more invitations." 
 
 " Ah, some one is going to sing who is 
 it? I surely remember that handsome face." 
 
 " That handsome face belongs to Mario, 
 madame. He and Grisi are going to sing a 
 duet. 11 
 
 " And I shall be expected to sing in the 
 same room with them. Oh ! I do feel shy 
 now." 
 
 " More than you did at the prospect of 
 singing before dukes and countesses? You 
 told me yesterday you had no dread at all." 
 
 " Before them, certainly not. They may 
 know no more of music than I do ; but be- 
 fore great artistes, yes Gaston," in a low 
 voice, " I should like to be introduced to 
 them." 
 
 " N'en parlez pas, ma cousine ! One is not 
 introduced to professional singers ! If you 
 ever require them in your own house, you 
 will engage them, and pay them so mueh a- 
 night. You do not suppose that they are ac- 
 quaintances of the Countess of E 
 
 "Hush! they are beginning. Ah, now 
 for real enjoyment ! " 
 
 After the duet, which was delicious, a great 
 amateur harpist performed a long piece, with 
 the assistance of an amatei.r plains:, of im- 
 mense execution and no taste (all of which 
 Marguerite thought remarkably unpleasing). 
 Then the Ihidiess of Somebody .sang very 
 mildly; then Herr Some One Else played on 
 an extraordinarv instrument, that lie had 
 been fifteen years in constructing, and fifteen 
 
 more in learning to play; then Lady 10 
 
 came to Marguerite. Slie had been introduc- 
 ed to several people in the meantime by Lady 
 Millicent and (Jaston, and was now Mirronml- 
 eil bv a little circlt a Ilnssian prince, an Lng- 
 lish earl, one or two younger sons, St. Leon, 
 of course, and a celcbra'ed author. To tho 
 latter she was speaking with much more ani- 
 mation than to anv of the others. She won- 
 dered whether he- had ever known Kuril*- 
 chile ! 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 137 
 
 " Mrs. Mortimer, T have come to claim 
 your kind promise. Marquis, will you take 
 Mrs. Mortimer to the piano?" 
 
 Lady Millicent good-naturedly followed, 
 thinking Marguerite must feel timid amidst 
 such crowds of strangers. " Shall I stand 
 beside you ? " she whispered. 
 
 44 Oh, if you will be so kind, I should great- 
 ly prefer it f But I am not very nervous now." 
 
 " Have you notes? " asked Gaston, much 
 more flurried than she was, about her success. 
 
 "No; I never use notes. What would be 
 best forme to. sing?" (to Lady Millicent) 
 Italian or English ? " 
 
 " Italian, perhaps, as the last song was an 
 English one ; but let your own taste guide 
 you." 
 
 After a few bold chords she seldom play- 
 ed the regular written accompaniments to her 
 songs Marguerite began an Italian bravura, 
 and in a second every one seemed electrified. 
 Marguerite never sang better in her life. 
 Constant attendance at the opera, and first- 
 rate instruction, joined to singular natural 
 ability, had given her an artistic style of ex- 
 pression almost unknown among young la- 
 dies a style which made even Grisi rush 
 hastily to the concert room, to see if some 
 new singer had arrived beside herself. Dur- 
 ing amateur performances, the artistes usual- 
 ly waited in patient resignation, and without 
 hearing a note. 
 
 44 Ecco una voce! Gran 1 Dio ! Ecco una 
 voce! " Could Marguerite have seen the face 
 of the great artiste, her triumph would have 
 been far greater to herself than it was at all 
 the praises that were showered upon her at 
 the conclusion of her performance. Lady 
 
 E was almost in tears of delight that 
 
 such a debut should have been made in her 
 house, and seized both of Marguerite's hands 
 as she was going to rise from the piano. 
 
 *' One more, Mrs. Mortimer only a little 
 ballad anything you like ; but really we 
 cannot so soon lose your exquisite voice ! " 
 
 Marguerite smiled, and re-seated herself. 
 
 44 One of your Breton romances," whis- 
 pered St. Leon, close beside her. He knew 
 too well the secrets of effect not to be aware 
 how a plaintive ballad would tell after the 
 Italian bravura. 
 
 She chose, this time, the wild dirge she 
 had sung to Earnscliffe on the first evening he 
 had ever heard her ; and, perhaps, that rec- 
 ollection gave more than usual pathos to her 
 voice. The lights, the strange faces around 
 her vanished. She was by .the open window 
 again at Kersaint, with the summer sun-set 
 streaming into the old room, and gilding the 
 graceful outline of Philip's figure, as he stood 
 in the deep embrasure watching her. When 
 she concluded, amid a universal and genuine 
 murmur of applause, the only words she 
 heard were those of St. Leon. 
 
 44 Thank you, Marguerite." His voice 
 sounded so exactly like Philip's that she turn- 
 ed round with a start ; and something in her 
 
 cousin's attitude at the moment completed 
 the resemblance. 
 
 44 Phil Gaston oh! cousin I mean." 
 Her color went and came, and a sudden 
 emotion shot through St. Leon's heart. He 
 was no coxcomb, but, while handing Mar- 
 guerite to her seat, he ventured, very slight- 
 ly, to press the little hand upon his arm. 
 
 44 How you blushed, Marguerite, as you 
 finished vour last song ; were you conscious 
 of it?"" 
 
 44 No yes. Oh, Gaston, my thoughts 
 were far away." 
 
 44 You are complimentary, madame. Am 
 I completely beyond consideration ? " 
 
 44 Why I see you every day, dear Gaston. 
 You know I could not be thinking of you. 1 ' 
 
 44 What a dreadful coquette ! " remarked 
 some well-trained English girls, who were 
 watching Marguerite and her cousin. 44 Look 
 at the way she smiles and beams up in that 
 man's face ! But then all Frenchwomen are 
 the same. And a married woman too, which 
 makes it worse ! " 
 
 44 Let me take you to supper," whispered 
 Gaston. 4< I see our hostess bringing up 
 some one to introduce to you, but remember 
 that you are engaged to me." 
 
 From that evening Marguerite became the 
 fashion. Much as we talk of exclusiveness, 
 our aristocracy is probably less exclusive 
 than any other in the world; and great 
 wealth or great talent can at any time gain 
 admittance more easily into London society 
 than into that of half the capitals in Europe. 
 Marguerite, too, had riches, talent, beauty; 
 and, at least, on her mother's side, high 
 birth. And besides all this she was half a 
 foreigner a circumstance which in itself 
 casts down many barriers in England so 
 her husband's business and himself were tac- 
 itly ignored by the great people who wished 
 to secure Mrs. Mortimer for their parties. 
 He was asked as a matter of course, but had 
 the good taste invariably to decline; and 
 Marguerite gradually became accustomed to 
 go everywhere alone. The slight feeling of 
 uneasiness he had experienced on her debut 
 wore off, as he perceived how little her new 
 kind of life altered his wife. She told him 
 so exactly the admiration she received, the 
 compliments that were paid her poor Gas- 
 ton included that it would have required a 
 more suspicious nature than even Mortimer's 
 to harbor any feelings of jealousy ; and he 
 was soon prouder than he chose to confess 
 of his wife's success, and of her entrance in- 
 to ' 4 grand society." 
 
 44 But Marguerite," he said, one morning 
 at breakfast, as she described some brilliant 
 ball on the previous evening; 44 does not the 
 thought often cross your mind, among all 
 these handsome young men, of your old 
 plain husband at home, making you wish 
 that you had not chosen so young, and be- 
 fore you had seen anything of the world? 
 
138 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 Confess, Marguerite ; such is sometimes the 
 case ! " 
 
 "Never, Mr. Mortimer. I have never 
 yet met any one among them who really in- 
 terested me. I still like Gaston far the best 
 among all the young men I am acquainted 
 with and you know precisely how I feel 
 towards him." 
 
 "Then, Maggy, must I believe that your 
 heart is pre-occupied ? " 
 
 " 1 believe it is so, sir," she replied, in a 
 very low voice. 
 
 Mortimer knew not the unacknowledged 
 memory which made all others seem so poor 
 and weak compared to it knew not that 
 his own strong safeguard was in the shade 
 of his wife 1 s old lover ! 
 
 That season passed away another came 
 and Marguerite's popularity rather in- 
 oreased than waned. Her extraordinary 
 voice made her a welcome acquisition every- 
 where ; and the whole musical world were 
 now as anxious to engage her for their con- 
 certs as they were to get Grisi or Alboni. 
 
 When Georgy said that the world and 
 amusement would soon efface Marguerite's 
 recollection of Philip, she was, to a limited 
 extent, correct. To forget him was not in 
 Marguerite's nature to love again was im- 
 possible ; but she had not now the time to 
 think of him as formerly. The desire of 
 distinction that lies dormant in every human 
 heart desires which, had she married Earns- 
 cliffe, would never have germinated in hers 
 now took the place of a softer interest in 
 life. Young, gifted and admired beyond the 
 usual lot, Marguerite was happy if such a 
 life can ever make a woman's happiness 
 at all events, her existence flowed smoothly 
 on, and no longer stagnated as in the first 
 dull years of her marriage. 
 
 As may be conceived, Georgy de Burgh 
 and her mother made indefatigable efforts to 
 get acquainted with great people " on the 
 strength of their dear Marguerite's success. 
 But this she knew from the first was impossi- 
 ble ; and Mortimer at length made one or 
 two such unmistakably plain speeches on the 
 subject (when they had been wearying his 
 wife with supplications to get them invited 
 to Lady Someone's ball), that they had .tak- 
 en serious ofl'ence ; and although Danby 
 still continued to call as usual, Marguerite 
 now saw little of either of the ladies. 
 
 But St. Leon was a most constant visit 01 
 at the Moi timers 1 . His relationship gave 
 him, of course, a claim to more than ordina- 
 ry intimacy, ami, whatever his inmost feel- 
 ings mi^'lit be towards Marguerite, he had as 
 Vet SO scrupulously concealed them, that sh< 
 had not the slightest conception of anything 
 more than fiiendship on his part. Her o\vi 
 manner to him continued the same as it IKK 
 always been fjuito open and unconstrained 
 As she had told Mortimer. >he |ircfi-rreil IH-I 
 ripiisin to any other man with whom she was 
 acquainted, and, perhaps, had her heart beci 
 
 r holly unoccupied, there might have been 
 anger in this constant intimacy. Remem- 
 >ering Philip, however, she saw precisely 
 fhere Gaston was shallow and unreal ; if his 
 oice softened she knew he was acting : if he 
 cad to her, or sang to her, or walked with 
 er, she remembered how she had done all 
 his once before with Philip beside her, and 
 he present seemed in a moment as a faint, 
 old shadow compared to that warm and 
 ;olden past. 
 
 And yet, while Philip's recollection always 
 
 tood between Marguerite and St. Leon, the 
 
 esemblance, real or fancied, which she 
 
 raced to Earnscliffe in his features, was the 
 
 greatest interest her cousin possessed to her; 
 
 ind a sudden look or expression of his would 
 
 ften so bring back Philip and old days, that 
 
 utterly unable to master her emotion she 
 
 vould blush and tremble, just as she had 
 
 done years before at Kersaint. These blush- 
 
 s, these tremors, fatally misled St Leon. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 FOUR years passed away after Earnscliffe 
 lad parted with Neville in Rome before he 
 returned to England. The first eighteen 
 months he had spent in Italy and Greece ; 
 the latter part of the time in the East among 
 the wildest, least frequented districts of 
 Arabia and Syria. During this period, but 
 only at intervals, he had continued to write, 
 and each successive work bore evidence of 
 deeper thought, and was imbued with a 
 healthier tone than had characterised even 
 the best of his earlier writings. In this long 
 intercourse with nature, freed from the ener- 
 vating influences of social life, I'hilip had 
 regained much that the world, with its pleas- 
 ures and disappointments, had taken from the 
 fresh genius of his youth. In the absence of 
 all human companionship, he had created 
 for himself a wild and lonely peril, that 
 was eminently calculated to strengthen into 
 self-dependence his formerly yielding, some- 
 what indolent character; and he was now re- 
 turning home, Unconscious of the change, 
 with renewed ardor and ambition, and his 
 whole moial being braced in a manlier, more, 
 vigorous tone. 
 
 An event had occurred {o,>. during this 
 interval, which, Philip was obliged to con- 
 fess, removed his strongest reasons for liv- 
 ing abroad, and his morbid di-lastc lor Eng- 
 land. He was once mo! e free ! After three 
 years of ill health, spent, first in the spend- 
 thrift ^randenr of her father's house, then in 
 poverty, uncheered bv either affection or re- 
 spect, Lady ('lira died. BftlTlMcliffti did not 
 hear of her death without a cert.ir emotion, 
 although it was impossible il could cause 
 him anything like real grief. He had written 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 139 
 
 to his wife after Lord St. Leger's break- 
 down, offering all the assistance in his pow- 
 er, and entreating her to receive some allow- 
 ance from him. *' For my sake I ask you to 
 accept it," he had written, " for the sake of 
 our childish days. Show sufficient generosi- 
 ty to give me this pleasure ! " But, whatever 
 softer feelings Clara's better nature may have 
 prompted, the letter remained unanswered : 
 and Philip heard of her no more, until he 
 accidentally read the announcement of her 
 death in an English paper at Smyrna. She 
 had then been dead some months ; and, by 
 the following spring, Earnscliffe finally quit- 
 ted the East, and resolved to return for good 
 to his own country. 
 
 Although, in his exile, he had often tried 
 to persuade himself that deserts were far 
 more suited to him than cities, he could 
 scarcely repress the pleasure with which he 
 once more found himself in Paris. 
 
 He met several old faces among the idle 
 crowds on the boulevards ; but not one that 
 lit up with an expression of recognition at 
 Seeing him (Philip was greatly changed, 
 sunburnt, and stouter, and a beard of two 
 years' growth completely metamorphosed the 
 once soft, dreamy character of his features) ; 
 and, at last, he turned in to a solitary dinner 
 at Les Trois Freres, where he was soon 
 obliged to allow that coquilles de volatile h la 
 fmancikre. eqigrammes d'agneau, and meri- 
 gues glacts, tasted excellent, after the wild 
 meals improvised by himself in Arabia Pe- 
 traea ; and that chablis and hock were prefer- 
 able to black coffee and arrack of the desert. 
 
 * Neville was right," he thought. " I re- 
 member, he told me that at five-and-thirty, I 
 should have done with sentiment, and be 
 glad to return to the substantial things of 
 this world. I am not quite so old, but t have 
 certainly no sentiment left ; and, as for the 
 world garcon, bring me the bills for the 
 theatre to-night." He glanced over the 
 names of the performers, and it gave him an 
 old feeling to perceive that they were nearly 
 all strange ones. "I am like an unrolled 
 mummy, or Robinson Crusoe," he thought. 
 " On the earth, but not belonging to it. 1 
 wonder what has become of Celeste an<] 
 Fridoline, and poor little Rose ! " And Phil- 
 ip sat long over his dessert, thinking of his 
 old loves, as he sipped his wine, but looking 
 by no means miserable. 
 
 "Eh, mon Dieu, est il possible?" burst 
 at last from the lips of a Frenchman who was 
 taking coffee at another table, and had been 
 intently watching him for about half-an-hour, 
 *' Can I really see Monsieur Earnscliffe?" 
 coming up to him with both hands extended, 
 
 After a second's hesitation, Philip recog- 
 nised a rather silly looking young man, 
 Monsieur Deschamps, by name, with whom 
 Le had formerly been slightly acquainted in 
 Paris; and, glad to meet with anything tha 
 connected him with the land of the living, he 
 
 cordially returned the friendly greeting of 
 he Frenchman. 
 
 *' I am surprised that you know me," he 
 remarked ; " several of my countrymen pass- 
 ed me to-day, with no signs of recognition." 
 
 ' Until I heard you speak to one of the 
 garcons, I was uncertain ; but I could not 
 3e mistaken in the tones of your voice. My 
 wife T am married, now has often said to 
 Tie, Monsieur Earnscliffe' s was the only 
 pleasant voice she ever heard in England/ " 
 
 " I congratulate you on your happiness. 
 But, have I indeed the honor of being an ac- 
 quaintance of Madame Deschampj* " 
 
 'My wife's former name was Madem- 
 oiselle Celeste - " 
 
 " Celeste ! " exclaimed Philip. " Do you 
 mean - " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, the celebrated Celeste. 
 But she has long since abandoned the stage," 
 he added, with dignity. * Half the year we 
 live on our estates in Normandy, the other 
 half in Paris ; and we shall be charmed to 
 see you chez nous Hotel Rohan, Rue St. 
 Maur, Faubourg St. Germain. Indeed, to- 
 night is one of Celeste's receptions, and I 
 am sure she will be delighted to see again so 
 distinguished a personage as Monsieur Earns- 
 
 Philip bowed to the compliment, and 
 promised to call at the Hotel Rohan in the 
 course of the evening. 
 
 * You will meet several of your compatri- 
 ots ; for Celeste admits many strangers to 
 her societies,, in consideration of the happy 
 years she spent abroad, especially in your 
 country. Lady Kentish and Mrs. Dodd 
 Tracy are of her friends the most intimate." 
 
 It was late when he arrived, and the 
 guests were long assembled. The house of 
 Celeste's husband was exactly such a hotei 
 as used to be considered aristocratic in " the 
 Faubourg " entre cour et jardin and dull, 
 huge, and damp. It had been purchased 
 from some ruined family by the father of 
 Monsieur Anatole, and he considered that it 
 gave a kind of halo of good birth to reside 
 there himself; although poor Celeste's own 
 taste much more warmly inclined to a cheerful, 
 noisy apartment in the Faubourg St. Honore. 
 
 Celeste knew Earnscliffe instantly ; and 
 advanced with a blush and exclamation that 
 were not acted, to meet him. " Oh, Philip ! " 
 in a very low voice, " this is unexpected ! " 
 
 He told her in two words of his meeting 
 with Monsieur Deschamps, and how gladly 
 he had availed himself of his invitation. 
 
 " You must stop till all these people are 
 gone," she replied, still in the same tone. 
 " It is already late, and then we can talk over 
 old times. But the world, and your compa- 
 triots especially, are so censorious, that I 
 must not even appear glad to see you now. 
 Let me introduce you to some of your own 
 country-people ! " 
 
 " Who in the world can all these people 
 
140 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 be ? " thought Philip, after he had looked 
 about him. " They certainly look respec- 
 table.' 1 
 
 He did not know anything of a certain 
 class of English in Paris, or he would have 
 felt no surprise at seeing them at Celeste's 
 house, or anywhere else. A class made up 
 of odds-and-ends of society Mrs. Dodd 
 Traceys and Lady Kentishes who, for some 
 1 ttle reasons, are just not received in Lon- 
 don, but manage to pass current better 
 abroad these and others brought by them 
 and of a still more mystic origin constitu- 
 ted Celeste's British guests. 
 
 Her hiJsband who had married her in a 
 sillv freak, or perhaps with the wish to do 
 something remarkable was really a man of 
 tolerable property, though of low birth ; and 
 seme of his connections decent shopekepers 
 mostly made up the French part of the 
 company, and were looked upon by the En- 
 glish as models of foreign breeding and high 
 birth. Better bred they certainly showed 
 themselves than his own country-people ; 
 for, when Earnscliffe's name was known, the 
 latter all crowded round him, and solicited 
 introductions, until he was literally bored to 
 death. And it was with the feeling of the 
 most intense relief that he watched the last 
 of them Mrs. Dodd Tracey depart about 
 midnight, and found himself alone among the 
 chandeliers with Celeste. 
 
 " You have grown so handsome, Philip 
 I can call you so when' no' one hears : but you 
 look much older." 
 
 " You are still handsome, Celeste; and 
 look younger than ever." 
 
 She shook her head and smiled ; but then 
 said her quiet life now was, of course, less 
 wearing than it used to be when on the 
 stage. 
 
 44 And happier?" 
 
 * 4 Oh. yes ! I was getting tired of acting, 
 and ovations, and suppers, and all the rest 
 of i(. And now I have everything I like, a 
 very nice house, as you see only rather dull 
 a dear" little carriage of my own, and 
 better than all a son two years old, with 
 Llark eyes and long hair, beau comine un 
 ange. I should like you to see him. But 
 Mt down not there here, where I can see 
 you, and talk. I do like to hear your voice; 
 it reminds me so of old days ! " 
 
 Philip sealed himself as she requeued. 
 " You must have a good deal to tell me, 
 ( ,-1, 
 
 44 Yes, but your story first. All that has 
 happened to you from the verv last day I saw 
 you." 
 
 Omitting all mention of Kersaint, Philip 
 gave h.-r a resume of his wandering*, des- 
 cribing just the scenes and people she was 
 likely to care about; and (Vle-tr listened 
 with great :n'cn-t. and her plump hands 
 clasped in a charming attitude of atten- 
 tion. 
 
 * 4 Voila tout!" she cried, as he finished. 
 
 ** Ah ! and you have become (/uite a philos- 
 opher among these dreadful deserts without 
 doubt. Mon pauvre ami, how sentimental 
 you used to be ! " 
 
 44 Very long ago ; I do not look sentimen- 
 tal now ; do I ? " 
 
 44 Oh, no; you have quite lost that indes- 
 cribable expression ; that softness not of 
 voice, that is the same as ever but of face. 
 All your youth is gone." 
 
 44 It should be, I am getting old." 
 
 44 Do not speak of it, what must I be ? " 
 
 44 For some people time remains station- 
 ary." 
 
 44 Ah ! you never used to make pretty 
 speeches, poor little Fridoline often said that 
 was your great charm." 
 
 44 Fridoline ! " echoed Philip. ' 4 T had al- 
 most forgotten her. Where is Fridoline ? a 
 great actress she must be by this time." 
 
 44 She is gone," said Celeste, gravely. 
 44 No, not dead ; but returned vanished as 
 she came. Some news respecting the death 
 of a relation reached her, and she never 
 could be induced to go on the stage again. 
 Imagine the rage of the manager ! She nad 
 to pay an immense sum to get off her en- 
 gagement so suddenly." 
 
 44 But when did all this happen? Is she 
 really gone for ever ? " 
 
 44 Oh ! it happened two or three years ago. 
 One night, just as she was going to the 
 theatre, she got the letter; and a week after- 
 wards had quitted England, accompanied by 
 an old servant, whom you may remember. 
 She came to see me in Paris it was just 
 after my marriage looking years older, and 
 in deep mourning. I was surprised at her 
 coming here ; for, of course, it took her out 
 of her way in returning to Norway ; but she 
 said she had a visit to pay near Paris, before 
 leaving France forever. That visit was to 
 Pere la Chaise and I accompanied her. 
 
 44 Then you know more about her now 
 than you used to do ? " 
 
 44 I know all; and should like you to do 
 so too. Tenex ! I had entirely forgotten it; 
 but I have a letter for you from Fridolint 
 herself. She gave it me, blushing and con- 
 fused, the day she left; and made me prom- 
 ise to keep it for you, saying, ' You will see 
 him again, or hear of him, at least 1 never 
 shall.' Do you know, Monsieur Karnsclilfe, 
 I believe pnor Fi'idoline loved you?" 
 
 44 Me, (YleMei 1 Ne\er. UY were friends, 
 as two young men of the same age might be 
 nothing more." 
 
 Celeste shook her head. " I don't believe 
 in these kind of friendships ; if on the on<> 
 side, the feeling la>ts a-> it began, it is sure 
 to become warmer on the <>t ln-v. However, 
 you shall have the letter to take home with 
 you; when you have read it, you can judge 
 for vnur.-elf. It is c]o<e at hand among my 
 old letters. Here it 
 
 " I will read it to-morrow; let us speak of 
 nothing but old times, now." And they snoke 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 141 
 
 until the timepiece just beside them, chimed 
 (wo; and Madame Descharnp started at its 
 sound, and appeared suddenly to recollect 
 that she was no longer Celeste. 
 
 44 I hope you are not leaving Paris yet?" 
 
 44 A polite way of bidding me good-night, 
 fnadame ! You have not told me of all our 
 mutual friends yet, or, more interesting still, 
 half enough about yourself." 
 
 44 Mais voila Anatole qui rentre ! " exclaim- 
 ed Celeste, as a man's step was heard on the 
 staircase; 44 and two hours in the morn- 
 ing! " speaking English. ' It is frightful, 
 these Paris husbands." 
 
 Monsieur Anatole entered, and smiled af- 
 fably to Philip. 44 Ah, Monsieur Earns- 
 cliffe ! I am charmed that you have honored 
 us. She is looking well, is she not? " taking 
 his wife's hand affectionately. 
 
 44 Remarkably well ! " answered Philip. 
 ' I was just telling her so," he thought, 
 " when you interrupted me." However, he 
 was silent. There seemed such perfect har- 
 mony and good understanding in the mkn- 
 age, he could not for worlds have disturbed 
 it. 
 
 44 1 have already trespassed too much on 
 your kindness, madame. In talking over so 
 many old friends and scenes, I have forgot- 
 ten time," he said bowing to Celeste : " and 
 now I must have the pain of again wishing 
 you good-bye ; only this time I trust it will 
 be for months, not years." 
 
 44 Ah, you are hastening back to London 
 so soon ! " 
 
 44 Yes; I am obliged to leave to-morrow 
 morning; but next winter I hope to return 
 to Paris for some months, and " 
 
 44 You will come to see us you will count 
 us of your friends? " said Celeste's husband, 
 warmly seizing both his hands, and with act- 
 ual tears in his eyes. 
 
 44 The French are a singular people ! " 
 thought Philip, as he walked home in the 
 moonlight to his hotel. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 WHEX he was half-way between Paris and 
 Boulogne, the following morning, Philip took 
 Fridoiine's letter from his pocket, and broke 
 the seal. The contents were as follows : 
 
 44 1 shall never see you more. Monsieur 
 Earnschffe. When you receive this letter, 
 my name will come back to you like a dream 
 long forgotten. You will say, Ah, poor 
 little Fridoline ! I remember, now, there 
 was something about her I never understood. 1 
 And just for this reason I write you. In the 
 eyes of the world I care nothing how I am 
 remembered. I may be merely called eccen- 
 tric, or classed with all other actresses ; but 
 to you I know not why I would appear as 
 
 I really am. The time is past when it could 
 injure any one to disclose the secret of my 
 life the reason for secresy, alas ! exists no 
 longer. Philip, let me tell you briefly why I 
 left my own country why I followed a pro- 
 fession, and associated with a class, that was 
 abhorrent to me ! 
 
 44 My earliest recollections are of a Nor- 
 wegian village, buried in the depth of pine 
 forests and wild mountains where, for more 
 than half the year, the snow never melted ; 
 and of a large, old farm house, of which on- 
 ly a few rooms on the first-floor were fur- 
 nished, and where I lived with my Aunt 
 Christina, and one servant Hulda, who has 
 never left me. 
 
 44 My aunt was tall, and thin, and severe; 
 and appeared to be of immense age al- 
 though I suppose, in my childhood, she could 
 not have more than reached middle life. She 
 loved me ; but with an austere kind of love 
 that chilled me instinctively. If I danced 
 and sang, she shook her head, and looked 
 away from me when I played childish tricks 
 upon Hulda or the cat, she told me the devil 
 was in my heart. Once, when I was about 
 six years old, I collected a quantity of spring 
 flowers in the forest, and made them into a 
 wreath for my own hair, then climbing up to 
 the glass in her bedroom, I was surveying 
 myself with great satisfaction, when my aunt 
 suddenly entered. 4 Vain already, child,' 
 she cried passionately. 4 You shall be dressed 
 in your old winter things all the summer.' 
 And she flung my flowers far away through 
 the window. Afterwards, when she joined 
 us by the kitchen stove in the evening for I 
 had taken refuge as usual with Hulda in my 
 disgrace I saw that Aunt Christina's eyes 
 were red with weeping, and I wondered 
 where was the sin of making flower wreaths ! 
 But Hulda told me I was too young to under- 
 stand such things. 
 
 44 As I grew older, I was never allowed to 
 associate with any of the other girls in the 
 village. People seemed to look upon us as 
 something doubtful my aunt held aloof from 
 everybody; so we had no visitors. 1 think 
 ghe only received about two letters a year, 
 on each of which occasions her eyes always 
 grew red, and her manner to me redoubled 
 in severity. If 1 asked, why I had no fa- 
 ther or mother, or sisters, my questions were 
 checked so sternly, that I felt it was very 
 wrong indeed for me to wish to be related to 
 any one. Still, I was not unhappy. It 
 takes more than loneliness or occasional 
 punishment to subdue the natural spirits and 
 loving heart of a child. 
 
 44 So the time went by till I was fifteen. 
 On that day I fancied myself a woman, and 
 I told my aunt so. * Do you, Fridoline? ' 
 she answered. 4 Then as you have decided 
 it yourself, so it shall be. To-day your 
 childhood ends.' She was right. From 
 that (lay I never felt young again. 
 
 * 4 I remember well with what interest I 
 
142 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 seated myself by the open window on that 
 bright June morning eager to devour every 
 word as it fell from the lips of Aunt Chris- 
 tina, as she sat opposite me in her favorite 
 stiff horse-hair chair. She told me who I 
 was what was my mother. Oh, Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe ! I shrink from repeating it to you even 
 now nothing could make me do so but the 
 feeling that my own character must always 
 remain misunderstood unless you hear my 
 history. Knowing also that you will not be 
 harsh in your judgment upon her who is 
 gone ; and that, when you have read, you 
 will burn this letter, and never allow its con- 
 tents to be known to any but yourself. 
 
 " They were early left orphans these 
 two sisters ; but my mother was years the 
 younger, and gifted with extraordinary 
 beauty and talent. From the difference in 
 age, Christina loved her almost with the love 
 of a mother; and when, at sixteen, in spite 
 of their religious education in spite of all 
 she could say against it her young sister 
 embraced the life of an actress it almost 
 broke her heart. 
 
 " The success of the lovely Pauline was in- 
 stant, and in a few weeks all the young 
 nobles of Christiania were at her feet. 
 Christina continued great as was her re- 
 pugnance to theatres and actors to watch 
 over her, even when she had to bear with 
 harsh words for her untiring surveillance. 
 But it was all in vain. Natural vanity 
 levity /must call it by no harsher name 
 was too strong in the heart of the young ac- 
 tress. She became the mistress *of Count 
 
 Z f one of the richest nobles in Norway 
 
 and, by the time she was seventeen, was 
 my mother. 
 
 "Christina had not seen her for months; 
 but a fortnight after my birth, she called at 
 
 the costly house which Count Z f had 
 
 fitted up for Pauline, and had a long inter- 
 view, in which she made use of every appeal, 
 both to affection and religion, in her endeav- 
 ors to win her back. But to no avail. In 
 the height of her youth and beauty, the 
 voice of poor Christina had little charm to 
 lure her from her guilty splendor and the ap- 
 parent devotion of a man like Count Z f ; 
 
 and she declined every proposal to leave 
 him, and return with her sister to the coun- 
 try. 'Then give me the child, at least! 1 
 said Christina. * Let me save her innocent 
 life from contamination, and bringher up with 
 a horror of all that has lost you! faraway 
 from the world and its temptations.' It was 
 some time before my mother would consent. 
 Tin- -iron-rest love of humanity was not so 
 dead within her that she could give up her 
 helpless infant without a pang ! At length, 
 however, she \ieled ; Christina receiving me 
 on the sole conditions that I should l>< 
 tirely hers as though my parents were act- 
 ually <lead, and that she never should be 
 asked to receive any presents or money from 
 OiV mother on my behalf. ' From that time/ 
 
 my aunt concluded, ' I have never seen her. 
 She left soon after for Paris, and I believe 
 
 acted there for some time. Count Z f 
 
 deserted her at the end of six months. 
 And then but I wish to enter into no more 
 details to you, child enough that your mother 
 still lives is still guilty. You will not' 
 blame me now that I have been severe with 
 you ; and have checked all approach to that 
 levity which was her ruin although in any 
 other child it might have been innocent." 
 
 44 I shrank away from her I hid myself 
 in my room I prayed to God that I might 
 die. The whole earth seemed suddenly dark 
 and hideous to me ; and for many weeks 
 afterwards I was dangerously ill with brain 
 fever. 
 
 44 Just as I was slowly' recovering my 
 strength, my Aunt Christina died suddenly, 
 leaving me all the small property she pos- 
 sessed, and perfect mistress of my own ac- 
 tions. I do not think 1 felt her death much 
 at the time indeed, I was glad of my new- 
 ly-acquired freedom, for I thought it would 
 enable me to carry out a scheme, first framed 
 in the delirium of fever, but which I had 
 pondered over calmly and ripened since : to 
 go to Paris, find out my mother, and en- 
 deavor to win her from her present life. 
 
 44 It was a wild idea, but yet we carried it 
 out I and Hulda. We travelled, and in 
 winter, the long, long journey to Paris ; and 
 then, child as I was, I had to search for my 
 mother, with no other clue than the address 
 of the hotel where she had lived some years 
 before. I cannot enter into the hateful de- 
 tails of that search you may imagine them ; 
 but, strictly as I had been reared in a simple 
 cottage, ignorant of all vice, save in name, 
 nothing daunted me, and I found her. 
 
 44 She was living in splendor at the hotel 
 of some great Russian prince, and it was 
 with difficulty I could gain admittance to her 
 presence. ' Madame was out ' k Madame 
 was ill ' 4 I was not commanded ' 4 I was 
 an impostor,' and so on. However, I was 
 not to be deterred; and, after waiting about 
 for more than two hours, I contrived to 
 steal up the back staircase among some of 
 the women-servants, and then asked one of 
 them to show me to madame's room, offer- 
 ing her five francs for her trouble. She led 
 me along one or two passages, ami then 
 pointed to a door, saying that was the bed- 
 room of madame, and I must knock for my- 
 self she would incur no further respoiiM- 
 bility. In my eagerness, however, I forgot 
 to knock; and, entering the room, 1 saw a 
 lady richly dressed, sitting in an immense 
 fur-covered fauteuil by the lire embroidering. 
 She turned with some surprise at being in- 
 terrupted ; but, on seeing my pale face and 
 worn black dress, doubtless thought I was 
 one of her workmen come to solicit chant v. 
 
 " ' Sit down, 1 .she said, kindly, t< me, 
 4 poor girl, and tell me what I can do for \ on.' 
 
 44 The sound of her voice made me turu 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 quite sick with emotion. 'Madame, 1 I fal- 
 tered out, 'I am Fridoline ! 1 am your 
 child ! ' 
 
 *' She turned deadly pale, and, for a mo- 
 ment, I thought that she had fainted ; then 
 she started up and came to me, caught me in 
 her arms and kissed me wildly, passionately. 
 4 Fridoline, my own my very own. Child, 
 how have I yearned to see your face ! my 
 child my own ! ' She clasped me to her 
 breast; and, with no more words than such 
 as I have just written, we passed two hours. 
 '* Ah, Philip ! I knew that she was a lost, 
 stained creature, but yet the deepest joy I 
 have ever known was in those moments when 
 I rested for the first time upon my mother's 
 bosom, and felt her kisses upon my face. 
 
 " I thought from her intense delight at see- 
 ing me, that she would at once leave Paris, 
 and return to our quiet home with me ; but, 
 with each secret visit that I paid her, this 
 hope died away. When at length I had cour- 
 age to approach the subject, and, as delicate- 
 ly as a child could do, besought her to turn 
 her thoughts to another world than this, and 
 let me devote all my future life to hers, she 
 evaded the question : and at length I saw 
 not that she was entirely without remorse or 
 any better aspiration but that wealth and 
 luxury had - become part of her very exist- 
 ence, and were ties too strong for her to 
 give up ; and that it was these that bound 
 her to life. 
 
 '* Then, for the first time in my life I wish- 
 ed for money, and for her sake, and an in- 
 ward conviction told me that, if I chose, 1 
 could win it by becoming an actress. As a 
 child, I had always possessed great powers 
 of mimicry although my aunt punished me 
 severely in her hope of checking it. And 
 often in the long winter evenings, when 1 
 was not more than six years old, I used to 
 convjlse poor Hulda with laughter at my 
 representations of everybody in the village, 
 including the pastor and Aunt Christina her- 
 self. But I turned with loathing, at first, 
 from the idea of following the same calling 
 that had been my mother's, and only stifled 
 my prejudice against it as the conviction 
 gradually strengthened upon my mind, that 
 it was the sole thing open to me in which my 
 abilities could be brought to bear. Finally, 
 I resolved upon making the attempt ; cross- 
 ed over to England where I heard I had a 
 better chance than in Paris and accepted a 
 small engagement at the French Plays, you 
 are aware with what success. 
 
 "I begin now to think that my scheme 
 was a false one, and that even money coulc 
 not have effected what maternal love had fail- 
 ed in. But for years no doubt ever crossec 
 me ; and this one object kept me ever on, un- 
 tiring in my profession, undismayed by diffi- 
 culty or, worse still, by all the horrors of 
 vice that beset me. I corresponded at inter- 
 vals, and by stealth, with my mother. She 
 always wrote with the most touching affee- 
 
 ion : said how she gloried in my success, in 
 he name I was creating ; but, above all, in 
 my fair, unspotted fame ; and then there 
 vould be regrets and faint resolves of her 
 own, soon to leave Paris for my sake. Very 
 aint they were, but still enough to keep me 
 on unwearied at my work. 
 
 ' I was beginning to think that I should 
 soon have amassed sufficient money to enable 
 is both to live well upon in Norway, when 
 news arrived that rendered my efforts object- 
 ess for evermore : my mother had died sud- 
 lenly one night on her return from the thea- 
 tre. The letter was from her own waiting- 
 woman, the sole person who had been admit- 
 ted to the secret of our relationship, and she 
 added that my name was the last sound upon 
 my mother's lips before she died. 
 
 " I never acted again. My life has lost 
 its aim now, and I shall return to my own 
 country, unknown, unnoticed as I left it. 
 " Philip, do not quite forget me. 
 
 " FRIDOLINE." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 A VERY grand ball was to take place at 
 the French Ambassador's, to which Margue- 
 rite was invited. Without knowing why, she 
 was much more anxious than usual about her 
 dress for this occasion. Her dressmaker was 
 astonished at the number of times she chang- 
 ed her mind, and the numerous visits she 
 paid her before the day came Mrs. Morti- 
 mer, who generally decided upon a toilette 
 at once, and never looked at it again until 
 she wore it ! 
 
 " Can you tell me the time, Mr. Morti- 
 mer ? I am sure all the clocks must be slow ! ." 
 
 Mortimer was dozing in his arm-chair by 
 the fire, and Marguerite, seated at one of 
 the drawing-room windows, was watching 
 the last fading hues of the April twilight, 
 and the cold-looking moon that rose among 
 the leafless elms in the distance. They were 
 now living in Mortimer's house at Wimble- 
 don, where* he fancied the air agreed with 
 him better than in London, and which Mar- 
 guerite also preferred for its gardens and 
 conservatories. 
 
 "Time, child how you startled me! Is 
 not the time-piece striking something?" 
 
 " It must be slow; surely it is long past 
 eight ! " 
 
 "How anxious you are to put on your 
 finery, Maggy. Well, I will ring for lights 
 and coffee at once, and you can go." 
 
 " You shall not have your coffee earlier on 
 my account, sir ; there is plenty of time," 
 replied Marguerite, a little ashamed of her 
 own anxiety on the subject : and she came 
 and seated herself by Mortimer's side. Her 
 face was very flushed, and she gazed long 
 and steadily in the fire. 
 
144 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 "I feel to-night,* she wont on, "some 
 unaccountable weight upon me : something 
 almost warning me not to go to this party | 
 much as 1 wish it. Shall I go, Mr. Morti- 
 mer ? " 
 
 "Silly child! of course you will go. 
 What can happen to you ? the horses are 
 as quiet as any in England. You are get- 
 ting fanciful, Maggy; you do not take exer- 
 cise enough. 11 
 
 But Marguerite could not shake off her 
 fancy, not even when she was dressed and 
 far on her way to town. It was, as she had 
 said, a vague presentiment not precisely 
 amounting to a foreboding of evil, but a 
 feeling that something was to occur that 
 evening of no common importance. As she 
 
 approached A House, however, the crush 
 
 of carriages, the noise and excitement, took 
 her thoughts from herself; and when she en- 
 tered the brilliantly-decorated rooms, amidst 
 the blaze of countless lights and the open 
 admiration of every eye she met, no wonder 
 that all gloomy thoughts vanished ! 
 
 " La belle Mortimer never looked so 
 lovely, 11 said one knot of young men, who 
 were watching her entrance. 
 
 " I thought you were acquainted with 
 her," remarked a friend. 
 
 " Of course I am." 
 
 " Oh ! she never bowed to you in passing, 
 that was all." 
 
 " She is as capricious as other beauties," 
 said the h'rst speaker a silly-looking youth : 
 one of the crowds whose attempts at idle 
 compliments Marguerite's quiet dignity had 
 set down. " Even the marquis is thrown 
 over sometimes. At Lady Dacre'fl party, 
 her fancy was to talk to some hideous little 
 author the whole evening. However, he 
 was beneath St. Leon's jealousy, I suppose." 
 
 *' St. Leon is Mrs. Mortimer's cousin," 
 said a young man who had not yet s'poken, 
 gravely. " Of course they are intimate ! 
 lint little Grot" turning towards the youth 
 " is always so sharp-sighted when there is 
 nothing to sec. 1 ' 
 
 A tall figure was standing close beside the 
 group, his face turned away, but intently 
 listening to all they said. When the last 
 speaker finished, they changed their position 
 slightly, so as to be out of hearing; and the 
 stranger for something about his appear- 
 ance and bearing made him look unlike the 
 Ixnidon Inihitni-x of the room moved on al- 
 *o, his e\es still following Marguerite as she 
 advanced to the graceful hostess. 
 
 " Are yon engaged for the first contre- 
 dansc, madaine? " 
 
 "Gasfon, you quite startle me, speaking 
 in such a solemn tone ! Monsieur, I <un en- 
 gaged for the first, but not for the second." 
 
 " You will promise it me, then?" 1 
 
 "Certainly; but, cousin, on our usual 
 terms not to dance it ! Even if one eared 
 for dancing, which 1 do not, who would 
 
 struggle and faint through such a crowd as 
 this, for a mortal quadrille, when they might 
 pass it coolly in some dim-lit conservatory? 
 Look out for one, dear Gaston you know 
 what we both like ; and, above all, one with 
 few intruders." 
 
 " She is too open," thought St. Leon, as 
 he watched Marguerite led away by the 
 partner who came to claim her ; "no woman 
 on earth ever made such a remark as that 
 to a man she loved ! And it is better so 
 far better!" he added, with a half-sigh. 
 " She is happy as she is ; and yet, sometimes, 
 her blushes, her faltering answers . Would 
 it were decided ; I cannot pass my life in 
 these doubts and hopes for ever." 
 
 Like most Frenchmen, Gaston had sma'l 
 religious belief. No compunction as to mor- 
 ality, or even the ruined happiness of an- 
 other, ever crossed his mind when his wish- 
 es were concerned his own passions to be 
 gratified. Sensitively alive to honor (on all 
 points which men of the world have decided 
 to constitute it), he could visit, daily at Mor- 
 timer's house, and receive his hospitality, 
 with the systematic intention of one day win- 
 ning Marguerite's love, and feel none of the 
 conflicting irresolution the agony of re- 
 morse which a man like Earns/'liffe would 
 have done, even although he had not suffi- 
 cient strength to fly from temptation. 
 
 " Viola notre contredanse, mon cousin ! " 
 He started as Marguerite's gay voice arous- 
 ed him from along reverie into which he had 
 fallen a reverie in which his secretly- 
 cherished hopes of coming into power under 
 the new Imperial regime of France, and his 
 hopes with regard to her were strangely 
 blended. " Have you forgotten all about 
 my request? You look extremely absent." 
 
 Gaston offered her his arm without reply ; 
 but when they had left the ball-room, and 
 were passing through the crowded vestibule, 
 he whispered, " 1 am absent, mada-n dis- 
 trait miserable; but of all others, you must 
 pardon me." 
 
 "Gaston, do not be sentimental!" she 
 answered, with a laugh. " I always tell you 
 that your greatest charm is in being unaffect- 
 ed. It would not suit you to be poetic and 
 wretched." 1 
 
 St. Leon led her on, through one after 
 another of the magnificent suite of rooms that 
 \vere thrown open. " Will this crowd nev- 
 er lessen ?" he exclaimed. "Iain sick of 
 so many human faces.' 1 
 
 "You should have employed your time, 
 then, while I was dancing, in finding out 
 some cool, undisturbed spot, (Jaston, instead 
 of indulging your poetic fancies." 
 
 44 I was thinking of you, madaine ; do not 
 blame me." 
 
 The abrupt manner, the subdued tone, if 
 it ITM acting, was excellent, and would havn 
 told with the majority of listeners. But 
 .Marguerite drew away. 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 145 
 
 "We have gone far enough, cousin. It 
 is not too warm here, let us rest and admire 
 these lovely statues." 
 
 '* You wished to be among flowers and 
 moonlight just now ! You are changeable 
 to-night, madame." 
 
 " Let us go on, then ! " she returned, gen- 
 tly, guessing from his face that he was 
 offended, and too yielding ever to contest a 
 point; " if you really wish to be away from 
 the crowd. No one seems to be entering 
 that door on the left shall we try it ? " 
 
 The door was closed ; but yielded to Gas- 
 toi/s hand, and they went in. It was a small 
 morning-room or boudoir, that, although not 
 formally closed, had not been included among 
 those rooms which were to be thrown open : 
 a; d an alabaster hand-lamp, left, probably, 
 by accident on a centre table, was the only 
 light. Gaston quickly closed the door before 
 any other wanderers in search of quiet and 
 cool air had discovered their retreat or at- 
 tempted to follow them ; and Marguerite, 
 who otherwise would have hesitated at en- 
 tering a room not intended for guests, found 
 herself thus obliged to remain, or show too 
 plainly her unwillingness at being alone with 
 St. Leon. 
 
 " Gaston, this quiet and repose seem al- 
 most fairy-like, after the lights and murmur 
 of voices we have left. Had we better re- 
 main here ? the room looks scarcely intended 
 for strangers." 
 
 *' You told me, madame, in the ball-room 
 to select a spot free from intruders surely 
 this must answer the description ? " 
 
 " What a bright moon ! " remarked Mar- 
 guerite, turning towards the window, which 
 opened upon a balcony leading to the trellised 
 roofs of some conservatories. " And the 
 air does not feel cold, although it is long past 
 midnight." 
 
 She stepped out; but hastily retreated. 
 
 ** Gaston, some one is here before us. I 
 am sure I saw a figure at the further end of 
 the balcony a tall, slight figure. Cousin 
 let us retire, we may be intruders." 
 
 "Let me see!" St. Leon answered, 
 springing down the steps which led from the 
 window, and taking a hasty survey around, 
 then quickly returning to her side. " You 
 were deceived, Marguerite," he said, "I 
 have looked around, and no one is to be 
 seen." 
 
 '* But I am positive I saw the figure of a 
 man." 
 
 " It may have been a servant, then," he 
 replied, carelessly. " But, whoever it was, 
 is gone now. Corne in, Marguerite ! the air 
 is too cold for you to remain without." 
 > "The calm night is so refreshing!" she 
 answered, lingering her eyes fixed dream- 
 ily upon the dark gardens beneath, as though 
 she longed to pierce their shadows. 
 
 St. Leon wheeled a chair close to the win- 
 dow. " Sit here, then," be said, " where 
 
 you can feel the air without being exposed to 
 it." 
 
 " Thank you ; that is delightful. And you, 
 cousin ? " 
 
 He seated himself on a low ottoman, al- 
 most at her feet, and looked up in her face. 
 
 " Here is my place, Marguerite ! " 
 
 "Nonsense, Gaston! Only imagine any 
 one entering, and seeing you ! Although we 
 are cousins, people would think I was a 
 coquette a character that I am not anxious 
 to acquire." 
 
 St. Leon rose in a minute. " I wish I 
 could believe you no coquette, Marguerite." 
 
 " Gaston!" 
 
 " I repeat it I should indeed be happy 
 wildly tumultuously happy, if I believed 
 you were not a coquette." 
 
 " Cousin Gaston ! do you know what you 
 are talking about? " 
 
 " I know too well, madame and it is im- 
 possible that you do not understand it also. 
 No you shall hear me ! " He caught her 
 hand as she half-rose. I have been silent too 
 long, and I can conceal the truth no more. 
 That truth which you must have guessed a 
 thousand times, Marguerite I love you !" 
 
 " Love me ! " she stammered, turning very 
 pale. " Yes, dear Gaston cousinly love 
 as a brother " 
 
 " No, madame, not as a brother. Je vous 
 aime " (the conversation was in French, of 
 course) " je vous aime d'amour." 
 
 The hand which he held turned quite cold, 
 and he felt her tremble. " Gaston," she said 
 quickly, " 1 cannot remain here, now let 
 me go." 
 
 " Not until you answer me, Marguerite, 
 ma cousine." Very gentle was his voice ; he 
 misunderstood her reply, and drew her near- 
 er to him, but she shrank away. 
 
 " Cousin, you must not speak to me thus,, 
 never recur to it again let us be friends, as- 
 we have been. I I " 
 
 "Marguerite," he interrupted, "tell me- 
 honestly and plainly, with all the truth ofi 
 your nature, do you love me ? " 
 
 "As a friend?" 
 
 " No, madame ; as a lover? " 
 
 "No a thousand times no." She took 
 her hand away, and looked him very full in; 
 the face. 
 
 " Then you have trifled with me cruelly 
 trifled with me as I could not have believed 
 you capable of doing, with your youth, and 
 your seeming innocence." 
 
 "I do not understand you, monsieur! 1 ' 
 Even her soft temper was aroused by his 
 bitter manner, and the sneer which accom- 
 panied his last word. "How have I ever 
 trifled with you ? " 
 
 " Marguerite, can you recall no time when 
 your voice has suddenly lowered as you spoke 
 to me when your cheek has flushed, your 
 eyes have sank beneath mine ? Have you 
 never started at my voice ? Oh, Marguer- 
 
146 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 ite ! " he went on, his tones growing low and 
 agitated with these recollections, " it could 
 not all be acting. Speak ; tell me that al- 
 though I may hope for nothing more, there 
 Jiave, at least been moments when you loved 
 me. Tell me only this one word. Even now 
 you are pale, you tremble." 
 
 Marguerite's head had sunk as she listened 
 to him, until he could only see the averted 
 line of her profile, and her hands were 
 clasped together nervously. A sudden self- 
 reproach shot through her at Gaston's words ; 
 and, in her lowliness of self-estimation, she 
 at once transferred the guilt of his love to 
 herself. 
 
 I have deceived him," she thought. 
 " When the likeness to Philip has made me 
 blush and tremble against my own conviction, 
 he- has thought it love for him ! Yet, how 
 can I undeceive him ? " 
 
 With cheeks now burning with shame, she 
 looked up timidly in her cousin's face. " Gas- 
 ton, I nave unconsciously deceived you," she 
 whispered: " Nay, do not misunderstand 
 
 me not as you think I have Cousin, 
 
 there is some one without, I know I heard a 
 
 step " 
 
 " No no, it is nothing. Go on, Mar- 
 guerite, all my hope* in life hang upon your 
 next words ! " 
 
 " I have, Gaston, never loved you; but, 
 early in life," she lowered her voice, and 
 glanced hurriedly towards the open window, 
 *' long before I was married, I parted with 
 one dear to me ; one whom I have never met 
 since, shall never see again ; and, oh, Gas- 
 ton ! how must I tell you ? there is a like- 
 ness in your features. At times you have 
 
 so reminded me and " 
 
 "Madame!" interrupted the marquis, 
 with the most frigid politeness, " I beg of 
 you not to be so discountenanced. It is no 
 unusual occurrence. Most English young 
 ladies have loved before they marry ; and 
 with me your secret such as it is is per- 
 fectly safe. Only, another time, when you 
 may trace any fancied resemblance in one 
 of your friends to this early lover, it might 
 be well to explain the circumstance at once ; 
 before so many blushes, and starts, and tre- 
 mors have led him into being the fool that I 
 am. You have honored me with your re- 
 gard from my likeness to another ! I thank 
 you, rnadame! " 
 
 " Gaston you are unjust ! " 
 *' I have been deceived. You cannot en- 
 ter into my feelings." 
 
 '* And I have been wrong so wrong," 
 h<-r voice faltering, ' l but let my ignorance 
 of the world lie my excuse. If I could have 
 gue ed in the slightest decree your feeling 
 towards me, cousin, 1 would have died soon- 
 er than mislead you Oil such a subject. 1 
 have |i-w real friends no relation but you 
 and now I have offended you for ever. Oh 
 be generous enough to forgive me ! " 
 
 lie turned away with an assumption of 
 
 ndifference that ill accorded with his agitat- 
 ;d face, for he was touched by her artless, 
 heading manner. " I can never think of' 
 'ou, Marguerite, but as an image of every- 
 hing most sweet and lovely ; but we cannot 
 continue friends ; I have hopes and ambi- 
 ions in France, in which I shall, doubtless, 
 )e able to forget the dream of the past year. 
 After to-night, we shall meet no more." 
 
 The tears rose in her eyes ; but she was 
 silent. She could not now ask him to be her 
 riend still, or oppose his intention of leav- 
 ng England. 
 
 " Shall I conduct you to the ball-room, 
 ma dame ? " offering her his arm with just his 
 isual manner, and seeking to banish from 
 n's voice all traces of recent emotion . "Your 
 absence may be noticed ; and, I believe, I 
 am engaged for the next dance." 
 
 " Then go pray go and leave me here 
 until it is all over. I am so flushed so ag- 
 itated yet it will be well for me to remain 
 quite alone for half an hour." 
 
 He left her, without another word; and 
 Marguerite remained alone alone in her 
 beauty, her youth, and brilliancy, but with 
 tearful eyes, and a feverish weight about her 
 heart, more even than her rejection of Gas- 
 ton was sufficient to occasion. In hearing 
 words of love once more although her heart 
 no longer beat to them the past seemed to 
 have arisen again. These long, cold years 
 of separation rolled away ; her youthful pas- 
 sion, her glowing Kersaint life returned. 
 She thought of the first hour when her heart 
 acknowledged its love for Earnscliffe ; of the 
 day when they had parted the promises she 
 gave him then 
 
 ' Philip," she murmured, half aloud, ** I 
 have been true to vou I have loved no oth- 
 er." 
 
 " Marguerite," answered a low voice, very 
 softly, but whose tone made her whole blood 
 rush -vyildly to her heart. f She looked up, 
 and close before her stood Earnscliffe. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 ON Jus arrival in London, Philip met with 
 a much warmer reception among his old 
 friends than he had Anticipated. Small jeal- 
 ousies, petty rivalries, are forgotten in live 
 years; and, with our natural pr.meness to- 
 wards the past, men remember only the 
 brighter side of youthful friendships, and im- 
 agine they were infinitely warmer than was 
 in reality the case. 
 
 He went straight to his uncle's house when 
 he arrived; and the intense delight of the 
 old man in once more seeing his boy, re- 
 wardrd Philip sufficiently for his intention 
 of making Kngland henceforth his homo. 
 Hi ni lOOB overwhelmed with invitations, 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 147 
 
 and the soft eyes of many a young debutante 
 looked kindly at him wherever he appeared. 
 For he was now again eligible the heir to 
 Miles's not inconsiderable property (which 
 the old man's good management and econom- 
 ical habits had greatly increased since the 
 time of his failure) ; and, last of all, hand- 
 somer than ever, and with just such an 
 amount of scandal connected with his name 
 as serves to give additional interest to a man 
 in the eyes of young ladies. 
 
 He never thought of meeting Marguerite. 
 The name of her husband had escaped from 
 his memory, or whether they ever lived in 
 London ; and when he heard the perfections 
 of the lovely Mrs. Mortimer described, he 
 little knew they spoke of Marguerite. 
 
 " She is as lovely as an angel, and as 
 faultless, 11 said one of his friends; far too 
 excellent for my taste ! However, you will 
 
 see her at A House this evening, and 
 
 you can judge for yourself; perhaps she may 
 be in vour style." 
 
 " As I do not know what that is, I cannot 
 answer. I generally look devoutly at every 
 fair face I meet, and forget it in five minutes. 
 At my age, men are past enthusiasm about 
 beauty." 
 
 When Marguerite entered the salons of 
 
 the Comtesse de P that evening, amidst 
 
 the murmurs that her appearance always ex- 
 cited, Earnscliffe saw and recognised her in 
 a moment. His astonishment may be con- 
 ceived on meeting Marguerite St. John in 
 the celebrated Mrs. Mortimer, and behold- 
 ing into what glorious beauty her girlish 
 promise had ripened; and an emotion, of 
 which an hour before he would not have be- 
 lieved himself capable, smote his heart as he 
 thought of all he had once been to her ; and 
 how completely the world and her success 
 must now have effaced him from her memo- 
 ry. He observed her meeting with St. Le- 
 on ; and, in her free, unconstrained manner, 
 saw that there, at least, he had no rival, al- 
 though, with the jealous quickness of a lov- 
 er, he read, at once, on the face of the mar- 
 quis, that his were more than ordinary at- 
 tentions which every one pays to a lovely 
 woman. 
 
 " She may not care for Tiim" thought 
 Philip; " but to how much devotion like his 
 must she have been exposed ! Fair though 
 her fame is, among all the men in London 
 who are at her feet, is it possible that no 
 new fancy may have sullied the old love ? " 
 
 He had next to watch Marguerite as she 
 danced with some young Austrian officer, to 
 whom she had just been introduced, and to 
 mark her smiling, animated manner during 
 the whole quadrille. Then to see St. Leon 
 approach her again, and Marguerite take his 
 arm, with an air of the most complete inti- 
 ma'cy, laughing merrily as she told him of 
 his solemn manner. 
 
 *' She has become a coquette she is like 
 all other women, now ! " thought Earnscliffe 
 
 fiercely. " How I detest this hot throng of 
 people ;" and he walked away from the ball 
 room, and from Marguerite. Chance led 
 him to the boudoir already mentioned : and 
 the fresh, bright night tempted him into the 
 garden without, where he paced hurriedly 
 up and down, thinking over this sudden 
 meeting with his old love, and the ^motions 
 that the sight of her awakened. " I laugh- 
 ed at it all this morning," he thought, " and 
 said that men of my age could not feel the 
 passion of boys; yet, my heart has beat 
 more wildly at meeting Marguerite, than it 
 did years ago when she first said she loved 
 me ; more than hers would now, I imagine, 
 on seeing me. Our characters are changed 
 from what they were in the Kersaint days ! 
 Marguerite is a woman of the world ; and I 
 shrink and tremble but this is folly." Ho 
 stopped short in his walk, and turned again 
 towards the house. " I will return, and ask 
 to be introduced to Mrs. Mortimer. If she 
 treats me as an ordinary acquaintance, or 
 feigns altogether to forget old times let, it 
 be so ! I will not wound her pride or dis- 
 turb her composure by recalling them." 
 
 So he retraced his steps, and was about 
 to enter the window, when he heard the 
 sound of voices in low, eager conversation ; 
 and paused, as one instinctively does on im- 
 terrupting an interview of this nature. His 
 first thought was to withdraw as he came, 
 and find another entrance to the house ; but 
 as he noiselessly turned with this intention, 
 he caught the agitated words of Marguerite, 
 " Gaston, I have unwillingly deceived 
 you ; " and he knew in a second that it was 
 her voice. 
 
 Fastidious almost to a fault, on smaller 
 points of honor, Earnscliffe would not have 
 stooped to listen even had his own dearest 
 interest been concerned ; but he was literal- 
 ly so spell-bound by Marguerite's voice, that 
 it was some minutes before he could reflect 
 upon his position, and that he was overhear- 
 ing a conversation not intended for other 
 ears. And in that time he had learnt all 
 her rejection of Gaston the meek acknowl- 
 edgment of her old girlish love the half 
 confession that that love still lingered. 
 
 "Unchanged!" he thought. "And still 
 so gentle so utterly distrustful of herself. 
 Oh, Marguerite, that I could claim you for 
 my own at last ! " 
 
 He waited until St. Leon had gone, then, 
 silently advanced and gazed on her subdued 
 mournful attitude her drooping head ; 
 scarcely breathing, lest the sound should dis- 
 turb her. But when he heard his name on 
 her lips, he could remain silent no longer. 
 
 " Marguerite!" 
 
 She looked up she knew him. To his 
 last hour that expression of her face will nev- 
 er fade from EarnsclifiVs memory. Delight 
 pure, passionate delight like that of a 
 mother's welcoming back the child she had 
 believed dead to her, shone in every feature. 
 
148 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 She clasped his hands looked up into his 
 face with the eager gaze of one recalling 
 every .line of the well-known features. *' Phil- 
 ip ! 'Philip! 11 
 
 He was the first to recall anything of the 
 present to her mind ; and Marguerite un- 
 clasped his hands and drew slightly back. 
 
 " It is so sudden, 1 ' she said, faintly. " For- 
 give me. I forgot everything but seeing 
 you again imagine my surprise " 
 
 " Imagine mine on discovering that the 
 celebrated beauty of all London was Mar- 
 guerite St. John. 11 
 
 Both spoke somewhat abruptly, and with 
 the hurried intonation of deep excitement ; 
 then, after a few seconds, they began to 
 peak on indifferent subjects as those al- 
 ways speak who meet like this, yet dare not 
 give expression to their real thoughts. Mar- 
 guerite asked how long he had been in Eng- 
 land ? Earnscliffe inquired politely after her 
 husband. But, even as they spcke, the eyes 
 of each sought the other ; each felt that, un- 
 der that assumed calm, lay words of pas- 
 sionate joy at meeting thoughts of that ten- 
 der past which every look and word recall- 
 ed. 
 
 " You are so changed, Phil Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe/ 1 
 
 14 Yet you knew me instantly." 
 
 "I knew your voice; but, of course, 7 
 should have recognised you anywhere at any 
 time. You look older, Philip 11 (his name 
 would come) ; " scarcely so grave, though, 
 as you used to be. Ah ! you were so pale 
 when when I last parted from you/ 1 
 
 "I am only outwardly changed, Mrs. 
 Mortimer/ 1 
 
 " Only outwardly changed ! " Sh^ looked 
 up into his face as he bent towards her, and 
 thought till this moment she had never seen 
 the perfection of human expression before. 
 How could she ever have called Gaston like 
 bim? Gaston Mr. Mortimer. With a 
 sudden flash of thought, Marguerite remem- 
 bered her husband, her home, and her 
 gloomy forebodings of that evening before 
 ehe started, and all the brightness of her 
 dream faded. 
 
 "It is getting late," she hesitated. "I 
 think I shall soon leave/' 
 
 "So soon ? After five years of separation, 
 can you not spare me one half hour? Airs. 
 Mortimer, I have much to hear/ 1 
 
 " Perhaps/ 1 hesitating still more, " you 
 would call upon us. I am sure Mr. Mortimer 
 would be glad to see you, and " 
 
 "And you? Do you really wish me to 
 come ? " 
 
 " Oli, Philip ! can you ask ?" 
 
 Tin- caressing tone and quirk, upward 
 look wen- so exactly Marguerite, in her old 
 girlish days, that Karnscliffe almost started. 
 iler manner, had of <-our.se, acquired .some- 
 thing f the conventional tone of the world; 
 but at this moment she looked as childlike us 
 
 on the first morning when she ran beside him 
 on the sea-shore. 
 
 " How shall I ever remember to call you 
 by your new name ? " he whispered, as they 
 returned towards the ball-room ; and Mar- 
 guerite's cheeks were yet glowing with the 
 blush this remark called forth when they en- 
 tered. 
 
 St. Leon saw them instantly. He was not 
 dancing indeed his engagement had been 
 only a pretext for leaving her but was stand- 
 ing alone, moodily thinking over the bloM" 
 his vanity, and such love as he was capable 
 of, had received. A fierce pang of jealousy 
 shot through him when he saw Philip. 
 
 " Who is that stranger with Mrs. Morti- 
 mer ? " he asked of an acquaintance near 
 him. 
 
 " The little man with red hair, that she is 
 speaking to ? ? ' 
 
 " Bah ! the man on whose arm she leans/' 
 
 "That? eh, mon cher ! is it possible you 
 do not recognise Earnscliffe the writer just 
 returned from the East? Mrs. Mortimer 
 looks more animated than usual. It is not 
 often celebrities take to each other so well ! " 
 
 Gaston moved impatiently away ; he guess- 
 ed, by one of those intuitions peculiar to per- 
 sons of his subtle nature, that he was looking 
 at Marguerite's old lover ; guessed it by 
 Philip's quiet manner by her face ; and he 
 saw, with fresh bitterness, the error into which 
 he had fallen in believing that Marguerite 
 loved him. 
 
 " She loves him still," he thought. 
 " Poor little fool ! and will call it friendship. 
 Celui la me venger de son indifference ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 IT was very late when Marguerite reached 
 home, and the few hours intervening between 
 her arrival and Mortimer's early breakfast 
 were spent, not in sleep, but in agitated rev- 
 eries over meeting with Philip, and anxious 
 endeavors to form some right plan for the 
 future. She would tell her husband, at all 
 events; her truthful nature forbade conceal- 
 ment for a second. " Mr. Mortimer under- 
 stands the world better than I do/' sho 
 thought. " lie will decide upon what terms 
 I ought to meet Philip now how great 
 should be our intimacy/ 1 Marguerite knew 
 not that, after all that was past, she had but 
 one safeguard -to see him no more. 
 
 " Did you enjoy your ball as much as you 
 expected. Marguerite?" said Mortimer at 
 the breakfast -table, glancing up from the 
 newspaper. " Lord, child, how pale you 
 look ! 1 shall be glad when all these dissi- 
 pations an- over, and 1 can take you off 
 quietly to the sea-side." 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 149 
 
 44 1 am more tired than usual to-day; 
 there was so much excitement last night, I 
 mean." She grew nervous, and began to 
 stir her untasted coffee. 44 I met " 
 
 Mortimer, however, was not listening. 
 He was particularly engaged in reading the 
 City article, and, much as he loved Margue- 
 rite's voice, would just as soon it had been 
 silent at that moment. 
 
 44 I have something to tell you, sir ! " with 
 sudden energy. 
 
 "Indeed, my dear!" very unwillingly 
 looking up from his paper, and keeping his 
 forefinger on the spot where he left off. 
 44 What do you want now, little wife ? wasn't 
 your dress fine enough ? " 
 
 Something in his manner so utterly forbade 
 the delicate confidence she was about to 
 make, that all Marguerite's courage forsook 
 her, and scarcely knowing what she said, she 
 turned abruptly to another subject. 
 
 44 Cousin Gaston is going to France, Mr. 
 Mortimer." 
 
 44 The best place for him, too. He has 
 been discontented and out of humor for 
 months past. He will get into place under 
 the Emperor, no doubt, staunch loyalist 
 though he used to be : a Frenchman's poli- 
 tics can always turn round at a day's notice. 
 When is he coming to say good-bye? " 
 
 44 1 don't know sir perhaps not at all ; I 
 said something to him last night which he did 
 not like, I am afraid." Marguerite quite re- 
 gained her composure in speaking of Gaston. 
 
 44 Um ! lean imagine what /it was. He 
 has been hovering about you too long, even 
 for a cousin. These young Frenchmen have 
 not our feelings upon honor and good faith. 
 Is this the news, then ? Cousin Gaston's de- 
 parture ? " 
 
 With a burning blush, Marguerite forced 
 herself at length to bring out Philip's name. 
 44 She had met an old friend a friend of 
 her father's Mr. Earnscliffe, the author," 
 
 44 Indeed, child ! I never knew your father 
 had any English friends since you were born. 
 However, I am glad you have met some one 
 to talk over old times with. Just let me 
 finish my City news, and you shall tell me 
 all about him." 
 
 The utter unsuspicion of her husband 
 made Marguerite's task more difficult to per- 
 form. She sat watching his face as he read, 
 and wondering how, with his strict, almost 
 stern ideas upon such points, he would re- 
 ceive the intelligence that, years ago, as a 
 mere child, his wife had had a lover a mar- 
 ried man. too, even then and that she had 
 now met him again in the world ! 
 
 44 Sadbrook Brothers, by Jove ! " exclaim- 
 ed Mortimer, with a vigorous descent of his 
 large hand upon the table, which made the 
 Sevres breakfast-service start from its aristo- 
 cratic composure. 4t I said it I knew it 
 for days past, and no one believed me ! 
 Gone aye ! to everlasting smash ! They 
 will not pay a shilling in the pound, and I 
 
 was fool enough to keep one of their bills, 
 against my own conviction. I beg your 
 pardon, Marguerite, but I must start for 
 town at once. Thank God ! it's only for a 
 
 thousand pounds ; but poor M s will be 
 
 let in for half he is worth. Ring the bell, 
 my dear ; don't you see I am in a hurry ? " 
 
 Marguerite shrank aside as Mortimer, his 
 red face all flurried with the news of Messrs. 
 Shadbrook Brothers' failure, bustled from the 
 room. He forgot to say good-bye to her 
 even, in his excitement; and five minutes 
 afterwards she heard the carriage roll off that 
 took him to the City. 
 
 And so ended her attempted confidence 
 respecting her old lover. She had not the 
 courage to attempt the subject again . And 
 Mortimer never knew how far more impor- 
 tant to him were the trembling words that 
 hung impending on Marguerite's lips that 
 morning than any City failure could have 
 been, even though it involved the loss of a 
 thousand-pound bill ! 
 
 Earnscliffe's last words, the night before, 
 were 44 Then, to-morrow, I may call, if you 
 will allow it ; " and Marguerite passed all the 
 forenoon in a feverish, unsettled state of ex- 
 citement, expecting him ; half regretting, at 
 one moment, that she had not spoken to 
 Mortimer ; then glad, poor child ! that she 
 had been silent that once, at least, she was 
 to have the exquisite happiness of being 
 again with Philip 
 
 Philip was shown into Marguerite's morn- 
 ing-room, where she usually received visitors, 
 and. after a few minutes' pause, to recover 
 her composure, she joined him. 
 
 She shook hands with him in silence ; then 
 seated herself at some distance, her face 
 turned aside, her hands clasped together in 
 just her old timid gesture. Once more with 
 him she felt that all her acquired manner of 
 society vanished ; she was exactly as she had 
 been at sixteen. 44 1 have watched for you 
 
 all the morning I mean I " stopping 
 
 suddenly short as she recollected how she 
 was betraying herself. 
 
 44 This room looks so like you!" said 
 Earnscliffe, pitying her evident embarrass- 
 ment: 4t the books, the flowers, the absence 
 of all those artificial nothings with which 
 most women think it necessary to be sur- 
 rounded. I could fancy myself at Ker- 
 saint." 
 
 44 Ah! but this is not my room. There 
 I have indeed all the dear old books from 
 home; this is called my morn ing- room, but I 
 receive visitors here. 1 could see no strang- 
 er in my room." 
 
 44 Then I shall not be admitted? " 
 
 44 Yes, I should like you to see my father's 
 books. You are not a stranger, Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe." 
 
 44 Nearly so ; after five years, old recollec- 
 tions are as nothing with most people. Those 
 only who possess a peculiarly happy organi- 
 zation can forget." 
 
ISO 
 
 PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 ** Happy ! " she turned her full gaze on his 
 face. "Happy! my life would be utterly 
 barren if there were no past." 
 
 " In the world in society who thinks of 
 it?" 
 
 *' In the world in society? But that out 
 of one's existence ? In the early morning 
 of a summer's evening of a winter's night 
 oh, Philip ! in all the times that make up our 
 real life, the past is everything. It is the 
 poetry of the present." 
 
 "To old people it may be so ; but with 
 the young, all golden dreams lie in the fu- 
 ture." 
 
 " Ah ! I spoke only for myself," returned 
 Marguerite, sadly. " I never look onward." 
 
 There was a moment's silence ; then Mar- 
 guerite resumed. " Will you let me show 
 you my garden ? There is one part of it I 
 should like you to see, although it is too ear- 
 ly in the season for it to look perfection." 
 
 She rose, and opened the door of a glass 
 alcove, leading into an immense conservatory, 
 where tier rose above tier of the rarest hot- 
 house plants all grouped and arranged by one 
 of the first gardeners in England. She then led 
 him through a winding path for some yards ; 
 and, turning round, said " This is my mini- 
 ature of the forest lake at home, where the 
 water-lilies grew. Do you remember it, or 
 see any resemblance ? " 
 
 It was a clear pool of water, artificial, of 
 course, but natural enough in appearance 
 ferns and water-plants were planted round it, 
 all of the same kinds as really grew in Brit- 
 tany ; and a profusion of water-lilies, not 
 yet in flower, floated on the surface. 
 
 " I remember well," said Philip ; "it was 
 our first walk together." 
 
 Oh ! dangerous conversations, when every 
 sentence commences with, " I remember !" 
 They stayed long by the little lake, talking 
 of old days, old scenes but both tacitly 
 avoiding all allusions to their last parting, or 
 anything that had happened since then. 
 
 " Poor Bello was with us that day by the 
 lake ! " said Marguerite. " I fancy now that 
 I can see him darting off into the forest for 
 game. Do you recollect him ? " 
 
 " Perfectly well ; is he still living? " 
 
 "No; he died about a year ago. I 
 grieved for his death more than I should 
 have thought it possible to grieve for an ani- 
 mal. But then lit- was all that remained to 
 me of my home ; and he was so faithfully at- 
 tached to me, up to the very last." 
 
 "And your home Kersaint who has it 
 now ? " 
 
 " Mr. Mortimer would not let it be sold, 
 when he saw how much I cared for if. Man- 
 on lives there with poor, half-witted Bruno. 
 She writes mi- a strange, letter twice a year, 
 quite her own style and orthography, but 
 lull of affect ion and all the .simple new-; tlial 
 tihe knows I can- for about the peasants ami 
 the garden. V.-; K.-r-aint is still mine. We 
 have often talked of making an excursion 
 
 there ; and I do think this summer Mr. Mor- 
 timer will take me. Poor Manon ! can you 
 not imagine her wild delight? but you look 
 so very thoughtful, Mr. Earnscliffe ;* what are 
 you dreaming about? " 
 
 " I was thinking what a happy man your 
 husband must be ; able to forestall every wish 
 of yours, and read the pleasure in your face 
 for his reward ! " 
 
 " I believe Mr. Mortimer is happy," she 
 answered ; " most kind and generous, I know 
 that he is. But tell me " seeing the clouded 
 expression still upon his face " does this 
 mimic lake really remind you of our forests 
 of Brittany ? " 
 
 "Yes; I am only too much reminded," 
 said Philip, " of things it would be far bet- 
 ter to forget." 
 
 " Yet. you have seen so much since, I 
 wonder that you can have such a good recol- 
 lection of poor Kersaint. You have been 
 everywhere Vienna, Rome, Jerusalem, 
 Thebes while I have seen nothing but Lon- 
 don, and a few watering-places all these years. 
 Which place I mean which city that you 
 have visited, would you like to live in 
 best?" 
 
 " Rome. At least it suited my mood best 
 at that time ; and my friend Neville was with 
 me there. But," added Philip, looking 
 steadily at her, " my recollections of Rome 
 are bitter ones ; for it was at Rome I first 
 heard of your marriage ! " 
 
 Marguerite turned away, and plucked tiny 
 pieces from the grass beside her very quickly. 
 " You must have been surprised," she said, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 " It was very soon, that was all. I ex- 
 pected it would be so, after a lapse of time ; 
 but it was soon. Marguerite." 
 
 "I I should have written; but I did 
 not know where to send my letter. I did not 
 want you to hear of it first through the 
 papers, without any explanation. I should 
 have liked you to know all the circumstances, 
 and how very unhappy the life was that I 
 left, when I married*!" 
 
 "You acted perfectly wisely, of course. 
 My feelings, I confess, were intensely selfish 
 ones. I ought to have been glad to hear that 
 you had again a home and protector, but I 
 could not feel so. As I said, my recollec- 
 tions of Rome are bitter ones! In ten days 
 after hearing of your marriage, I left it for 
 ever. 11 
 
 "For ever! shall you not, at some future 
 time, return to Italy? I cannot imagine your 
 living long in Kngland." 
 
 " Well, I cannot imagine myself living 
 long anywhere. I am so accustomed to 
 
 change ami unquiet that However, 1 shall 
 
 now have dillerent objects in Kil^laml to those 
 that 1 have had In-fore. Perhaps, they may 
 fill the void of life better than any of the, 
 Inrmer ones ! " 
 
 " Do you care much for going to the opera 
 now ? Oh ! how you used to tell me about 
 
PHILTP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 151 
 
 it, and how vainly T tried to picture it all. It 
 is my greatest amusement, my real pleasure.*' 
 
 " Then I am sure I shall care for it," an- 
 swered Philip. " But I have forgotten all 
 about operas, of late years. Do you re- 
 member how I told you once that your voice 
 only wanted cultivation, to be the first in 
 England? I was right, you see; I have 
 heard of your renown." 
 
 ** Yes I sing well, I know ; but my singing 
 does not give me greater pleasure than when 
 I could not tell a note, and sang only wild 
 ballads to my father " 
 
 ** And to me. I remember well the first 
 evening I ever heard you sing to the guitar 
 with the sunset falling on your face through 
 the open window, and I thought it was the 
 face of the Madonna, out of some old paint- 
 ing. Have you quite forgotten ? " 
 
 * And how you stole away afterwards, and 
 I watched you pacing up and down the ter- 
 race, in the twilight. Generally, I ran after 
 you myself, I remember, in those long sum- 
 mer evenings. Oh! Mr. Earnscliffe, what 
 must you have thought ? I was so very free 
 in manner ; so very different to what I now 
 know is correct for young ladies to be." 
 
 " Shall I tell you what I thought? " 
 
 "No, no; it would only be a compli- 
 ment," 
 
 " Of which you hear so many, that you are 
 tired?" 
 
 " Of them, and the people that pay them 
 too. It is so delightful to speak again to 
 some one who is a real friend, and with whom 
 one can talk of subjects of greater interest 
 than people and parties, and all the repeated 
 nothings which form common conversation." 
 
 " But, surely, you have some friends who 
 do not come under such general denuncia- 
 tion?" 
 
 " None ; with perhaps one exception, that 
 I can call a friend." 
 
 " And that exception ? " 
 
 " Well, I think Lady Millicent Gore cares 
 for me more than any one else." 
 
 ** And the marquis de St Leon ? " 
 
 ' Cousin Gaston? Oh, yes; he and I 
 were great friends. But he is not like you ; 
 he is conventional, and never can see things 
 quite as I do. Still, I have liked Gaston ; 
 the tie of relationship is something in itself, 
 and it was so unexpected to meet with a re- 
 lation of my mother's, that my heart warmed 
 towards him from the first. But he is leaving 
 England for good, now ; and " 
 
 " You will miss him extremely, I suppose, 
 Mrs. Mortimer? " 
 
 "No I mean it is better Gaston should 
 
 go that is Mr. Earnscliffe ! an idea is 
 
 flashing upon me." Marguerite's cheek be- 
 came crimson, and a whole forest of tiny leaves 
 were soon lying upon her white dress. "Last 
 night, when you found me alone had you 
 heard ? did you hear Gaston's voice ? " 
 
 "Most unwillingly," replied Philip, "I 
 confess that I heard some of a conversation 
 
 not intended for other ears. Something 1 
 heard before I had time to withdraw ; then, 
 I caught the tone of your voice, and forgot 
 everything else in listening to that again ! " 
 
 "And you heard , tell me! I would 
 
 rather know ! " cried Marguerite, in her gen- 
 erosity only thinking of Gaston's secret; 
 " tell me what you heard him say." 
 
 " I scarcely heard the voice of your com- 
 panion, and have not the faintest recollection 
 of his words. I thought but of your voice.' 5 
 
 " That is right. Gaston would not have 
 liked a stranger to hear what he was saying. 
 His political career in France is just opening, 
 and we were talking of things important to 
 him, and " 
 
 " Not to you?" 
 
 She looked up quickly, and saw from the 
 expression of his face that he had heard 
 enough to guess the nature of their interview ; 
 and her eyes sank with shame as she recol- 
 lected that her own last words contained the 
 confession of her former love. 
 
 " I have forgotten all about it," she stam- 
 mered. " Let us speak of something else." 
 
 How lovely she looked at this moment; 
 resting in an attitude of the most excessive 
 grace upon the turf-bank where they were 
 sitting together her face turned half-aside, 
 her eyes downcast, unconsciously pulling to 
 pieces the petals of some dasies that she had 
 plucked. 
 
 "Your own flower, wild-Marguerite . Will 
 you not give me one now, as you used to do 
 in bygone times ? " 
 
 "No, I was a child then. Children may 
 give or say anything. I will give you this 
 piece of jessamine," taking it from her waist- 
 belt; " and it is a very early and rare kind, 
 and much better worth having than my poor 
 namesake. But I must confess I prefer all 
 wild flowers, however common." 
 
 " Do you remember our lesson in bouquet- 
 making ? " said Philip, approaching nearer to 
 receive the flower, " that bright May morn- 
 ing? and how you told me " 
 
 And so on, with those endless recollections 
 and replies so tiring for other people so 
 interesting to those concerned until the sun 
 warned Marguerite that the afternoon was 
 quickly passing. 
 
 " I must show you the library and the old 
 books." she cried, as she rose ; I had no 
 idea the time had passed so quickly." 
 
 " And I have kept you out in this cold east 
 wind," replied Philip* as they walked slowly 
 towards the house." You are much too thin- 
 ly clad for our wretched English spring." 
 
 " I never wear a bonnet. It was part of 
 my education, you must remember, to brave 
 all weathers ; and England has a better cli- 
 mate than Brittany " 
 
 By comparison, perhaps. I hate all these 
 northern climates, after the warm south, 
 where every breath one draws is an actual 
 enjoyment, and life flows on so sweetly one 
 does not know that it is indeed passing." 
 
152 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 " Yet you have left this delicious cli- 
 mate ? '' observed Marguerite, smiling. 
 
 44 I was alone in Italy, Mrs. Mortimer; I 
 rather spoke of what life might be there, 
 than of what mine actually was. Alone, ex- 
 istence is much the same everywhere." 
 
 Marguerite did not answer ; and entering 
 the house together she led Earnscliffe up- 
 stairs into her little library. The oak pannel- 
 ing the plain book-shelves all were in ex- 
 act imitation of her father's library at Ker- 
 saint; and his own books, with a few of 
 Marguerite's favorites were on the shelves. 
 
 44 In this room my in-door life is passed," 
 she said. 4i l read here for hours every day. 
 Take this seat no not where you can look 
 out and see the difference between Wimble- 
 don Common and the green sea at home 
 but here turned towards the fireplace and 
 now, fancy yourself at Kersaint ! " 
 
 "May I, indeed, do so?" was Philip's 
 reply, and the blood rose crimson in Mar- 
 guerite's cheek at the tone. It was in the 
 library she had told him that, whatever hap- 
 pened, she would never love any other but 
 him ; and she felt that the whole scene must 
 return upon his recollection. 
 
 44 I did not mean Oh, Philip! I can 
 
 keep up this appearance no longer," she ex- 
 claimed, passionately. 44 Let us speak once 
 of old days, and then, be silent for ever ! 
 Remember how young 1 was how ignorant 
 of the world ! " 
 
 44 Marguerite," interrupted Philip, rising 
 and taking her hand, his own trembling as it 
 met hers ; 44 do not speak as though the past 
 contained anything you could wish forgotten. 
 If there was wrong, is was my own : if there 
 should be a remorse, it is for 'me. You have 
 always been as you are now most blameless." 
 
 "But Philip, hear me; for this once I 
 must speak. You know how then I loved 
 you," the words came reluctantly from her I 
 lips, *' and when we talk so much of old times, 
 it recalls old feelings to my heart, that should \ 
 have died long ago ; and it is wrong, for I 
 am married now married to one whom I re- 
 spect more than all on earth, and I must not 
 have a thought apart from him. Will you 
 help me in not recurring to the past ? I am 
 week still, you see, and I look to you for as- 
 sistance." 
 
 She spoke quickly, nervously, and changed 
 color every moment. Ignorant that she was 
 betraying to Earnscliffe that which a woman 
 of the world would have hid from her own 
 heart, namely, that his influence over her 
 was as powerful as ever, she said simply what 
 phe believed it was her duty to say; hoping 
 that, having done so in this first "interview, 
 their future intercourse would be placed upon 
 a right fooling. 
 
 " Help me, Philip, in not recurring vainly 
 to the p:t-t, or wMiing any part of life un- 
 done. \\ < have both so much to make us 
 happv still you in your genius and ambition, 
 and I " 
 
 44 You hesitate, Marguerite." 
 
 " I, in the kindness and affection of Mr. 
 Mortimer," she added, but with an effort. 
 44 In the home that he has given me in 
 striving to make him happy in his old age. 
 Tell me that you think it right that we should 
 agree to forget the past ? " 
 
 44 Agree not to speak of it rather! it can 
 never be forgotten. The one bright spot 
 out of my whole existence those few short 
 months, when however guilty, I loved was 
 near you ; no Marguerite ! it is impossible 
 me to say, 4 'I can forget it.' If any recol- 
 lection of that time makes it bitter for you to 
 see me now, I will never intrude upon you 
 again. Tell me to leave you, Marguerite 
 tell me that as a married woman there is 
 wrong in your being with me again ; but do 
 not ask me to forget the past, or to feign an 
 indifference that I can never feel ! " - 
 
 She looked up in his face ; her heart thrill- 
 ed at his words (cold and dull when written, 
 but oh, how eloquent spoken by Earnscliffe !) 
 and, wrong or right, let those judge who 
 have been likewise tempted Marguerite 
 could not bid him see her no more. What 
 weight had thoughts of duty or prudence as 
 she listened ? The five lethargic years she had 
 passed without Philip were gone; and they 
 were again together as in the earliest, fond- 
 est days of their love. She fancied the beat- 
 ings of the waves came in through the open 
 windows her father smiling at her from his 
 old place by the fire ! 
 
 44 Philip, I can never ask you to leave me 
 again never believe that there is wrong in 
 seeing you." 
 
 44 Oh, Marguerite! you do not know the 
 happiness those words hold out to me. After 
 the loneliness of years, to be once more near 
 you occasionally to be allowed to visit you, 
 hear your voice, gaze silently upon your face, 
 will be delight I can scarcely realise. But 
 you look flushed and tired, my Mrs. Mor- 
 timer, I mean. Tell me that you are not 
 wearied with my long visit ? " 
 
 44 How could I be wearied with you? I 
 am flushed but not with fatigue. Are you 
 really going so soon ? " as Karnsdiffe rose 
 with signs of departure. " You have not 
 looked at the books yet, or at my drawings 
 I have learnt to draw since I saw you last 
 or at a portrait of my mother that 1 \\ish- 
 cd you to see. Do stay a little while long- 
 er !" 
 
 And Earnsclilfe stayed until the golden 
 sunset, Hooded the room, and the timepiece 
 struck seven, and the hour of his dinner- 
 party in town was over. And all this time 
 every word of Marguerite's, every gesture, 
 every wave of her dress, as she Mil ted light- 
 ly before him with her books and drawings, 
 was recalling his old passion, and making his 
 pulse once more tremble like a iim's he 
 who yesterday declared he had outlived 
 love! Ami pci.ir Marguerite! .sale as she 
 believed them both, after their candid avow- 
 
PHILIP EAKXSCLIFFE. 
 
 153 
 
 al and her own resolutions, looked up with 
 }jer frank, confiding gaze, and spoke unre- 
 servedly as ever, and once even touched his 
 hand with h*r old familiar gesture, and be- 
 lieved that it was all friendship. 
 
 CHAPTER XL VIII. 
 
 " How pale you look, Marguerite ! and so 
 dreadfully nervous! You scarcely hear a 
 word I am saying. All your gaieties are 
 not improving your beauty ! " 
 
 It was Miss Georgy who spoke. After 
 remaining for some months indignant with 
 Marguerite, she at last bethought herself 
 that Mrs. Mortimer's own parties, and an oc- 
 casional place in her opera-box, were infi- 
 nitely better than nothing. So (about a 
 month later than Philip's first visit to Wim- 
 bledon), Miss Georgy came down unexpect- 
 edly one fine day, to see " dear Marguer- 
 ite ; " prepared, as she said, to forgive 
 everything, and have a long, friendly morn- 
 ing together. 
 
 The standing commencement of these 
 *' mornings " of female affection being for 
 one friend to say something mortifying to 
 the other, Miss de Burgh had opened pro- 
 ceedings by commenting very plainly upon 
 her young relative's ill looks. But Mar- 
 guerite, fitful in spirits, after the now daily 
 excitement of meeting Philip, and weary 
 from the effects of a feverish, sleepless night, 
 cared nothing for any comments on her 
 beauty. 
 
 " I must be pale I know," was the reply, 
 ** for I feel far from well, and so weary " 
 leaning her head down on the silken pillows 
 of the sofa. " I believe I go out too much.' 
 " Ah, yes ! " returned Georgy, with one or 
 two nods ; " but I always foresaw it all, as you 
 know. I am not surprised. I always tolc 
 you," she added, " what it would be,* if you 
 and Earnscliffe ever met again." 
 
 "Georgy" her pale cheek coloring up 
 in a second " I don't understand you 
 
 I " 
 
 " My dear Marguerite, the time is pas 
 for any excessive innocence now. After a 
 flirtation with your cousin, and now with al 
 London talking of you and Earnscliffe, sim 
 plicity is almost out of character." 
 
 "All London talking of me! Georgy 
 you must jest." 
 
 "Not in the least, dear; I hear you 
 name a great deal oftener than is credifabl 
 for a married woman, especially when ii 
 connection with a man of the notoriety of 
 Earnscliffe." 
 
 " What can they say of me? Who ca 
 be sufficiently interested to mark my ac 
 tions ? " 
 
 "About that I do not know; what the 
 
 ay, however, is very soon told that you 
 re carrying on a most desperate flirtation ! 
 lowever, it does not signify much, as long as 
 our husband hears nothing of it," she ad- 
 ed with a laugh. 
 
 " As long as your husband hears noth- 
 ng ! " These careless words awakened a 
 ague chill of terror in Marguerite's heart. 
 )ould the world be really speaking evil of 
 ier? Could there be a chance of Morti- 
 tier's hearing it? She felt that any anger 
 ier own explanation might have awakened 
 vould be nothing compared to that. 
 
 Georgy read her face directly ; and, for 
 
 easons of her own, repented she had said so 
 
 much. She did not wish Marguerite and 
 
 ier husband to have scenes and explanations, 
 
 r leave London just then. 
 
 " Oh, I was only half in earnest," she 
 3ried quickly; " but you take everything so 
 extremely auserieux. English people always 
 "nvent scandal about each other, you know ; 
 t's one of our national peculiarities. But 
 Mr. Mortimer is not likely to hear the on dits 
 of your world. He never goes out with 
 you, does he ? " 
 
 "Never!" repeated Marguerite, sadly. 
 ' I go out entirely alone." 
 
 " Well, it's trying for you ; but then, from, 
 he way you used to talk, we all thought you 
 were quite removed from the temptation of 
 ordinary mortals. * Gaities had no charm 
 for you.' ' You liked to look old for Morti- 
 mer's sake,' and so on. I always knew, 
 though, that it could not last. Are you go- 
 ing to Mrs. Lorrimer'sj^e ? " 
 
 " I don't believe I shall go. I dislike 
 those long, day-light entertainments, especi- 
 ally now that I am not well." 
 
 " But you can go late," said Georgy. 
 "There is to be a ball, alfresco, and the 
 grounds illuminated, and I know not what 
 besides." 
 
 " I wish you were going in my place, 
 Georgy." 
 
 "Dear Marguerite, how kind of you! 
 But that is impossible, you know ; one per- 
 son cannot accept the invitation of another. 
 If you were going, it would be different." 
 
 " Oh, if I were going, I could take you 
 easily. I know Mrs. Lorrimer so well, that 
 I should not scruple to bring you with me." 
 
 "Ah! dear Marguerite, do go, for my 
 sake," pleaded Georgy, in her softest man- 
 ner. I have had such a dull season ; and 
 mamma cares less for anything but her own 
 fancied complaints every day." 
 
 Marguerite would infinitely have preferred 
 remaining away ; but Georgy looked so ea- 
 ger, she did not like to refuse, especially, 
 after the cold feeling that had lately existed 
 between them. 
 
 " Well, as you like," she answered. 
 " What day is it for ? I have forgotten all 
 about it." 
 
 "June the first, dear; that will be next 
 Friday in three days. Marguerite, how 
 
154 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 good-natured of you to take me ! What 
 must I wear?" Georgy's manner was so 
 child-like, it was difficult to believe that she 
 was ten years older than her intended diap- 
 er on. 
 
 ' ' Wear ? Oh, Georgy, I have so many 
 dresses that I have never worn. I wish you 
 would take one of them. It would be really 
 a kindness ; for this will probably be my last 
 gaiety this season, and by next year they will 
 be old fashioned. Eulalie could make any 
 alteration you liked." 
 
 Miss de Burgh was not too proud to ac- 
 cept the offer, and accompanied her to her 
 dressing-room ; where, after a long inspec- 
 tion of numbers of costly toilettes, she chose 
 the most expensive she could see, and Mar- 
 guerite's last bonnet from Paris, with the 
 small addition of French gloves and sleeves. 
 
 ** Are you quite sure you can spare them ? " 
 said Georgy, after Mademoiselle Eulalie had 
 carefully packed up her spoil. 
 
 "Oh, yes. Indeed, I care nothing for 
 gay dresses myself. It is Mr. Mortimer who 
 insists upon my having all these rich things." 
 
 ** And yet, with all your extravagances, 
 you seem to have plenty left for charity. I 
 see your name at the head of every list and 
 subscription." 
 
 " Yes, out of our superfluity'. We feel 
 nothing that we give. I have never spoken 
 to a poor person since I married." 
 
 " Of course not. In your position, and 
 living in London, or near it, you can't do 
 those things as though you were a curate's 
 wife, on a hundred a-year, in the country." 
 
 " So Mr. Mortimer says ; and of course he 
 is right " 
 
 ** Talking of country curates, Marguer- 
 ite," interrupted Georgy, "do you remember 
 your admirer Mr. Ignatius Shirley ? " 
 
 " Who said I was an Anglican? Yes, I 
 remember him." 
 
 " Will you believe that, after all his pro- 
 fession, and shaving his hair close to his 
 head, and intoning the service, and saying 
 (when mamma demanded an explanation of 
 his attentions to me) that the Catholic priest- 
 hood should not marry, he has gone com- 
 pletely round. His new rector was Low 
 Church, and very rich, with one daughter; 
 and the mean little wretch was in Broad 
 Church in a week, then as Low as possible, 
 in the hopes of getting her. However, lam 
 happy to say, the girl married some one else ; 
 and Shirley has just been well pulled up by 
 his new bishop who is an Anglican again 
 for saying in one of his sermons that' baptism 
 was a pleasing form.' " 
 
 Ami what has become of your own opin- 
 ions, Gcorg\ ? You went even further than 
 Mr. Shirlev, I remember." 
 
 " I am developing," said Miss de Burgh, 
 iolemnly. 
 
 " Into what? " asked Marguerite, to whom 
 
 the phrase was new. 
 
 " Is it possible that you are ignorant of 
 the beautiful theory of development ? Oh, 
 Marguerite ! my future life will show it 
 you." 
 
 "And who is your preceptor in this 'new 
 system ? " Marguerite inquired, aware 
 that without a priest no faith would do for 
 Georgy. 
 
 "My present counsellor is the Comte de 
 Montravers a man to whom England will 
 yet owe her regeneration. We shall meet 
 him I trust, on Friday." 
 
 " I am surprised that those to whom such 
 serious questions are all-important can care 
 for the frivolties of society," Marguerite re- 
 marked. 
 
 " Yes," returned Georgy, with a pitying 
 shake of the head, "that is how the world 
 speaks, knowing nothing of the beautiful 
 elasticity which is our chief characteristic. 
 We go into society for society's sake not 
 our own." 
 
 Marguerite wondered, as this was the case, 
 that Georgy should care for Brussels lace, 
 and Paris bonnets ; but concluded it was part 
 of the elasticity she spoke of. 
 
 "But I never dance now," said Miss de 
 Burgh. " What I can, without singularity 
 renounce of these follies, I do. Is that your 
 lunch bell, Marguerite? I must make an 
 early dinner with you. To-day is a fast, and 
 I attend complin." 
 
 They went down to the dining-room ; and, 
 from Miss de Burgh s vigorous onslaught 
 upon chicken pie and jelly, Marguerite con- 
 cluded that fasting was an exercise to which 
 she had not yet yet " developed." 
 
 " What time shall you call for me ? " she 
 inquired, when her little meal was finished. 
 " Let us go late; the effect is much better 
 on entering fresh, and when other people 
 are beginning to be tired.'^ 
 
 "Certainly we shall have fewer hours 
 of it five, do you think? " 
 
 " Oh ! at the latest, Marguerite. Remem- 
 ber it is an alfresco affair, and the dancing 
 will commence early. Suppose you say that 
 you leave your house at four; by the time 
 you have picked me up, and we drive to 
 Richmond, it will be late enough, in all con- 
 science. Good bye." 
 
 " But you do not walk, surely? " 
 
 "No. I came I was obliged to come 
 in the omnibus." 
 
 " Then wait, at least, till I order the car- 
 riage round li>r you. I am going to ride on 
 horseback this afternoon. " 
 
 "Oh, you dear, kind creature!" 1 
 
 And alter more kisses, and mueh amiabil- 
 ity, Georgy took her leave, to be in time. 
 for complin; but not forgetting to havo 
 Marguerite's presents carefully .stowed away 
 in the carriage. 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 155 
 
 CHAPTER XL VIII. 
 
 MARGUERITE said rightly that Earnscliffe 
 had much to make life desirable in his ge- 
 nius and ambition. He had returned, no 
 longer a dreaming boy, with morbid feelings 
 towards one class because they had slighted 
 him, towards another because they had mis- 
 appreciated his books. Great and settled 
 principles had dawned upon him in this in- 
 terval ; and, as at thirty every man must 
 strengthen his onward or retrograde path, the 
 turning point had arrived from whence Phil- 
 ip's was to be recognised as one of the lead- 
 ing intellects of the day. 
 
 The downfall of a ministry only held to- 
 
 f ether because any change at that crisis was 
 angerous was imminent ; and, under a new 
 administration, Earnscliffe's intention was to 
 enter Parliament, and take an active part in 
 the social reform of which he was now a sup- 
 porter. 
 
 Meantime, he went as much as ever into 
 society, and soon had an only too engross- 
 ing object there an object before which, for 
 the time, even his own political advancement 
 was secondary. In three weeks from the 
 day of their first meeting, Philip knew that 
 he loved Marguerite with a passion compar- 
 ed to which even his former love for her 
 seemed tame and poor. He strove with it 
 he felt that it was madness putting aside any 
 higher consideration of religion that, even 
 if Marguerite were to become his, the mis- 
 ery of both would be sealed ; yet he could 
 riot resist temptation by leaving London, or 
 seeing her no more. He loved her beyond 
 the bounds of prudence and reason. He had 
 not learnt, in his youth that where reason 
 stops, paralysed and forceless, a higher 
 principle can conquer ; and that only religion 
 warm, heartfelt religion can combat the 
 frailty of our erring nature, and still the wild 
 dictates of earthly desire. He had to learn 
 it by a bitterer lesson than any which his 
 life had yet taught him. 
 
 Earnscliffe went rarely to Wimbledon, and 
 when he did so his visits were short. Un- 
 like St. Leon, he shrank from receiving the 
 hearty grasp of Mortimer's hand, his ever 
 ready hospitality, his cordial and frequent 
 invitations. The absence of all distrust or 
 suspicion in the old man, his utter confidence 
 in Marguerite, were irresistible appeals to 
 one of Philip's generous nature. Although 
 he had not the courage to withdraw from the 
 wrong itself, he shunned communication with 
 the man whom his conscience told him he 
 was injuring, and at last only met Marguer- 
 ite in the parks, or at parties and the opera 
 but then these meetings occurred, at the 
 least, every five days out of the seven ! 
 
 " I hear grave things of you," said his 
 friend Neville, one morning when Philip was 
 alone with him in his studio. Neville lived 
 in a good house now ; and was, according to 
 
 bis own ideas, a very rich man. "Every 
 one is coupling your name with that of Mrs. 
 Mortimer. Surely you would not let the 
 fair fame of the woman you were once ready 
 to die for, be sacrificed to gratify your vani- 
 ty ? Whatever are your faults, Phil, that is 
 unlike you." 
 
 "Who mentioned my name with hers? 11 
 exclaimed Philip, angrily, "Who dared to 
 breathe one word in detraction of Mrs. Mor- 
 timer? Neville, you are bound to tell me." 
 
 "My good friend, be cool! When you 
 are devoted to Mrs. Mortimer at every par- 
 ty where you meet her, are always seen in 
 ber box at the opera, or riding beside her in 
 the park, I suppose ignorant as I am of 
 such things that it is just to call you her 
 very warm admirer, and not unmerited to 
 speak lightly of herself. Married English- 
 women don't encourage these innocent friend- 
 ships, you know, as they do in France or 
 Italy." 
 
 Philip made no reply. Something in Ne- 
 ville's plain way of speaking brought the 
 real truth before him ; and he shuddered to 
 think that Marguerite's name was being sul- 
 lied by all the idle men and loungers in clubs, 
 and that he should be the cause. 
 
 " These things are incomprehensible to 
 me," pursued Neville, throwing himself back 
 in his chair, and sending forth a perfect vol- 
 cano of smoke from his short meerschaum. 
 
 The kind of entanglement into which you 
 are now entering is a madness I can neither 
 understand nor pity. Tours, mind I pity 
 her, by Jove ! The world is wide, there are 
 hundreds of women of all ages and condi- 
 tions whom you might easily win, yet you 
 still pursue and hunt down this poor little 
 creature, who very nearly lost herself for you 
 before, when she was a child. Leave her, 
 Phil ! How is it all to end ? that is what I 
 ask. By her deserting her home and hus- 
 band for you ? Oh, you turn away ! but 
 such is the conclusion of this kind of attach- 
 ment. Then what is the result ? At thir- 
 ty just when your life is really beginning 
 you are saddled with a woman for ever, 
 whom it would be infamy to desert, yet 
 whose presence, after six months, will be a 
 literal burden to you. A woman, uncor- 
 rupt in heart, yet classed by the world with 
 the vilest of her sex always in tears, always 
 devoured by self-reproach that she would 
 vainly seek to hide such would be your 
 household companion. Suppose a step fur- 
 ther there is a divorce, or the husband dies, 
 and you marry her as a man of honor you 
 must do so worse and worse still ! You 
 are now married to a woman society will 
 never receive ; you can never forget what 
 she was (what you made her mind ! ) be- 
 fore she was your wife ; you can never feel 
 respect for her, or she for you. If she is 
 still young and beautiful you will be jealous 
 of your most intimate friend; remember the 
 fair face with which she deceived her first 
 
156 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 husband, wnen she was encouraging you ; 
 and never be alone with her writing desk 
 without the secret wish to break it open, and 
 discover if the same sort of notes are lying 
 there which you remember to have existed 
 in the time of Mr. Mortimer, defunct." 
 
 " Good heavens, Neville ! have you done ? " 
 interrupted Philip, impatiently. " I never 
 heard any human being talk so fast or so 
 incessantly as yourself. You go on with 
 your imaginings until you make me out a 
 thorough villain, betrayer, seducer almost 
 murderer. I wish you would reflect upon 
 what you are saying." 
 
 * It would be well for you to do so, my 
 friend ! " replied Neville. " However, some 
 day you will remember my counsels, and 
 wish you had attended to them." 
 
 " Neville!" exclaimed Philip, springing 
 up, and speaking very earnestly, " you misun- 
 derstand me altogether. I would give rny 
 right hand sooner than Marguerite should be 
 ill thought of. But you know not all the 
 history of her past life and mine ; you can, 
 however, guess my feelings, for you have 
 seen her. Tell me what I ought to do how 
 act as a man of honor." 
 
 "How act with honor, Earnscliffe? 
 Leave her at once how can there be a 
 question ? Break it off directly." 
 *' And her feelings ? " 
 "Oh! her feelings are already engaged 
 then, too ? It is even worse than I thought. 
 I will tell you what, Phil, no half-measures-, 
 will avail now. Leave town immediately 
 go abroad again to Scotland anywhere you 
 will, and stay there till the whole affair is 
 past. When you return, it will be compara- 
 tively easy to avoid the snare once escaped 
 feign another love, for example. Are you 
 listening to a single word I am saying, man 
 cher, or only meditating, after the common 
 manner of human nature, how you will not 
 act upon the advice you asked for?" 
 
 ' I have heard you," replied Philip, slow- 
 ly, " and know that you are thus far right. 
 It must be broken off at once, or never." 
 
 " And between these two you hesitate ? 
 Between common sense and common honor, 
 
 and eternal " 
 
 "Neville!" he interrupted, abruptly, 
 " there are some points upon which no third 
 person can give an opinion. Thank you for 
 your good intentions, and good morning; " 
 and before his friend could speak again he 
 had quitted the room. 
 
 " And I have lost half my morning," 
 soliloquised the artist when he was gone. 
 Oh ! the folly of arguing with a man in love." 
 
 That, evening Marguerite was at the opera. 
 more fresh and youthful-looking than ever, in 
 a white. dress and natural (lowers ( Karns- 
 clilfi' had said how much he pn-li-rn-d seeing 
 her without her rubies and diamonds, and ol 
 
 late she had never worn them when Mortimer 
 would allow her to appear in public dressed 
 according to her own simple taste). Dur- 
 ing the second act, .--he saw Philip enter a 
 box on the other side of the house, and 
 seat himself beside one of the youngest 
 beauties of the season, to whom he began 
 paying or appearing to pay the most 
 marked attention. Perhaps he was already 
 trving to follow Neville's advice perhaps he 
 wished to test how Marguerite would brook 
 divided homage. She was, however, devoid 
 of all small jealousy ; and thinking it quite 
 natural Philip should sometimes like to talk 
 to others beside herself, she smiled and chat- 
 ted with just her usual manner to the bevy 
 of box-loungers, who approached her be- 
 tween the acts. 
 
 "That Eastern man," lisped Mr. Grot- 
 tiesley, or "little Grot," as his friends call- 
 ed him a young guardsman, with straw- 
 colored moustache and moonlike face, who 
 had long wished to be one of Marguerite's 
 admirers. " What is his name ? Earnton, 
 Eaml> " 
 
 " Mr. Earnscliffe, perhaps." 
 ()h ! ah ! he really has something to 
 
 say, T suppose : Miss Carlton Vere appears 
 actually listening as he talks to her? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Marguerite, smiling, " one 
 always remembers, at least, what Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe is talking about, which is not the case 
 with every one, I must "onfess." 
 
 Oh ! Ah ! yes ! tombs, I suppose, and 
 all that ah ! dreadful bore, men who have, 
 been to Thebes and Petraea, and such 
 places, and talk about what they have seen. 
 Now /have been all over the world Egypt 
 Jerusalem Crimea St. Petersburg!) 
 but vou would not guess it, would you ? " 
 
 Oh no!" Marguerite answered, in her most 
 simple manner. " I should have thought 
 you had only just left school. Is it possible 
 that you have really travelled?" 
 
 14 Miss Carlton Vere is not half as pretty 
 as she is usually called," remarked a friend, 
 who was listening with pleasure to little 
 Grot's failure. " Do you think anything of 
 her, Mrs. Mortimer? " 
 
 "Indeed I do!" replied Marguerite ; 
 " hers is just the style I admire finely 
 chiselled features, and" pale, alabaster com- 
 plexion." 
 
 " A poet's beauty, in short. Earnscliffe 
 seems to consider it so." 
 
 Hut Margin-rite's ealm expression did not 
 vary for a second ; and the young guards- 
 mail who disliked tombs remarked to his 
 friend, when they had left her box 
 
 " That woman is the deepest hand I ever 
 knew; she never even changed color at my 
 sarcasm about that puppy, ESumSCliflTe.* 1 
 
 Philip, meanwhile, was absent and ilidrnit. 
 lie was intently watching Marguerite all the 
 time that lie se'eiiie,] t<> be so attentive to the 
 ladv at his side, and wondering how she 
 could be so happy and smiling without him 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE 
 
 157 
 
 nay, more, while he was apparently devoted 
 to a fresh object. Had he, after *all, given 
 her credit for deeper feeling than she pos- 
 sessed ? would the idea of parting from him 
 again affect her as deeply as he had told 
 Neville? His impatience soon overcame all 
 previous resolution ; and. feigning some ex- 
 cuse, he actually started up in the midst of 
 one of Miss Carlton Vere's prettiest young- 
 lady remarks, and came quickly round to 
 Marguerite's box. 
 
 She heard the door softly open, and knew, 
 without turning round, that it was Earns- 
 cliffe (at all times she could feel his presence 
 without seeing him.) They had met already 
 that afternoon in the park, and Philip seated 
 himself without any salutation, in the far- 
 thest corner of the box. where the deep 
 shadow screened him from observation, 
 while Marguerite still kept her eyes upon 
 the stage. Without exactly knowing why, 
 she felt embarrassed, and waited for him to 
 speak first. 
 
 " Is it possible," he thought, as he scan- 
 red her features, " that she is only trifling 
 with me ? coquetting, like any other woman, 
 and as for ought I know to the contrary she 
 may actually have done with that French 
 cousin already?" From the beginning of 
 time, whoever has loved has been unjust, at 
 the slightest breath of jealousy. " She did 
 not look when talking to that young fool 
 just now as though it would break her heart 
 to part with me. However, it shall be put 
 to the test." 
 
 After a few minutes' silence, Philip said, 
 shortly, and with no preparation "Mrs. 
 Mortimer, if your attention is not too much 
 engrossed with the music, I have come to 
 wish you good bye ! " 
 
 She started round and faltered " Good- 
 bye ! Oh, Mr. Earnscliffe ! only for a short 
 
 ^11 
 
 " For months a year, perhaps my ab- 
 sence will be quite indefinite. 
 
 She looked at him in utter astonishment as 
 he spoke in this cold, strange tone looked 
 at him with compressed lips, tearful, dilated 
 eyes, as no coquette in this world ever look- 
 ed. 
 
 ' Another parting ! " she murmured ; " oh ! 
 how shall I bear it ? " 
 
 Then she turned away, and Philip saw her 
 hand clasp tightly over her side, with the old 
 gesture that any sudden pain called forth ; 
 and at once he was re-assured of poor Mar- 
 guerite^ sincerity. " Could he leave her 
 after this ? was he justified in breaking off 
 their friendship, now that he was certain of 
 having awakened all the long-buried love of 
 that gentle nature ? " 
 
 " Marguerite, <-an my actions indeed affect 
 you so much ? Will you bid me remain ? " 
 
 She looked round, very slowly this time 
 and, without saying a word, held out her 
 hand to him. EarnsclifFe took it; its pres- 
 sure thrilled to his very heart, and from that 
 
 moment all further irresolution on his part 
 was over, all fainter warnings of his better 
 nature unheeded he felt that Marguerite 
 nust be his. 
 
 " How could you so trifle with me? " she 
 asked, after a time. " You could not indeed 
 mean to leave again, when you have only just 
 returned to England, and are so occupied 
 with your political prospects? How foolish 
 I was to believe you ! But these are cruel 
 est.s ! I have too few real friends to bear the 
 :hought of losing one of them." 
 
 " You could really feel pain at parting 
 with me ? " 
 
 "Really! Oh, Mr. Earnscliffe, I know 
 low badly I dissemble you must have read 
 t on my face ! " 
 
 " I am afraid to read your face now 
 afraid lest my own wishes should read dif- 
 'erentlv to the truth afraid even to read the 
 truth." 
 
 " You speak strangely to-night ; I scarcely 
 understand you." 
 
 " Shall I be plainer, Marguerite? " 
 
 "Oh, hush ! we are not listening to the 
 sweetest notes of the Piccolomini " and she. 
 turned from him, blushing. 
 
 " I only hear one voice," replied Earns- 
 cliffe ; and during the remainder of the opera 
 neither spoke again but, for them, silence 
 was now only too eloquent. 
 
 When the last act was over, Marguerite 
 rose to leave (she never stayed for the ballet) , 
 and Philip, as usual, escorted her to her 
 carriage. They had to wait some time before 
 it came up, and both seemed constrained and 
 disinclined to speak. Earnscliffe dared not 
 trust himself to do so, and Marguerite, with- 
 out knowing why, felt herself trembling 
 nervously as she held his arm. She tried a 
 dozen times to make some common-place 
 remark to break the silence, but each time 
 the words died on her lips ; and at length, 
 with an effort, she exclaimed suddenly, with 
 a forced laugh, just what she least intended 
 to say 
 
 " I wonder what makes us both so dull 
 to-night ? " 
 
 Earnscliffe bent down and whispered 
 something that made his companion shrink 
 and turn cold. 
 
 " No, no impossible. I cannot listen to 
 such words, even from you." 
 
 " Then why ask me not to leave you? We 
 can continue no longer as we are now ; eith- 
 er our intimacy must cease at once or " 
 
 his voice became so low that only Marguer- 
 ite's ear could catch its sound. 
 
 They were standing apart from the crowd, 
 and where a deep shadow fell across them 
 both, but Earnscliffe could see the whiteness 
 of her face, as she looked up to his, and how 
 her lips quivered. 
 
 " Never," she replied, slowly, and as 
 though each word was wrung from her with 
 pain. " I will never leave him, nor forget all 
 that I owe to him. No, not for your sake." 
 
158 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 " Then I have been mistaken," said 
 Philip. " I believed that you loved me ; that, 
 loving me, you would make any sacrifice, 
 even that of name or position, for me. I 
 believed you incapable of trifling with me as 
 you had already done with your cousin 
 Gaston," he added, sarcastically. He had 
 not anticipated so instant a rejection, and 
 his pride was wounded by her tone. 
 
 "Gaston!" echoed Marguerite. " You 
 accuse me of trifling with him, and compare 
 my feelings towards you with what I bore 
 him ! Then you shall hear me I will tell 
 you the exact truth, Mr. EarnsclifFe. I never 
 cared for Gaston more than as a cousin ; I 
 misled him unintentionally and I have 
 loved you loved you as a child, when I 
 was ignorant of my sin in doing so shall 
 never cease to love you, now even that I 
 know my guilt. But," she went on, passion- 
 ately, " I will not bring dishonor on my 
 husband I will never cause a moment's 
 sorrow to the only one on earth who has 
 been my friend. Though my heart may 
 break in" the effort, I I will part from you, 
 Philip." 
 
 She took her hand from his arm, and strove 
 to move away, but Earnscliffe could see that 
 she trembled' too violently to be able to walk ; 
 and, fearing observation from the crowds of 
 people who were near, he whispered, hur- 
 riedly, *' Mrs. Mortimer, I entreat of you to 
 take my arm. I have been most wrong to 
 speak to you thus, and at such a time pardon 
 me. I will offend no more." 
 
 She accepted his arm, for she felt that h;r 
 limbs were powerless to support her; and 
 neither uttered a word until Marguerite had 
 entered the carnage. Then she bent forward, 
 unable to part with him in anger, and already 
 reproaching herself for the pain she had 
 caused him. 
 
 44 Philip, if I spoke harshly, forgive me. It 
 is better that you should leave that we 
 should not meet again ; but, forget this even- 
 ing, think of me with kindness, for I shall be 
 very miserable." 
 
 The carriage drove away, and Philip stood 
 gazing after it in the dim light, his arms fold- 
 ed, his lips compressed. 4< She is mine," he 
 thought, "mine already! Her last frai 
 defence is pity for the old man. An hour 
 a moment will overthrow it. The desire ol 
 my whole life is attained ; the only woman 
 have really loved, won." And he tunie< 
 and walked homewards, yet with no feeling 
 of elation at his heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 AFTKR a few hours of feverish, tmiiblrc 
 sleep, Marguerite awoke to the mi-cry of 
 another day. She had to listen to Mortimer's 
 
 sual stories and extracts from the newspaper 
 t breakfast, strive to make replies parry 
 is questions about her pale face and confused 
 nanner tell him what she had done, and 
 whom she had seen the night before 
 
 'Mr. Earnscliffe ! ah, he liked Mr. 
 Earnscliffe. Why did he not come oftener 
 o see them ? why would he not accept their 
 nvitations to dinner now ? It was very 
 trange, as he was an old friend of her fa- 
 her's." And so on, while Marguerite's 
 lands grew colder and colder, and her breath 
 ame so thick she could scarcely articulate a 
 word. 
 
 She felt intensely relieved when Mortimer 
 departed, with the announcement that he 
 should not return till dinner-time, and she 
 ad at least the solace of being alone and un- 
 questioned. During all the forenoon she re- 
 nained in her own dressing-room, unoccupied 
 and tearless, but with somewhat the same 
 lull, leaden sense of oppression upon her 
 that she had experienced before leaving Ker- 
 saint. After luncheon she shut herself in the 
 ibrary, with orders that no visitors should 
 ae admitted, and then strove to exert herself 
 to read ; but though the words floated be- 
 fore her eyes, her mind did not receive their 
 neaning, and would recur to the all-engross- 
 ng object of her previous thoughts. So, 
 after mechanically turning over the pages for 
 an hour or two, she laid the book aside ; and 
 then, opening a private drawer in one of the 
 cases, took out a manuscript book of her own 
 writing, and, seating herself by the table, 
 made a short entry on its last leaf. 
 
 This book had been given her by her fa- 
 ther on her twelfth birthday, when he told 
 her she should try and note down in it the 
 progress of her own mind and feelings from, 
 that day onward until she was a woman ; 
 and, faithful to every wish of his, Marguerite 
 had continued to do so even to the present 
 time ; so that it formed a complete history of 
 her whole inner life from her childhood till 
 now. 
 
 The story of her love for Earnscliffe was 
 written with the most entire truthfulness: 
 her confession of it to him on the day of the 
 storm, her anguish at parting with him all 
 was there without a gloss of concealment. 
 Then came her dreary life with the Danhy's; 
 
 then her marriage. After tin's there wen-, 
 for two or three years, few entries ; occasion- 
 ally, a subdued expression, not of complaint, 
 but of her want, of interest in existence a 
 fear that, for Mortimer's happiness she had 
 committed an error in marrying him. Later 
 on came the description of her entrance into 
 the world, ami of all the admiration she re- 
 ceived there ; Imt still with allusions to the ono 
 great object that her life lacked, and whoso 
 place no triumphs of her beauty and talents 
 could supply. At la.st came her meeting 
 wilh Karnscliffe. and Marguerite trembled a* 
 she read over all that she had written since 
 then, and compared it with the early dea- 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 159 
 
 cription of her love for him at Kersaint. 
 There was so slight a difference only the 
 childish simplicity of style was altered ; the 
 feeling was the same or deeper ! 
 
 * It would be better destroyed," she 
 thought. *' This journal records no very 
 happy life ; and if I were to die suddenly 
 not an unlikely event I know it would fall 
 into Mr. Mortimer's keeping, and render 
 him miserable in the thought that I was less 
 contented than he believed me. I had bet- 
 ter destroy it. It is strange that my entry 
 of to-day should fill the last leaf! Is it that 
 after this my real history will be over my 
 
 life have nothing more to record ? or " 
 
 and a vague but solemn presentiment whis- 
 pered that perhaps her life, indeed, was al- 
 most past. 
 
 *' I had better destroy It at once," she 
 repeated, slowly, and approaching towards 
 the fire. But those pages recalled so much : 
 the early entries, before she had ever known 
 Earnscliffe, so brought back her childhood 
 and Kersaint that, after hesitating some time, 
 Marguerite decided she would not burn it 
 yet. " And, besides, it was her father's 
 gift." And so the book was again laid in its 
 former place, and then, falteringly she drew 
 forth some notes and papers that were always 
 kept in the same drawer with her journal. 
 On some of them the rik was faded now, the 
 paper discolored. These were scraps of 
 poetry, half-playful, half-serious, that Philip 
 used to write at Kersaint all carefully 
 treasured, even then and with them was the 
 long letter which he had written to her from 
 Tyrol. But Marguerite knew all these by 
 heart; and, after holding them in her hand 
 for a few seconds, she replaced them ; and 
 then, but very hesitatingly, and as though 
 other eyes than her own 'were in the silent 
 room, took out another packet of letters. 
 These were, however, freshly written, and 
 still in Philip's h.-snd. 
 
 As Marguerite read and re-read some of 
 the ambiguously-worded notes he had lately 
 written to her but to every syllable of which 
 her heart could now attach a different mean- 
 ing to what it had done when she first read 
 them a knock came at the door of the libra- 
 ry. It was only her own maid, but Margue- 
 rite's heart fluttered and her cheeks glowed 
 with all the confusion of guilt as she entered. 
 
 " Un billet pour madame," presenting on 
 a salver one of those notes which Margue- 
 rite knew was from Philip at a glance. 
 
 "I see: there is no answer," she said, 
 with forced calmness : and Mademoiselle 
 Eulalie withdrew, not in the least deceived, 
 for, though all the world may be blinded in 
 such matters, a French lady's maid never 
 can ; and the first downward step in a wo- 
 man's career is when her own servants sus- 
 pect her. 
 
 Marguerite tore open the letter. There 
 were only these words : 
 
 " Marguerite, The time has now come 
 for you to decide. If I see you at Mrs. 
 Lorrimer's on Friday, I shall consider your 
 sentence of last night is recalled. If you are 
 not there, I leave England alone, the follow- 
 ing day." 
 
 The piper fell from her hand, and a sharp 
 pain struck at Marguerite's heart. " Cruel," 
 she murmured, faintly " cruel to make me 
 decide upon our separation, and force it upon 
 me so soon. Yet it must be so, sooner or 
 later. I might have known it could only end 
 thus; it is better finished at once." Then 
 she laid her head upon the table and wept 
 with one of the wild paroxysms of her child- 
 hood as she had not wept for years ; and 
 thus a full hour passed away. She was care- 
 less if the servants entered* and saw her so 
 careless even of Mortimer's return : only the 
 one consciousness of losing Philip was pres- 
 ent to her, and she would scarcely have heed- 
 ed if the whole world had been present to wit- 
 ness her desolation. 
 
 At last, slowly, she raised her pale face, 
 and again read the note through, but with 
 eyes so hot and painful she could scarcely 
 trace even Earnscliffe's bold, clear writing. 
 "If I am not at Mrs. Lorrimer's he will 
 leave England. If I go but no no," she 
 cried, vehemently, as a wild thought of hap- 
 piness would cross her brain ; "I must not 
 meet Philip again. If I am even there, he 
 will consider my sentence recalled. I shall 
 see him no more then ; he will leave me for 
 ever, and my whole life is bound up in his. 
 Oh, my God ! pity me, and guide me in my 
 weakness and my anguish ! " 
 
 She rose, placed Philip's last note with 
 all the others, locked the drawers, and went 
 into her own room, where she bathed her 
 face and strove to become more composed 
 before her husband saw her, for it was al- 
 ready nearly the time for his return. 
 
 As it happened, he came home rather ear- 
 lier than usual and very hungry : and, for 
 almost the first time since her marriage, Mar- 
 guerite was late for dinner. Punctual him- 
 self to a fault, nothing disturbed Mortimer's 
 temper more than the want of punctuality in 
 others. He actually spoke harshly to her 
 when Marguerite appeared, at five minutes 
 past seven, and faltered some gentle excuses 
 for keeping dinner waiting. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am; when I, with all my busi- 
 ness, can always be in time for everything, I 
 do think that you, with nothing but your own 
 pleasures to think of, may manage to remem- 
 ber my hours. What kept you out so late 
 to-day, pray ? " 
 
 " I have not been out at all, sir. I felt 
 very unwell, and have been by myself ever 
 since you lefb." 
 
 " Of course there is some reason always. 
 What made the carriage late, then, in calling 
 for me yesterday in the City? You were so 
 hurried going off to the opera last night that I 
 
160 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 was not able to ask you; but I will have 
 more order in my house." 
 
 *' I am very sorry you were kept waiting, 
 Mr. Mortimer ; but Georgy came to see me 
 in the morning, and I sent her home in the 
 carriage, which 1 suppose caused the de- 
 lay." 
 
 " Of course, if one of those women could 
 get into a private carriage she would drive 
 all over the town to show off! your own sense 
 might have told you that. So Georgy has 
 been here again, eh? and you were all affec- 
 tion together, I suppose, after the manner of 
 women." 
 
 "I received her in the spirit with which 
 she came. It is much better there should be 
 no further coldness between us." 
 
 " Will you take my arm, Mrs. Morti- 
 mer? " he interrupted, with grim politeness. 
 *' My fish is cooling, which of far more im- 
 portance to me, you know, than the coolin 
 of young ladies' love." With which sorry 
 attempt at wit, he led Marguerite to the 
 dining-room. 
 
 The stately meal passed off in absolute 
 silence. Mortimer was not a man who quick- 
 ly recovered himself when he was ruffled, 
 and Marguerite was too nervous and weak- 
 sprited to trust herself to speak. 
 
 When the servant had withdrawn and the 
 wine was on the table, Marguerite began 
 timidly. 44 Georgy asked me to take her to 
 Mrs. Lorrimer's^eife, yesterday." 
 
 ' 4 I thought she came to ask for something 
 besides forgiveness," returned Mortimer 
 4 What did you say? " 
 
 * 4 Oh, she seemed so earnest about it 
 did not like to refuse." 
 
 " Well, poor thing ! "Mortimer's tempe 
 was a little improved after his first glass of 
 port 44 I suppose she is making one las 
 desperate effort to be married. She is look 
 ing very old and thin ; so you don't mine 
 taking her. A good foil, ma'am, eh ? " 
 
 44 Well, the truth is, I wanted to ask yoi 
 how I must get out of my promise. I toh 
 Georgy I would go and now and now " 
 44 You won't take her, I suppose?" 
 " Not exactly that. I have changed m 
 mind, and don't intend to go myself." 
 44 Why?" 
 
 * ' Because the fact is I mean I hav 
 changed my mind." 
 
 " A mighty sensible reason, upon m 
 word ! 4 I mean I thought I have changt 
 my mind. 1 I never expected fashionable 111 
 would make you silly and capricious lik 
 other women, Margin-rite; but I see it 
 having the common effect." 
 
 *' It is not caprice, indeed it is not; I hav 
 reasons." 
 
 Let me hear them." 
 
 Never did a tone so completely repel cor 
 
 fidencc ; and Marguerite could only stamiiK 
 
 Out something about " not, feeling well. 
 
 44 It is not that at all. You change mere 
 bec*uo you have promised that wretchc 
 
 oman to take her among your grand peo- 
 e, and now you think you'll be ashamed of 
 er when she gets there. You will blush, 
 >xt, if I am seen driving about with you." 
 "ortimer was working himself up with his 
 wn words, until he grew fixedly obstinate 
 n determining to oppose Marguerite. " It 
 ooks monstrous unkind of you, ma'am," he 
 >ursued, " and I must say is very unlike 
 our former character. Besides, how can 
 ou make the excuse to Mrs. Lorrimer of 
 Iness, when she sees you riding about every 
 ay, perfectly well? Her husband has been 
 client of mine for twenty years, and I de- 
 re you. Marguerite, not to be capricious 
 with Her, whatever you are with all your 
 ther acquaintances." 
 
 Very well, sir. I was quite wrong ; but 
 t was not caprice, I assure you. I will go," 
 nswered Marguerite, her own heart, alas ! 
 ot combating the point too resolutely. 
 
 " And if this important question of going 
 r not going is settled I shall have my 
 leep," said Mortimer, stretching out his 
 arge feet, and shutting his eyes. " I am 
 ired, ma'am, and my cold fish has disagreed 
 with me." 
 
 And Marguerite stole up in the twilight to 
 he library, and with a tremulous hand 
 wrote 
 
 ' I shall be at Mrs. Lorrimer's on Friday ; 
 )ut I recall nothing." 
 
 Folded, sealed, directed the note to Earns- 
 cliffe, and committed it to the velvet paw of 
 Vlademoiselle Eulalie. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 EANRSCLIFFE only saw Marguerite once 
 from their parting at the door of the opera 
 until the day of Mrs. Lorrimer's fiie, and 
 then but for a moment, as he was walking 
 with Neville in Hyde Park. Slic was ou 
 horseback, and bowed to Philip as she pass- 
 ed by; but with a visible embarrassment most 
 unlike her accustomed calm demeanor. 
 
 "By Jove! she is lovely," was Neville's 
 exclamation, " and so young and innocent 
 looking. Spare her, Phil, she is too good to 
 fall." 
 
 " Xeville even on the strength of our 
 old friendship there are .some things I will 
 not hear you say. What on earth <lo you 
 mean bv the expression? HOW am I to 
 4 spare ' Mrs. Mortimer? " 
 
 " I am unhappily quick at insight." return- 
 ed the artist, quietly; "and know as well 
 how things stand between you and her as \>u 
 do yourself. Why have you not followed the 
 advice you asked me for, and leil town?" 
 
 " 1 have acted as 1 considered right," re- 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 161 
 
 plied Philip, coldly. "Let us change the 
 subject. 1 ' 
 
 ** Oh, as you please. It is of more im- 
 portance to you than to myself of more im- 
 portance to her than to either. Apropos de 
 r i en (Jo you remember, Phil, how we walk- 
 ed together near these ' bowery glades of 
 Kensington,' as somebody calls them, six 
 years ago, and saw Rose Elmslie driving 
 
 along in Count B 's pony phaeton ? You 
 
 were indignant with me 'about some love 
 matter, I remember." 
 
 "Poor little Rose! what became of her 
 I wonder? " 
 
 ** Poor little devil! you should say. Af- 
 ter you left England she went to perdition 
 with a rapidity greater even than what I pre- 
 dicted for her. Left Count B for some 
 
 one else, and then sank lower and lower 
 took to drinking, 1 believe, and was hissed 
 off the stage." 
 
 "Is she dead? 1 ' asked Philip, quickly. 
 " I never heard this before." 
 
 " You never remembered to ask, probably. 
 She is not dead, my friend or, I should 
 rather say, was not so last winter. A few 
 months ago I was returning home quickly in 
 the dusk after a long walk into the country 
 to mark the effect of the red sunset over the 
 frozen woods and, as I was taking a short 
 cut through some of the back streets near 
 the Haymarket, a woman pale, haggard, 
 desperate touched me on the sleeve. I 
 turned round, and, pulling my arm from her 
 with a gesture of disgust, told her, in no 
 gentle tone, to leave me. ' I ask you for 
 money,' she said, ' because I am starving. 
 Do you refuse ? As she spoke I caught 
 
 sight of her face, and saw that it was -" 
 
 No not Rose?" 
 
 *' Yes, it was Miss Elmslie. I remember- 
 ed her directly. I scan every face I see too 
 deeply for it to fade from my memory : and 
 hers was not one to forget. She had a pe- 
 culiarly moulded chin do you recollect? 
 small, "and with the slightest dimple in the 
 centre." 
 
 " Yes, yes! go on." 
 " Well, I knew her by that in a moment. 
 ' You are Rose Elmslie,' I said ; not con- 
 cealing my horror, as you may suppose. She 
 started aside at the sound of my voice, and 
 tried to push her way through the coarse 
 crowd along the pavement ; but I followed, 
 and entreated her to stop at least, accept 
 such assistance as I could offer. 'Leave 
 me,' she said ; ' 1 shall die soon. I want to 
 see none of you again.' Her voice was 
 very weak, but unnaturally low and hollow. 
 4 And you refuse any assistance ? ' I repeat- 
 ed. ' Yes, from you,' she answered. * You 
 were one of Earnscliffe's friends, let me pass 
 on ! ' and again I lost sight of her." 
 ** And you saw her no more ? " 
 " Yes, as I passed the door of a gin pal- 
 ace, a few minutes later, I caught a glimpse 
 of the same drooping figure, waiting silently 
 
 by the counter for one of the glasses of 
 ' forgetfulness,' that a smart-looking woman 
 was serving out. Poor wretch ! " 
 
 Philip felt sick. " Great God, what a 
 world is this ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes," returned Neville, " it is much as 
 we make it. The world God sends us into 
 is fair in itself; men create sin, and call the 
 world dark. But," he went on, " Rose 
 Elmslie was worthless, in heart, the first day 
 you ever saw her tainted from her child- 
 hood ; her misery afterwards is the natural 
 conclusion to such a career, and is nothing, 
 in its blackest horror, compared to the re- 
 morse of one who has been pure and without 
 reproach. No hell, you know, burns so 
 fiercely as that of the fallen angels ! " 
 
 " Good morning to you," said Philip, ab- 
 ruptly. " I see an old friend whom I have 
 not met for years." And crossing the ring, 
 he left his friend alone. 
 
 For a moment Neville watched him. Then, 
 raising his slouched Italian hat upon his 
 forehead, and folding his arms behind him, 
 he marched on. Philip's friend was an old 
 club acquaintance whom he had afterwards 
 met abroad, and who had now just returned 
 to England ; and, glad to escape from Ne- 
 ville and his own thoughts, Earnscliffe took 
 his arm and they walked townwards together. 
 But again the same subject was, singularly 
 enough, forced upon him. 
 
 After some minutes' conversation upon 
 their mutual wanderings since they parted, 
 his friend remarked, " I have wished to see 
 you for several days, but have been too en- 
 gaged to find you out, and never could see 
 you at the club. Oh, I forgot, you don't 
 belong to mine now. Nous avons change 
 tout cela! and, like every one else, your pol- 
 itics are altering." 
 
 " Conforming to our present exigences." 
 
 " Oh. that is the term, is it? However, I! 
 was gomg to say, I have often heard of your 
 name and of more than your political prosr 
 pects. It appears that you are au mieux 
 with this last wonder, la belle Mortimer. 
 Your old luck." 
 
 "You should rather say the old scandal 
 of English clubs," replied Earnscliffe, \viik 
 assumed indifference. " Mrs. Mortimer's 
 father was a friend of mine, and I am intir 
 mate with them." 
 
 " Them! Is the husband ever seen bjr 
 mortal eyes ? I thought the venerable old 
 stock-broker was a kind of myth onljr 
 heard of as supplying Madame with diar 
 monds and his name." * 
 
 "You have been misinformed throughout, 
 then," said Philip, shortly. 
 
 " Eh, mon cher! I see the case is serious. 
 When a man denies these things his friends 
 had best be silent. But to turn to another 
 theme. What has become of all our old 
 friends of the coulisses, then? I suppose 
 we may speak of them ? " 
 
 " I know nothing of them now I have 
 
L62 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 other interests and other things to think of," 
 returned Earnseliffe. Neville's story of Rose 
 was too fresh for him to risk the mention of 
 her name. 
 
 " The devil you have ! Well, after being 
 abroad so long as I have, one does not know 
 what to speak of on one's return. One man 
 has become a dissenter, another a papist, 
 a third a.Gladstonite and a fourth turns up 
 his eyes when actresses are spoken of, and 
 denies his bonnes fortunes. For Heaven's 
 sake, Earnscliffe, come and dine with me, 
 and let us talk over old days." 
 
 But Philip pleaded an engagement as 
 glad to escape from his friend as he was, five 
 minutes before, from Neville and, tired of 
 the sunshine and crowds of people, returned 
 to the solitary room at his hotel, and flung 
 himself on his sofa, not to sleep, although he 
 had not slept for two nights, but think. 
 Think commune with his own heart for the 
 last time before the overwhelming tempta- 
 tion which he knew the morrow only a few 
 hours more would bring. From the mo- 
 ment that he received Marguerite's note say- 
 ing that she would once more see him, he 
 knew that she was his (even if any doubt be- 
 fore existed.) The contest was too unequal 
 to last much longer; her exceeding trust in 
 him, her ignorance of her own danger, made 
 the result but too certain. And again, as it 
 had done so often years before, the accusing 
 thought would present itself, * You are be- 
 traying God's holiest work, the innocence of 
 a child." 
 
 It was no pleasant thought ! He rose and 
 paced uneasily about his room, striving not 
 to combat with the wild dictates of passion; 
 they had remained too long uncontrolled to 
 be under his power now but to seek out 
 some extenuation with which to satisfy his 
 own conscience. * She was mine, in reali- 
 ty, years ago, 1 ' he said, half aloud. " Mine, 
 heart and soul, from her childhood. What 
 is any mere conventional tie compared to 
 that ? If I left her now, her existence would 
 be one long-continued misery constantly 
 endeavoring to fulfill her duty as another 
 man's wife seeking vainly to crush what is 
 part of her very life her love forme ! Hut, 
 if this remorse Neville speaks of is, indeed, 
 inevitable, will not thai be a bitterer an- 
 guish? for one so pure, to ieel that she has 
 
 1,,. remit Pshaw ! my devotion will make 
 
 her forget all that and everything beside 
 I wish the dragging hour* would wear aw;iy ! 
 I shall lx- calmer when all is decided. Will 
 to-morrow never eome ? v 
 
 1 le waited impatiently until evening ; then, 
 when it was dusk, unable any longer to bear 
 tin- oppn-vMon of solitude and of his own 
 meditation'*, he ordered his horse and rode 
 down to Wimbledon, where he dismounted 
 at the inn, and walked on towards Morti- 
 I'l.in.-, but without entering the gates. 
 He aw nothing of Marguerite, of course; 
 uhe \\U3 alone all the time in the library, 
 
 writing in her journal the last entry she 
 ver made there but it was enough that he 
 breathed the same air, could catch a glimpse 
 of the walls that enclosed his idol, and he 
 lingered, unnoticed by any one, until near 
 midnight, and then, under the solemn star- 
 lit, rode back to town. 
 Not quite unnoticed, Mr. Grimes, the 
 butler, had been out on honorable business 
 of his own, and calling on his friend the inn- 
 keeper, heard that Earnscliffe had left his 
 horse there. 
 
 " And not come to us ! " pondered Grimes. 
 " What's up now ? " And that worthy man 
 dodged and peeped, and found Philip, and 
 stole after him, and saw how he looked to- 
 wards the house, and paused, and half spoke, 
 and walked quickly on, only to return and 
 gaze again. And then Grimes returned 
 home, well pleased with what he had seen, 
 and burning to relate it in the servant's 
 hall. 
 
 The next morning shone out bright, but 
 not sultry ; and by the afternoon it was one 
 of those sweet, still summer days, of which 
 there are about six in the English year the 
 very weather for an out-of-door ftte. At 
 four o'clock the Mortimers' carriage called 
 in Tavistock Street and found Georgy ready- 
 dressed, and in great excitement at the ex- 
 pected dissipation, and the pleasure of breath- 
 ing the same atmosphere and looking at the 
 same trees and flowers as three or four hun- 
 dred " great people," during a whole long 
 evening. 
 
 She returned to Wimbledon for Marguer- 
 ite, and had to wait for some time in the 
 drawing-room, before she appeared. ** Mar- 
 guerite had had a headache," her husband 
 said, " and had begun to dress late." 
 
 " Quite unusual to see you at home, Mr. 
 Mortimer ; I thought you were always in the 
 City at this hour." 
 
 " I am not very well ; I have not felt my- 
 self for the last week, and Maggy persuaded 
 me that I ought to stay at home and be 
 quiet. However, I must go to town for an 
 hour or two when you are gone." 
 
 ** Dear Marguerite has not been looking 
 very well either lately." 
 
 " Dear Marguerite has been to too many 
 parties, Miss de Burgh. She will be as 
 blooming as a rose after I take her to the 
 sea." 
 
 "Oh! I am delighted to hear that it is 
 nothing but fatigue, that made her so pale, 
 but she seemed so very low and nervous." 
 
 The door opened and Marguerite entered, 
 her eompleximi brighter than usual, and her 
 whole appearance giving the most din-et de- 
 nial to GroT-jry's kind misgivings. 
 
 " Very like an invalid," said Mortimer, 
 proudly.' " But, Maggy, dear, how oddly 
 you are dressed ! That white muslin gown 
 plain little white bonnet, and no orna- 
 ments. What i.< this new fancy lor !: 
 like a chool-girl, eh?" 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 163 
 
 " My dress is very handsome," returned 
 Marguerite; " it is the new-worked muslin 
 you gave such a price for last week ; and 
 my bonnet has only just arrived from Paris. 
 You know it is my French fancy, sir, to dress 
 simply, and with only real flowers for or- 
 naments, at a summer fete" 
 
 44 Well, you always look well, child, how- 
 ever you dress. At 'least, here are fine 
 flowers for you," and he presented her with 
 a bouquet, composed entirely of early moss 
 rose-buds and Cape jessamine. 
 
 ** How lovely ! " said Marguerite ; " how 
 exactly my taste. It looks more like a 
 French bouquet than one of Campbell's mak- 
 ing." 
 
 44 I don't know that it is his," replied 
 Mortimer; " 1 found it just now on the ta- 
 ble, where some of the servants placed it, 
 I suppose." 
 
 ** I ordered two one for each of us," 
 said Marguerite. " What is Campbell think- 
 ing about ! " She rang the bell, and her 
 page answered it, with two gorgeous bou- 
 quets of hot-house flowers on a salver. 
 
 "Then, who brought this one?" she in- 
 quired, coloring, without knowing why. 
 
 l ' That was left by a servant on horseback, 
 madam, an hour ago. There was no mes- 
 sage." 
 
 '* From some of your numerous admirers, 
 I suppose ? " said Mortimer, when the page 
 left the room. 
 
 44 One who knows Marguerite's taste well, 
 at all events," added Georgy. *' Cape jes- 
 samine and moss-roses are your favorite 
 flowers, dear, are they not ? " 
 
 ** It looks mighty well with your white 
 dress, Maggy, whoever sent it. I suppose 
 you'll neglect my rare flowers now ? " 
 
 44 Which shall I take, sir? I don't care, 
 hesitated Marguerite. 
 
 44 Little hypocrite ! " thought Georgy. 
 
 * 4 Which shall you take? whichever you 
 like the best, to be sure ! Perhaps, the 
 simple flowers suit your style best." 
 
 44 Old idiot ! " thought Georgy. 44 Earns- 
 cliffe sent it, and it means something if she 
 wears it." 
 
 So Marguerite took the roses and Cape 
 jessamine for herself, and placed the bouquet 
 Georgy did not choose in a vase on the table. 
 Then she turned to her husband. 4t Do you 
 feel really better now ? " she whispered. 44 ] 
 scarcely like leaving you, if you are unwell. 
 
 44 I am much better, thank you,? returned 
 Mr. Mortimer, who hated to be thought ill. 
 44 It was nothing ; I shall go into town for an 
 hour, and return home as well as ever for my 
 dinner. That reminds me, Maggy what 
 did you do with those papers I gave you 
 yesterday morning, when I left in such a 
 hurry. I hope you have them safe ? " 
 
 44 I locked them up with my letters," 
 replied Marguerite. 44 Do you want them? 
 I will run and bring them, for you in a mo 
 meat." 
 
 She went up to the library, unlocked the 
 
 ecret drawer, where, for safety, she had 
 
 placed Mortimer's papers, took them out, 
 
 nd then flurried by the incident of the 
 
 souquet, and thinking nothing of what she 
 
 was about came down again leaving the 
 
 drawer open. That drawer contained her 
 
 diary and Philip's letters. 
 
 44 Here they are," she said to her husband, 
 4 quite safe, although I had the charge of 
 them." 
 
 14 Thank you, my dear. And if you will 
 give me permission, I shall go and sit in your 
 own sanctum myself for an hour. It is the 
 coolest room in the house of an afternoon.'* 
 
 Little knowing what the seemingly trivial 
 request involved, Marguerite smilingly assen- 
 ted ; and in a few minutes she and Georgy 
 were on the road. As they approached 
 Richmond they passed, and were passed, in 
 return by numbers of gay carriages and 
 young men on horseback, all on their way 
 to the/ft*. 
 
 44 We are not late," said Georgy, " at. all 
 events. Judging from the numbers of peo- 
 ple we see, there can be scarcely any one 
 there yet." 
 
 44 Oh ! " returned Marguerite, <4 1 knew we 
 should be in good time." 
 
 44 What hosts of people you know, Mar- 
 guerite ! Every one we have seen yet has 
 bowed." 
 
 44 1 know 4 everybody,' as the English 
 phrase is. I am literally tired of bowing 
 already." 
 
 44 Who is that girl who passed us last? she 
 is pretty." 
 
 44 Miss Carlton Vere. She is considered 
 the beauty of the season. That was Digby 
 Grant, the dandy, par excellence, who was 
 riding by their carriage." 
 
 44 Yes, I know him by sight: he has four 
 thousand a-year ; and his uncle is Dean of 
 Coventry, and his cousin is member for 
 
 B . I should like to be introduced to 
 
 him, dear." 
 
 44 1 can introduce you to any one you wish, 
 Georgy ; so mind, if you do not meet many 
 friends of your own, you must tell me whom 
 you wish to know." 
 
 * 4 Oh, thank you ! the Count de Montrav- 
 ers will be there, however, and in his society 
 I naturally care for no other." 
 
 44 Georgy, I begin to think you are en- 
 gaged to the Comte." 
 
 " One need not be engaged to everybody 
 in whose society one finds pleasure,' 1 said 
 Miss de Burgh, tartly, 44 as you must be well 
 aware." 
 
 Marguerite colored, but made no reply 
 she seldom did to Miss Georgy's speeches 
 indeed, she forgot what they were talking 
 about a moment afterwards. She was look- 
 ing nervously &t every group of young meo 
 they passed, wondering, hoping, fearing 
 whether Philip were among them. But she 
 saw nothing of him ; and they soon arrived 
 
161 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 at Mrs. Lorritner's pretty villa, where the 
 crowd of carriages and people, sounds of 
 imi ic, and distant marquees in the grounds, 
 ann unced the gay scene that was going on. 
 Tne entrance-hall was completely wreath- 
 ed with flowers; and through this they were 
 ushered to a room on the ground floor, open- 
 iair upon the lawn, where Mrs. Lorrimer re- 
 c i\ed her guests, before they dispersed into 
 the grounds. 
 
 A'a guerite presented Georgy with her 
 usui.1 quiet grace ; and Miss de Burgh was 
 quite flattered at the well-bred smile of Mrs. 
 Corrlmer, which she mistook for the com- 
 mencement of an acquaintance, although in 
 truth the lady never thought of her again 
 from that moment to this. 
 
 " I advise you to take refuge in the gar- 
 den-, Mrs. Mortimer; you will find the 
 lower lawn by the river delightfully cool, 
 whi'e tie sun remains so high. 1 ' 
 
 An 1 a crowd of young men surrounded 
 Marguerite, all anxious to dance attendance 
 on the celebrated beauty, who, in addition 
 to her lovely face and irresistible charm of 
 iranner, possessed the strongest attraction of 
 all that of being the fashion and the fash- 
 ion too, with so notorious and fastidious a 
 man as EarnscliiFe ! 
 
 " Mr. Hollingsworth, let me introduce you 
 to my cousin, Miss de Burgh," said Marguer- 
 ite, addressing a boyish-looking youth with 
 an incipient moustache, who colored to the 
 eyes, and at once became the victim of 
 Georgy's charms, without hope of release 
 for an hour or two. 
 
 " Isn't it delightful?" she cried, as they 
 followed Marguerite and her train upon the 
 lawn. '* I love these free, wild things in the 
 open air so much better than balls ; don't 
 you?" 
 
 "I 1 aven't been to many Cambridge is 
 o slow." 
 
 "Cambridge! dear me! Have you not 
 left college?" (Mr. Hollingsworth looked 
 about fifteen.) 
 
 " No; this is only my first term." 
 
 " And do you care for dancing?" 
 
 " 1 have only danced at school," would 
 have been the truthful reply ; but Mr. Hol- 
 lingsworth merely said * Not very much ; " 
 and Georgy returned " Nor she cither. 
 Keally pleasant conversation was far better 
 than waltzing. Did Mr. Hollingsworth know 
 where that darling little shady walk led to? 
 Could it be to the river? " 
 
 And (ieorgy and her new friend soon dis- 
 appeared, nil her. it must be confessed, to 
 Marguerite's relief, who, though perfectly 
 above the vulgar feeling of being ashamed 
 of any one, was not anxious to have Geor- 
 gy's close attendance the whole day. 
 
 She walked about, and frit that'every eye 
 was bent upon her as she moved. Among 
 all the brilliant women there, hers was th 
 most rer/tfrc/tie toilette hers the loveliest 
 face. Ne\cr, in her first season, had she 
 
 created a greater sensation than to-day; 
 and, of course, she was aware of it. But to 
 lerself the whole scene was without interest, 
 all the admiration she awakened was worth- 
 ess. Earnscliffe was not there, and in his 
 sence everything beside was blank. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 " DEAR Mrs. Mortimer," said a kind voice 
 close behind her, " it is so long since I have 
 seen you ! " 
 
 Marguerite turned and recognised Lady 
 Millicent Gore, one of her earliest friends. 
 They shook hands, and Lady Millicent made 
 room for her on the seat beside herself. 
 
 " You young people will have so much 
 lancing this evening, you must reserve your 
 strength, and not stand or walk while the day 
 continues so hot." 
 
 " I never dance now," replied Marguerite, 
 " but I am delighted to have found a place 
 by you." 
 
 "Never dance?" repeated her friend. 
 "Is it possible that you have renounced 
 dancing at your age ? You used to be so 
 famous for your waltzing. 1 " 
 
 " I don't think I really cared for it; but I 
 found it dull at balls to sit out and watch 
 others dancing, without doing so myself. I 
 have given it up now, I am not very strong." 
 
 "You look well; but perhaps you are 
 flushed at this moment. You must make 
 your husband take you abroad this summer, 
 to get over all the fatigues of your London 
 season." 
 
 "Oh, that is already settled. We are 
 going to Brittany in a few weeks, to visit 
 my old home there." 
 
 " I remember you told me all about your 
 place in Brittany, the first evening I ever 
 *aw you, at my sister's house. Speaking of 
 that evening reminds me of your cousin, the 
 Marquis de St. Leon ; what has become of 
 him lately ? " 
 
 " Gaston has returned to France: he 
 forms one of the new government already." 
 
 "The new government? 1 thought he 
 was an ultra-Legitimist." 
 
 "So he used to be," said Marguerite, 
 smiling, "but -" she turned while, then 
 Mushed crimson. In the distance her eves 
 had caught one glimpse of Philip. " What 
 did I say '.' " she added, vaguely. 
 
 " 1'onr thing!" thought Lady Millicent. 
 " Is it possible, her cousin intere.vted her so 
 much? with such a husband, however, it is 
 not wonderful." And delicately changing the 
 subject, she began speaking of some of 
 the people who were walking up and down on 
 the lawn beliire them. " Miss ( 'arltou Vero 
 is very pretty," she remarked, after a few 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 165 
 
 deai friends had been discussed. "But it is 
 not a style 1 at all admire do you ? " 
 
 " Oh ! every one must think her lovely," 
 replied Marguerite, in rather an absent tone. 
 44 Yes, but her consciousness of her own 
 beauty greatly diminishes its charm. She 
 wants" your unaffectedness, Mrs. Mortimer. 
 Look at her now, as she walks with Mr. 
 Earnscliffe, and shakes back her long fair 
 curls while she looks up at him. Do you 
 suppose it is a case of serious attention ? " 
 
 Lady Millicent went so seldom into the 
 world, that she was unaware even ^if Mar- 
 guerite and Earnscliffe were acquainted ; 
 and continued making the most unconscious 
 remarks upon his apparent devotion to Miss 
 Carlton Vere. ** He is really distinguished- 
 looking," she said. " Not only his face 
 handsome, but his manner, and whole air are 
 so unlike most young men that one sees. Do 
 you not agree with me ? " 
 
 " Mr. Earnscliffe is good-looking," an- 
 swered Marguerite. 
 
 44 Good-looking ! my dear, what very qual- 
 ified praise. Of course you have read his 
 writings. Are you not warmer in your ad- 
 miration of them, than their author? Oh! 
 you are acquainted with him then," as 
 Earnscliffe passed, and took off his hat to 
 Marguerite ; " now tell me what his conver- 
 sation is like ? " 
 
 And Marguerite had to talk of Philip for 
 a good half-hour to Lady Millicent Gore 
 (who felt an especial interest in authors), 
 and all this time to watch Philip in earnest, 
 and apparent devoted conversation with Miss 
 Carlton Vere ; while that young creature 
 smiled and blushed, and shook back her 
 curls more playfully each time as she passed 
 the spot where Marguerite was seated. 
 
 " The sun is pouring full upon us," she 
 cried at last too weary and impatient to 
 listen even to the gentle Lady Millicent. 
 * Will you not change your position ? " 
 
 44 Thank you, my dear. I like this place ; 
 and I don't feel the sun in the least. But 1 
 will keep you no longer ; you have alread} 1 
 devoted nearly an hour to an old woman 
 which, for the belle of a fete like this, is in- 
 deed sufficient." 
 
 So Marguerite rose, and taking the arm o 
 Digby Grant who had been hovering pa- 
 tiently near her for some time walked wit! 
 him towards the river. He was an agreea- 
 ble man, in spite of his affectation, and only 
 too anxious that Mrs. Mortimer should con- 
 sider him so ; but she was strangely absen 
 to-day, and replied a travers to his pretties 
 speeches while he led her, unconscious how fa 
 she was going, to a remote part of the lawn 
 where, as yet, none of the others had pene 
 trated. 
 
 44 Would you like to escape this terrific 
 sun, Mrs. Mortimer? that rustic boat-houst 
 looks inviting." 
 
 "As you please; yes, certainly." An 
 Marguerite entered, really glad to be awaj 
 
 rom the crowd, and only wishing her com- 
 >anion would leave her. 
 
 44 Pray don't let me take you away from 
 iverybody, Mr. Grant. I am so tired, I 
 hall remain here for half-an-hour ; but do 
 eturn to the lawn without me. You may 
 :ome back for me as late as you please." 
 
 44 I am only too thankful to be away, 1 ' 
 le replied ; 44 these odious mixed things are 
 ny horror people of all kinds you don't 
 enow who is who ! The last time I was at 
 Mrs. Lorrimer's she had some dreadful Syri- 
 in wretches, whom I remembered as shoe- 
 jlacks in their own country. To-day there 
 are still worse atrocities. Actually I saw 
 hat man, calling himself the Count de Mon- 
 ravers a man who would be received in no 
 decent society in France ; but whom English 
 aeople will invite, and listen to, while he 
 lescants on the regeneration of England. 
 [ had only one object in coming here, Mrs. 
 Mortimer." 
 
 14 Could you not shelter me from the sun? 
 Thank you. It fell full upon my face." 
 
 14 Let me hold your parasol? No. Your 
 bouquet, then your hands are full ;" and he 
 took Marguerite's Philip's bouquet, and 
 nhaled its fragrance with great gusto. 
 
 44 Pray do not shake them to pieces," she 
 said at last. ' 4 See, one rose-bud has fallen 
 out already." 
 
 44 Which I may keep for my guerdon," he 
 replied, picking it up, and preparing to place 
 it in his coat. 
 
 44 No, no," interrupted Marguerite, eager- 
 ly ; 44 give me the flower, if you please, and 
 I can replace it. I never give away my flow- 
 ers." 
 
 44 Are they so valued for their own sakes, 
 or for that of the donor ? " in rather a piqued 
 tone at her refusal. 
 
 44 For their own sakes," replied Marguer- 
 ite, coloring; 44 flowers are my passion 
 I " 
 
 Just then she caught the sound of a well- 
 known step, advancing on the gravel path 
 beside them ; and, in another moment, Earns- 
 cliffe's tall figure was visible. He was alone, 
 and after glancing at her and her companion, 
 walked slowly on with a very slight saluta- 
 tion, and his face calm and grave as usual. 
 
 44 He must believe that I am happy with- 
 out him," thought Marguerite. 44 That I 
 am encouraging the idle attentions of anoth- 
 er already." And this idea, that, to many 
 women would have been one of entire satis- 
 faction, gave her such intolerable pain, that 
 she rose hastily, and proposed returning to- 
 wards the house at once. 
 
 Meantime, Georgy had k>st Mr. Hollings- 
 worth, who, after a series of mariceuvers, 
 contrived to slip away from her among the 
 crowd; and, for about half-an-hour, failing 
 to spy out Marguerite, she had wandered 
 along, as is the habitude of obscure persons 
 at large assemblies, unnoticed by anybody, 
 except those few who languidly raised their 
 
166 
 
 PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 eye-glasses, and classed her among I\Irs. 
 Lorrimer's " oddities. 1 " At length, she met 
 her friend, the Cointe de Montravers, and 
 seized upon him with an avidity that should 
 have been most flattering to the foreigner. 
 Like Miss de Burgh, however, he was on the 
 look-out for great people himself, and he 
 was not particularly anxious to be the atten- 
 dant of an unknown person of two-and-thirty, 
 nor nearly so empress^ in his manner as when 
 they took morning walks together in the 
 mystic regions of Brunswick Square ; and he 
 passed on, after a short conversation. So 
 Georgy was again discomfited ; and, when, 
 at length, she joined Marguerite, was not in 
 the best of tempers. 
 
 " Where in the world have you been?" 
 she exclaimed. " Since I saw you disappear 
 in the distance, two hours ago, with Digby 
 Grant, I have never met you. It appears lie 
 is your adorer, after all, not Philip Earns- 
 cliffe, who, I can assure you, has been de- 
 voted to that lovely > iss Carlton Yere the 
 whole afternoon. I have met them a dozen 
 times together. But how pale you look. 
 Can't you introduce me to some one as you 
 promised you would ? Mr. Grant for in- 
 stance." 
 
 " He is talking to Mrs. Lorimer at this 
 moment. Tell me the names of any other 
 people you wish to know." 
 
 And Marguerite weary and spiritless 
 though she was tried to exert herself for 
 Miss de Burgh ; and, ever ready to please an- 
 other walked about with her, and introduced 
 her to everybody she wished, even to Digby 
 Grant, who raised one eyebrow and bent his 
 head just sufficiently to move his topmost 
 curl at the introduction. But Georgy was 
 radiant with smiles, and soon appended her- 
 self to some of her new acquaintance with 
 Fiich determined pertinacitv, that Marguerite 
 felt she was fairly disposed of the remainder 
 of the evening, and also that she would have 
 to wait many a long hour before Miss de 
 Burgh would choose to leave. 
 
 The dancing was now at its height; and 
 the two large marquees on the lawn, brilliant- 
 ly lighted, were thronged with dancers and 
 lookers-on ; while manv there were belter 
 plea.-ed to wander about the grounds, where 
 hundreds of colored lamps glimmered in the 
 <]ark summer night. Marguerite was stand- 
 ing somewhat apart from the entrance to tin- 
 principal tent, and lor the moment unattended ; 
 her head turned away from the light and 
 nm>ic, towards the silent river beneath, 
 when, close beside her, she heard Philip's 
 Voice. 
 
 " Mrs. .Mortimer Marguerite, may I dare 
 to oiler you my arm ' " 
 
 Sin- started, and her heart beat so violently 
 hlie could not answer. Then she placed her 
 hand, almost without knowing that she did so, 
 upon his arm. 
 
 "Can \ on span- ii\c minute* from all this 
 
 gay scene ; from all your admirers, while yon 
 say irood-bye to an old friend ? " 
 
 ';' Philip!" (The altered tone of her 
 voice shocked him.) " I am very weary; 
 I hate all this crowd and glare ; and I should 
 have left already, but " 
 
 He led her down a narrow sidewalk the 
 same Georgy and Mr. Hollingsworth had 
 previously discovered and, in a few min- 
 utes, they were as completely alone as 
 though they were at Kersaint. Only the 
 sounds of the distant music were there to re- 
 mind them of the scene they had left. The 
 warm, soft air the odor "from the garden 
 flowers the uncertain light of the stars 
 the presence of each other was all they 
 were awake to. In those few minutes, the 
 world, and all belonging to it, were forgot- 
 ten. Marguerite's hand was upon his arm ; 
 she heard his voice again more dear even 
 from those few days of separation and her 
 life, that had just before seemed so void, 
 was again a glowing, delicious heaven. 
 
 " You are pale now, Marguerite ! and 
 yet so flushed a few hours ago ; are you not 
 well ? " 
 
 "Did you really notice me before this ? 
 I thought you were too much occupied to 
 think of my appearance." 
 
 " You could not really believe it. I might 
 as well affect jealousy of the butterflies that 
 have beeti hovering about you of Digby 
 Grant, because I saw you with him alone, 
 when he was holding my flowers for you. 
 Marguerite, our feelings are too deep for 
 these small fears." 
 
 "Your flowers? they were indeed from 
 you, then?" and the hand that held them 
 unconsciously pressed them closer. 
 
 " Did you not feel that they were from 
 me? Believing they were from a stranger 
 would you have worn them? Oh! do not 
 let us attempt any longer to dissemble. 
 Marguerite, the hour has come when Ihnt 
 has passed for ever. I received your note 
 telling me to be here, and I am here. My 
 conduct to-day has only been assumed to 
 mislead the idle world, who already may 
 have spoken of the attachment which 1 have 
 vainly tried to hide " 
 
 " But I told you to hope nothing that I 
 retracted nothing. I came here that this 
 might be our last meeting. Oh, Philip! you 
 do not know the agony that I have passed 
 through since 1 saw you, how 1 have striven 
 and prayed as much for your sake as my 
 own to overcome this love that can only 
 end in misery.'' 
 
 "And in 'vain. Marguerite! tell me so; 
 whatever happens, let me once more hear 
 from tho>e dear lips that you love mi once 
 more." 1 
 
 They had now reached the river, whose 
 liquid ma><es floated by in their black still- 
 neM beneath them, and Marguerite shudder- 
 ed as the chilly air from the water .struck up- 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 167 
 
 on her heated cheek. She shrank to Philip's 
 side, and his blood became fire as he felt her 
 slight form clinging as it were to him for pro- 
 tection. He thought of the world's cold 
 breath, already raised to wither Marguerite's 
 good fame, and strange sophistry ! felt 
 that his honor constituted him her protector. 
 
 " Philip, you could not urge me thus, if it 
 were wrong. You are so much better and 
 wiser than I Philip ! will it really make you 
 happier if I once more tell you the secret of 
 my existence the secret that will make my 
 whole life a blank evermore ? Then hear me 
 I love you still as I did at Kersaint! " 
 
 Her voice sank to the lowest whisper, but 
 Earnscliffe heard it still. He seized both 
 her cold hands suddenly within his own 
 
 " Marguerite ! " (his voice, too, was low, 
 and altered in its sound from what she had 
 ever known it before) " let this moment, 
 then, decide our destiny. You say that you 
 love me still that that love will make your 
 whole life a blank without me be mine, 
 then ! I know the sacrifice I ask of you 
 the sacrifice of good name, of position, of 
 all that women hold dear, and that against 
 this, my passionate love, my utter devotion, 
 are all that J have to offer.' Come with me 
 to another country, where in our love all the 
 disappointments of the past shall be forgot- 
 ten, and we will live for each other alone ; " 
 and his arm was thrown round her trembling 
 form. 
 
 But Marguerite even yet shrank back. 
 *' Let me go ! " she whispered, very faintly. 
 ** Let me return to my home to my hus- 
 band ; I will not bring dishonor upon him ! " 
 
 " As you will, madam ! " He released his 
 hold instantly. " I was wrong in supposing 
 that for my love you could so readily give up 
 your fair fame. You speak of his honor, 
 and forget that I, too. should forfeit every 
 ambition, every prospect in life, and deem 
 their loss as nothing if I possessed you. 
 Oh, Marguerite ! " his voice sinking again 
 into its deepest, most passionate tenderness 
 "forgive me! I know not what I say. 
 I cannot lose you ! Oh, Marguerite, Mar- 
 guerite ! remember all the years that we 
 have loved each other that you were mine, 
 in heart at least, before your husband ever 
 knew you that years ago you promised me 
 never to love another." 
 
 " Philip, I have kept my word." 
 
 "Then redeem it now now, when all my 
 happiness in this life depends upon your de- 
 cision." 
 
 "Philip ah, may God help me! I can 
 have no will but yours." 
 
 He folded her to his breast ; he knew that 
 she was his. But, even at that moment, he 
 could hear the unnatural throbbing of her 
 heart, and mark that the face upturned to his 
 was one of agonv. The hell of a fallen an- 
 gel had already begun. With the first breath 
 of guilt a dark shadow had fallen across Mar- 
 guerite's love. 
 
 "Mine, mine !" whispered Earnscliffe, 
 tenderly. Death only shall part us now." 
 
 " Death ! " she repeated, with a shudder ; 
 " yes, you are right to speak of death " 
 
 " When years of radiant life are spread 
 before us ? In Italy, in the sweet south, my 
 Marguerite, we shall at length be happy to- 
 gether happy as we should have been long 
 ago, if fate had not divided us." 
 
 "Aye, fate!" she answered, dreamily; 
 " there was an evil fate in my mother's des- 
 tiny and in mine. Both married where they 
 could not love ; she died young, as I shall." 
 
 " My own love, do not speak of dying. 
 In my new born joy, do not cause me the 
 torture of thinking that I could ever lose 
 you." 
 
 " Philip, I am yours wrong, lost though 
 I may be I am yours. I shall never part 
 from you now. My love is interwoven with 
 my very life, and can only end with it. But 
 it will not be for very long. Something tells- 
 me, even at this moment, that I shall die. 
 When the summer comes again, and you are 
 breathing another warm night such as this, 
 you will be alone : but you will still think 
 fondly of me, still hold my remembrance 
 dearer than all other, and in that thought is 
 almost happiness sufficient." 
 
 She Jboked up at him with one of those in- 
 effably sweet smiles that I never saw on any 
 countenance but hers, and laid her head upon 
 his arm. The gesture was so natural, so in- 
 nocent, so like Marguerite, so unlike guilt, 
 that, Earnscliffe's conscience recoiled even 
 yet from her betrayal. " My life's devotion 
 must atone to her for all she loses," was his 
 inward resolution while he bent over the pale, 
 upturned face. 
 
 As though any human devotion could make 
 atonement for sin to a nature like hers ! 
 
 " How frightfully ill Mrs. Mortimer 
 looks ! " said one of a group of friends, when, 
 leaning on Philip's arm, she re-entered the 
 ball-room ; " and so wild and haggard ! See 
 how her eyes wander round, as though she 
 saw nothing, and how she clings to him ! 
 Things are approaching a crisis." 
 
 "Oh, I have foreseen it long; indeed, I 
 have not taken my Sophia Jane at all latter- 
 ly, when I called at the Mortimers'. From 
 the first moment I saw her and Earnscliffe 
 together, I -knew how it would end: there 
 was something so bold-looking about her to 
 me." 
 
 "Mrs. Mortimer bold-looking!" chimad 
 in Digby Grant, who, though a rival, was 
 more generous than female friends. " She 
 looks more like dying than anything else at 
 this moment ; but who could ever call such a 
 face as hers bold ? " 
 
 " Oh, of course, Mr. Grant! men always 
 admire that style of person. I cannot ap- 
 preciate the excessive innocence of a married 
 woman who carries on these kinds of desper- 
 ate flirtations. If I were Mrs. Lorrimer, I 
 
168 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 should dislike having the denouement at my 
 house for a denouement there is I am cer- 
 tain." 
 
 Digby 
 
 She is fainting, by George ! " exclaimed 
 
 ,ook at Mr. EarnsclinVs face ! What 
 a disgusting exhibition ! " broke in two or 
 three plain young women ; and soon a score 
 of different stories were in circulation 
 "Earnscliffe had said something to Mrs. 
 Mortimer, which made her faint dead away 
 on the spot ! " " Jealous of his attention to 
 Miss Carlton Vere ! " " Fainted as Earns- 
 cliffe was running away with her in her own 
 carriage ! " and so on. 
 
 But Marguerite knew and heard nothing. 
 She was in a deep swoon ; and when at length 
 she partially recovered, she found herself in 
 the open air, with only her kind friend, Lady 
 Millicent, beside her. 
 
 " Where am I? Is he here? 11 were her 
 first incoherent words. 
 
 " You have fainted, my dear Mrs. Morti- 
 mer you are ill," said a gentle voice, which 
 Marguerite at once recognised. " As soon 
 as you have recovered, you had better return 
 home at once." 
 
 " Home ! " said Marguerite wildly. " No, 
 no not home! anywhere but there. I can- 
 not return home ! " 
 
 Lady Millieent's face became very grave. 
 
 "Can all this possibly arise from any re- 
 collection of her cousin ? " she thought. 
 "Everyone is mentioning Mr. EarnsclinVs 
 name ; but this morning they seemed barely 
 acquainted. 1 ' 
 
 "Dear me! what is all this scene, Mar- 
 guerite ?" cried a loud, woman's voice. 
 " Have you really fainted? " 
 
 " Georgy, let us go. I am very ill." 
 
 "Go? at nine o'clock? Thank you, my 
 dear ! I have made a great many agreeable 
 acquaintances, and I have not the least idea 
 of going." 
 
 Lady Millicent looked round with perfect 
 horror at Miss de Burgh. 
 
 " Are your movements controlled by that 
 lady?" she whispered to Marguerite. 
 
 " I brought her with me. I believe I 
 must wait until she is ready. But I am, in- 
 deed, weary and ill, Georgy," she added, 
 looking imploringly towards her. 
 
 " Can I take care of your friend? " inter- 
 poM-d Lady Millicent, overcoming her re- 
 imgnancc to the friend's appearance, in her 
 kind feeling to Marguerite. 
 
 "Oh, Lady Millicent ! you are too kind." 
 
 "Lady Millicent " sounded s\veetto Geor- 
 py's cars, and she became ajl'eetionate imme- 
 diately th it she discovered the little, plainly- 
 '1 old lad\ was an earl's daughter. 
 
 " Dear Marguerite, if you are indeed ill, 
 of cout>e, we will go at once. I thought it 
 was merely ;l passing \veakin-s 
 
 " My chaperonage and escort are entirely 
 At your friend'.- >er\ice, again remarked Lady 
 Millicent. " Only let me see you safely 
 
 into your carriage at oi.ce. You are not in 
 a state to remain one moment in yonder 
 crowded rooms." And a servant was sent to 
 order Mrs. Mortimer's carriage ; while 
 Georgy, with many smiles, tried to ingrati- 
 ate herself with her new acquaintance. 
 
 "Dear Marguerite was not very strong, 
 did faint sometimes ; the cool drive home 
 would refresh her ; it was so kind of Lady 
 Millicent. to offer to chaperone herself! " and 
 so on ; during all of which Marguerite still 
 clung weakly to her friend's arm, whose dis- 
 gust at Miss Georgy 's selfishness increased 
 with every word she uttered. 
 
 Earnscliffe was hovering near, though 
 afraid to attract attention by approaching 
 closer ; but when the carriage was announced 
 he advanced and offered Marguerite his 
 arm. 
 
 " Good-night, my dear Mrs. Mortimer. 
 I shall come and see you to-morrow morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " Good-night, Lady Millicent! " lingering 
 wistfully, as they shook hands. " You have 
 been very kind to me. Good-night." Mar- 
 guerite felt they were parting for the last 
 time, and her voice was thick and husky. 
 " Good-night, Georgy." 
 
 And then, threading their way through the 
 crowds who pressed round them, to stare 
 upon her altered face, Earnscliffe led Mar- 
 guerite to the carriage. 
 
 " Farewell, my own love ! " he whispered, 
 as she took her place. " We shall meet, to- 
 morrow, and part no more only a i'ew 
 short hours." 
 
 " Oh, Philip ! a strange fear is upon me. 
 I tremble at being alone," she replied. 
 
 He bent forward, as though to present her 
 bouquet, which he still held, and pressed his 
 lips upon her hand. It was icy cold, too 
 cold, even for his kiss to warm it, and he 
 felt that she was trembling violently. 
 
 " Drive home as fast as possible," he said 
 to the coachman. " Mrs. Mortimer has 
 been taken ill." And in another moment he 
 watched the carriage disappear which bore 
 her from him. 
 
 Then Philip returned to the ball-room, 
 where he paid so much attention to Miss 
 Carlton Vere, that, people began to think, 
 after all, they had been mistaken in their 
 suspicions; and Miss (leorgy reflected with 
 pleasure how she would tell Marguerite that 
 Mr. Karnsclill'e seemed to enjoy himself a 
 vast deal better after her departure. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 AI.MNK, through the silent night, Marguei 
 itc drove home. The lights, the confused 
 sounds of music, were still flashing through 
 her heated brain ; but, clear above them all. 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 169 
 
 rang Philip's last words "To-morrow, and 
 we shall part no more ; " while ever, like a 
 death-knell to that tumultuously happy 
 thought, her own heart echoed "To-mor- 
 row, and no more peace ; to-morrow, and I 
 shall no longer dare to speak of my childhood 
 or my father. My father ! " and the remem- 
 brance of his poor, passionless face, of his 
 perfect integrity, his unwavering principle, 
 awed her into a sense of her own guilt, 
 deeper than what any thought of Mortimer 
 could have awakened. 
 
 As she proceeded, every object by the 
 way-side took the form of something connec- 
 ted with Kersaint. The waving branches of 
 the Park trees, overhanging the road, seem- 
 ed to her excited imagination the ancient 
 Breton forests ; the groups of laborers, re- 
 turning late from hay-making, bore sem- 
 blance to the peasants she had not seen for 
 years. She passed a cottage garden, and 
 some white lilies, shining calmly in the moon- 
 light, brought back the altar in'the old cathe- 
 dral, decked for early mass. And all rose 
 up in judgment against her. 
 
 "But it is for him!' 1 ' 1 she exclaimed, in 
 her terror at the invisible presence she felt 
 around as though the mention of his name 
 could overpower that " to be with Philip, 
 who is dearer than life itself! Whatever the 
 sin, whatever the misery, he wishes it; and 
 I have no other will." 
 
 Then she leant back in the carriage, and 
 closed her eyes : she could not bear the 
 light of the stars to-night even they seem- 
 ed watching her reproachfully. And, in 
 addition to this tension of mental pain, there 
 was a fiery sensation in her brain, a quick, 
 uneven throbbing at her heart, different to 
 what she had ever experienced before, and 
 which heightened into actual agony as she 
 approached home. 
 
 To meet Mortimer again once more to lay 
 her head beside the old man's trusting heart, 
 and know that on the morrow she would leave 
 him, in loneliness and dishonor was some- 
 thing so utterly abhorrent, so foreign to 
 Marguerite's nature, that, even under the 
 strong sway of irresistible passion with 
 Philip's kiss still warm upon her hand she 
 shrank loathingly from herself and the task 
 before her. 
 
 " Better," she thought, " never to see him 
 again never more eflter the home he has 
 given me than thus betray him to the last ! " 
 And once the desperate purpose half arose 
 of bidding the coachman drive on to town 
 anywhere except home. But where could 
 she go ? to Philip ? she revolted instantly 
 from the thought. To Lady Millicent Gore ? 
 What pretext could she form for such an ex- 
 traordinary action? And thus, while she 
 deliberated and wavered, an abrupt turn of 
 the carriage told Marguerite that she had 
 nlready entered her own lodge-gates she 
 vas already home. 
 When she reached the front door, her 
 
 limbs trembled so that she could scarcely tot* 
 ter from the carriage to the house ; and, but 
 for the servant, who caught her arm, she 
 would have sank upon the threshold. 
 
 " Where where is Mr. Mortimer? " she 
 gasped, hardly conscious what she said. 
 
 " My master is in the library ; he has been 
 there all the afternoon," answered the man, 
 terrified at the ghastly paleness of his young 
 mistress. "Lord, madam! has anything 
 happened ? " 
 
 " Give me a light," said Marguerite, in a 
 calm, composed tone. "In the library !" 
 she murmured to herself, and the fact of 
 having left the drawer open which contained 
 her letters and journal, flashed upon her 
 mind with sudden clearness. " Then he 
 knows all!" she thought. "Thank God 
 that, at least, I am spared the guilt of fur- 
 ther concealment ! " 
 
 She took the light with a steady hand, and 
 walked so firmly up-stairs, that the servant 
 stared after her in astonishment, and thought 
 her pallor and wild looks on entering must, 
 after all, have arisen from some accidental 
 faintness. She went straight along to the 
 ibrary, never stopping for a moment on her 
 way, then opened the door, still without fal- 
 tering, and in perfect silence. 
 
 Mortimer was seated at the table by a 
 lighted lamp ; and before him, as Marguer- 
 ite's forebodings told her, lay her open dia- 
 ry, her papers, Philip's letters, dried flowers, 
 that he had given her years before at Ker- 
 saint all the hoarded records of her love. 
 
 For a moment neither spoke : then Mar- 
 guerite walked close up before him, her 
 large, dark eyes unnaturally dilated, her 
 hands clasped tightly together upon her bo- 
 som. 
 
 " Madame ! you here ? " She did not at- 
 tempt to speak. " You have returned then 
 to my house to your home,' 1 ' 1 with bitter em- 
 phasis on the word. " Has your lover failed 
 in his appointment, though you were true? 
 or is it convenient that I should be honored 
 with your presence for one night more ? " 
 
 Still she never answered, only her lips 
 parted a little ; but there was no sound. 
 
 "Speak!" he thundered, rising from his 
 seat. " I command you to speak the time 
 is over for any more of your cursed inno- 
 cence." 
 
 "I do not pretend to be innocent," she 
 replied, very low. 
 
 " No. With such evidence as this," point- 
 to the table, even your hypocrisy is con- 
 founded, although it is the blackest that ever 
 a woman's blasted beauty covered since the 
 world began. Some women go to perdition 
 after years of marriage that is bad enough ! 
 but you have never been pure you were 
 corrupt in your childhood." 
 
 " Sir ! " raising her clasped hands towards 
 him, " do not speak to me so. Kill me, but 
 do not say that I was guilty when you mar- 
 ried me." 
 
170 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 "Oh, kill you, madam ! You may spare 
 me those theatrical expressions. Keep them 
 against the time your poet lover deserts you, 
 they may tell upon him ! Not guilty, you 
 say when I married you? then what do all 
 these letters mean these entries in your own 
 hand-writing ? " 
 
 *' A girlish love, sir not guilt." 
 
 "Girlish love fora married man? girl- 
 ish love still, I suppose ? only that he is free, 
 
 you married. But you forget by ! aye, 
 
 and your paramour, too, that there is an- 
 other in the case now that you have a hus- 
 band implicated in your dishonor, and one 
 that is no fool to look on, and smile at his 
 own shame, as some in your fashionable 
 world do ! Oh ! the fool that I have been 
 already," he went on passionately, " to think 
 that at your age, and with your face, you 
 were going into the world innocently. Fool 
 to believe all your own accounts that you 
 amused me with, as a cover to your intrigues. 
 By Heaven ! I believe that this is not the only 
 one ; and that your cousin Gaston came in 
 for a share of your girlish love." 
 
 "No, no, sir," she cried vehemently; 
 " guilty though I am, do not accuse me of 
 such infamy as that ! You do not you can- 
 not believe that I am so utterly lost ? " look- 
 ing steadily at him. 
 
 He moved his position uneasily, and turned 
 away his head, as though afraid to look down 
 into that truthful face that had already de- 
 ceived him. 
 
 ""Well, I believe you!" he answered, 
 after a minute. " One is sufficient. And 
 such love as you have borne your first lover 
 was not likely to be shared, I own. How 
 proud I have been of you. Marguerite ! " he 
 went on more softly " how I have boasted 
 that my wife was above even the shadow of 
 reproach ! how I have studied every wish, 
 every thought of yours " 
 
 A sudden sob choked his words ; and even 
 more touched at this gentleness than at his 
 angry words of reproach, Marguerite sank 
 upon her knees. 
 
 "Oh, forgive me!" she cried. "I ac- 
 knowledge my sin my utter unworthiness 
 my ingratitude ; but say that you forgive 
 me ! Do not let your last words to me be 
 curses ! " 
 
 " My last words ! " he echoed, scornfully, 
 all the momentary weakness over. "My 
 last before you join Philip Earr.sdHFe, I con- 
 clude. No, madam,, they shall not be curses. 
 J have forbearance enough fur that, and you 
 will be sufficiently cursed in your own alier- 
 life. Rise up, pray, and leave me. I am 
 in no humor fur scenes now. I will not <lis- 
 iii belore the servants by telling you 
 to (juit the roof you have dishonored at once 
 but never let me >,.,. your face again " 
 
 She rose she turned, and without a word, 
 She tried to move towards the door; but 
 Strange lurid lights Hashed before h.-. 
 
 an intolerable p*in was about her heart, and 
 her limbs refused to help her. 
 
 ' I am ill," she said faintly, leaning 
 heavily against the wall. 
 
 But Mortimer's heart was steeled. He 
 believed her far guiltier than she was, and 
 thought it all acting. 
 
 "Leave me, madame ! " he repeated, 
 fiercely. "Do you hear me? Leave my 
 presence ! " Still she never moved ; only 
 her head sank down, her hands clasped more 
 convulsively for support. " Then as you 
 refuse to do so, I will go myself. I will re- 
 main no longer in the same room with the 
 woman I have called my wife, until I knew 
 that she was " 
 
 The cruel word had no sooner escaped 
 him, in his passion, than he wished it re- 
 called. To his last hour Mortimer will never 
 forget the wild scream that burst from Mar- 
 guerite's lips the expression of her face as 
 she turned it full round to his. Both will haunt 
 him, as I am told the mute anguish of a 
 stricken deer has, years afterwards, haunted 
 the memory of him who smote her. 
 
 "Not to me!" she cned, staggering for- 
 ward a few weak steps. " Say it was not 
 to me ! not to your little Marguerite " 
 
 She threw her arms forward, as though 
 once again to clasp him, then sank, like a 
 thing of stone, at his feet. Mortimer be- 
 lieved that she had fainted, arid raised her 
 instantly ; but as he did so, a crimson tor- 
 rent broke from her mouth, dabbling her 
 neck, her dress, her flowers, with the dark 
 tide of death. In that moment of fearful ex- 
 citement the vague dread of her whole life 
 was realised. She had ruptured a blood- 
 vessel. 
 
 Still she strove to look up at her husband, 
 and her lips moved inarticulately, as though 
 asking him to recall his last words. 
 
 " Forgive me!" she said, at length, with 
 an almost superhuman effort, while the blood 
 literally poured from her mouth as she spoke. 
 
 " I was not so guilty; and tell Philip 
 Philip 
 
 But a film gathered over the upturned eyes 
 a sudden spasm contracted the features 
 and so, while she yet uttered his name, she 
 expired. 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 \Viii.\ Philip returned home to his hotel 
 from Mrs. hoi-rimer's frt>\ he did not at- 
 tempt to rest ; Init remained up the whole 
 night, writing letters to his uncle, to Neville, 
 and a tew other triends, telling them ol his 
 sudden departure Irom Kngland. He mad" 
 all his business arrangements wrote to IIM 
 banker for letters of credit to .SOUK; ol n: 
 
PHILIP EARXSCLIFFE. 
 
 171 
 
 political supporters, saying for the present 
 he had abandoned his intention of standing 
 for L ; and all this with a strange calm- 
 ness at which he himself was astonished. 
 Although he. knew that Marguerite's prom- 
 ise om*e given, she would never fail him, he 
 could ftot realise the truth that she was to be 
 actually his actually leave England with 
 him. From the first it had been so com- 
 pletely a part of their love to look upon it 
 as hopeless, and for him to consider Mar- 
 guerite as the type of all purity and inno- 
 cence, that, even amidst the very prepara- 
 tion for their flight, his mind refused to see 
 the evidence of their union and her guilt. 
 When morning came he could only swallow 
 a cup of coffee, and afterwards pace up and 
 down the room, waiting impatiently for 
 eleven o'clock. At that hour he proposed 
 going down to Wimbledon, finally to arrange 
 with Marguerite for meeting her in town, 
 towards evening, in time to reach Dover for 
 the night mail. But an unusual tremor was 
 upon him. His strong nerves started at the 
 slightest sound. Every footstep in the pas- 
 sage he fancied was approaching him with 
 some message, some ill tidings from Mar- 
 guerite ; and, at length, unable to support 
 this kind of uneasy suspense any longer, he 
 hastily changed his dress, and ordered his 
 horse, resolving to linger on the road, and 
 so get rid of the lagging hour-and-a-half 
 which yet remained. 
 
 When he reached Wimbledon it was only 
 half-past ten. "No matter," he thought; 
 "she will be alone by this time, and the in- 
 terview is better over, for both of us. My 
 poor Marguerite ! I know well the feverish 
 uncertainty she must suffer. It will be soon 
 finished now." 
 
 He left his horse at the hotel, and walked 
 on towards Mortimer's house : the gates 
 stood open, and he entered without speaking 
 to any one. The gardener's children were 
 not playing, as usual, in the lodge garden : 
 no servants were about ; there seemed an 
 unusual gloom about the whole place, or it 
 appeared so to Philip's excited fancy; and 
 he walked on hurriedly to the house, and 
 knocked. Marguerite's little page came to 
 the door, with pale, horror-struck face, and 
 eyes swollen with crying. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Mortimer at home? " 
 
 "Oh, sir! mv mistress have you not 
 heard ? " 
 
 "Heard what?" exclaimed Philip, seiz- 
 ing the child's arm so suddenly that it de- 
 prived him of all his remaining fortitude, 
 and, instead of relplying, he burst into tears. 
 Just then a stealthy step approached from 
 the other side of the hall, and the butler's 
 solemn face appeared. 
 
 " Mr. Earnscliffe sir," not speaking 
 above his breath, " my master has given or- 
 ders that you should be admitted." 
 
 "And Mrs. Mortimer?" asked Philip, 
 eagerly. 
 
 The man shook his head. " If you will 
 follow me, sir," he replied, ** my master 
 will tell you himself." 
 
 Philip felt that something of importance 
 had taken place ; either an explanation had 
 occurred between the husband and wife, or 
 Marguerite had already quitted her home ; 
 no glimmering of the truth, however, crossed 
 his mind. He was ushered into the dining- 
 room, and waited alone for about ten min- 
 utes in all the misery of suspense, and while 
 each moment seemed to him an hour. At 
 length Mortimer entered. For a second 
 Earnscliffe did not recognise him. In one 
 night his appearance had altered from strong 
 middle life into decrepid old age ; his face 
 haggard and pale; his step uncertain, his 
 gait drooping. 
 
 Earnscliffe advanced to salute him. 
 
 " Sir do you offer me your hand ? " 
 
 The hollow tone made Philip actually start 
 back ; he felt that Mortimer knew everything. 
 
 " I should not have come " 
 
 " Had you known all ! No probably not. 
 There is no attraction for you now, Mr. 
 Earnscliffe ! You have finished your work 
 well." 
 
 ' ' Great God ! sir, tell me how is Mar- 
 guerite ? Is she here ? " 
 
 " Aye she is in my house still. You will 
 be content to leave her with me now, I sus- 
 pect." 
 
 " I can bear this no longer ! " cried Philip, 
 vehemently. " If you will not tell me how 
 Marguerite is, I will find her see her my- 
 self." And he approached the door. 
 
 "Will you so?" Mortimer answered. 
 " Then let me take you to her chamber. I am 
 not a jealous husband, you perceive, Mr. 
 Earnscliffe ! although I am aware of your at- 
 tachment, I conduct you to your love my- 
 self! " And he motioned to Philip to follow 
 him. 
 
 " The old man is mad," thought Earns- 
 cliffe. "He has discovered all, and is do- 
 ting in his jealous rage." 
 
 " But he shuddered with a vague forebod- 
 ing of ill, as he followed Mortimer's totter- 
 ing steps up the staircase. When they came 
 to the library Mortimer trembled visibly, 
 and attempted to pass on quicker ; and Mar- 
 guerite's little spaniel, who was silently fol- 
 lowing them, shrank fearfully away. Philip 
 saw all this with that quick perception to ex- 
 ternal things which the mind frequently ex- 
 periences under the most violent emotion ; 
 and when at last they reached Marguerite's 
 sleeping room, and Mortimer noiselessly 
 turned the handle of the door, the cold dews 
 stood thick upon his forehead. 
 
 " Tell me, in pity tell me," he whispered, 
 " is Marguerite there ? " 
 
 " Oh, go in ! " returned Mortimer. *' So 
 gay a gallant surely never fears nothing. 
 Go in, sir! I have brought you to your 
 love ! " 
 
 And, with a powerful effort, Earnscliffe 
 
172 
 
 PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 forced himself to enter the room that already 
 his tortured sense told him was one of death. 
 
 Upon the bed dressed in white, lay Mar- 
 guerite, her face uncovered. A sweet, lov- 
 ing expression was yet upon her features ; 
 her hands lay in an attitude of natural repose 
 upon her breast, and all that told of death 
 were one or two gouts of blood upon her 
 night-dress, and a faint streak across the 
 parted lips. 
 
 With a burst of agony, before which Mor- 
 timer's own sorrow quailed, Earnscliffe flung 
 himself by her side, covered her cold hands 
 with kisses, called upon her to awake to him 
 by all the names that the fervor of his nature 
 could pour forth. 
 
 " Oh, it is well for you to recall her, who 
 have been the cause of her death ! " said 
 Mortimer, in a low, concentrated voice. 
 
 But Philip never heard him : unconscious, 
 even in his presence, he continued sobbing 
 with such passionate excess as is rarely wit- 
 nessed in a young, strong man. "Mar- 
 guerite, return to me ; remember how I have 
 loved you ! Marguerite, my child, my own ! " 
 
 At length, jealous of the kisses Philip 
 pressed upon her cold, insensible hands, 
 Mortimer came round and touched his should- 
 er. 
 
 *' Leave sir !" he whispered. " You have 
 seen all that I intended you should. Your 
 place is not here now.*' 
 
 Philip sprang to his feet, and turned upon 
 him a face of anguish before which Morti- 
 mer shrank back. 
 
 " This is not my place ! " he repeated be- 
 tween his teeth. " Not mine ! who have 
 loved her with my very life before you 
 ever knew her not mine ! who have been 
 the cause of all her sorrows. Leave me 
 with her, sir!" he went on fiercely; "my 
 place is here I can injure you no more 
 
 now. No " as Mortimer was beginning 
 
 to reply " in her presence let there be no 
 unseemly words afterwards I will hear all 
 you have to say ; but now I must be with 
 her and alone." 
 
 After a moment's irresolution, Mortimer 
 left the room in silence. He went down to 
 the dining-room ; and, seating himself in his 
 arm-chair, wept feebly like a child ; and, for 
 an hour longer, Philip kept his watch with 
 the dead. During that hour, what tongue 
 can tell the dread remorse the resolves 
 the meditated atonements of Karns< -lifTe's 
 heart? They rest between him and Heaven, 
 and his future life alone can test their .sin- 
 cerity. At length, pale, bur tearless now, 
 lie ruse, and bent down over her scanning, 
 for the last time, her waxen features, as 
 though to imprint each line upon his memory 
 for ererl then he stooped, and kissed her 
 lips. That long, lingering kiss which poor 
 humanity gives to the d.iy which once held 
 its idol before yielding it up for evermore ! 
 
 The dining-room door stood open, and 
 Mortimer met him as he passed. 
 
 "Not now!' 1 said Philip, waving him 
 back ! "I will speak to you any other time 
 not now." 
 
 " One word, Mr. Earnscliffe I think I 
 have a right to demand it I have one ques- 
 tion to ask ! " And struck by the softened 
 tone, the wistful expression of the old man's 
 face, Philip mastered his own emotion, and 
 entered the room. Mortimer closed the 
 door, and turned round to Earnscliffe, a 
 strange look of dawning remorse and doubt 
 contracting his features, as though with some 
 sharp bodily pain. 
 
 " You are right," he began, huskily, 
 " that is no time for you and me to speajc 
 together. By the dead body of her you 
 have quitted by your own honor was she 
 pure still ? " 
 
 " She was as spotless as the very light of 
 heaven ! " returned Earnscliffe, solemnly. 
 4i Whatever were my own guilty hopes for 
 the future, I swear to you that Marguerite 
 was pure " 
 
 "Then, I washer murderer!" Mortimer 
 interrupted, hoarsely. " Leave me, sir. 
 You are the less guilty of the two." 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 MARGUERITE'S sudden death and the cir- 
 cumstances attending it furnished conversa- 
 tion until the close of the season. Actually 
 for four consecutive weeks one subject con- 
 tinued to be spoken of in the great world 
 with unflagging interest ! 
 
 The exact circumstances of the last night 
 of Marguerite's life were never actually 
 known. All Mortimer could be brought to 
 say was, that his wife returned home Hushed 
 and over-excited from Mrs. Lorrimer'ajftfe; 
 that she complained of illness ; and, while 
 they were speaking together, was sei/ed with 
 the attack from which she never rallied. 
 
 Meanwhile, the confidential talk of servants 
 gained far more ground than the assevera- 
 tions of the husband. Mr. (Jrimcs had 
 heard his master's voice speaking in loud, 
 angry tones before the bell rang which sum- 
 moned him to the fearful scene of death in 
 the librarv. Mademoiselle Kulalie had been 
 bold enough to take a glance at a few of tho 
 papers upon the table, which, in those first 
 moments of ierror. Mortimer had taken no 
 heed of. Mademoiselle Kulaiic saw that they 
 were in the same handwriting as the ones her 
 mi-tr'-ss had -.. constantly received >;i\v that 
 thev were signed " Philip Karnsclilfe . " 
 
 And all this, and much more of a like 
 nature, was related let the countless servants 
 who came " to inquire" for Mortimer. And 
 
PHILIP EARNSCLIFFE. 
 
 173 
 
 Boon in every club and coterie it was told, 
 *' that Earn cliffe had long been Mrs. Mor- 
 timer's lover years ago, even before she was 
 married ; but that the husband, as usual, was 
 blinded longer than any one else ; that, at 
 the Richmond fete Mrs. Mortimer had be- 
 sought Earnscliffe to take her with him from 
 England ; that he had returned home half 
 distracted : Mortimer, in the meantime, had 
 broken open her desk, and found all Earns- 
 cliffe's letters. Fearful explanations had 
 ensued, ending' 1 (in this, at least, they could 
 weave no falsehood) " with Mrs. Mortimer's 
 rupturing a blood-vessel of the heart, and 
 her death." 
 
 Even Georgy found herself quite of im- 
 portance, from knowing so many details of 
 the story, flaunted from house to house in the 
 French bonnet and dress Marguerite had 
 given her the relationship was too distant to 
 require mourning eager to tell all she knew, 
 and say : " How very melancholy it was ! but 
 she must confess she always thought Mrs. 
 Mortimer was completely French in her no- 
 tions of morality, and much too fond of ad- 
 miration for a married woman ! " 
 
 And thus, while those who had so long 
 courted and fluttered round Marguerite were 
 casting each an additional stone at her black- 
 ened memory, she the best and purest 
 among them all was carried to her grave 
 a new grave in some new cemetery; and 
 laid there, with only two old men for mourn- 
 ers Danby and her husband. 
 
 Only two mourners at her funeral! But 
 when the summer twilight was deepening, a 
 stranger bribed the keeper of the gates that 
 evening to open them for him to enter. And 
 throughout the first dark night that Marguer- 
 ite was in her grave, this stranger kept watch, 
 kneeling upon the new-laid turf in such tear- 
 less, rigid anguish as can smite the heart but 
 once in a lifi'time, then leaves it blank and 
 dead for ever. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 When Neville called upon Earnscliffe the 
 following day, he started at seeing his face. 
 Every remaining look of youth was gone ; 
 around his eyes was a deep hollow shade ; 
 
 and already many a silver line streaked his 
 dark hair. 
 
 " You have suffered, Earnscliffe ! You 
 are fearfully changed ! " 
 
 " I have," replied Philip, without looking 
 up or extending his hand to him. " I have 
 gone through all the bitterness of remorse 
 that any man could do, and yet live." 
 
 Time has passed on, and Earnscliffe has 
 again interests in life ; deeper, graver inter- 
 ests than any of those which engrossed him 
 in his youth. All desire for personal distinc- 
 tion is gone ; and if in his fresh political 
 career he has \von success, it was unsought 
 for. He has firm convictions now upon the 
 points where he once so wavered a stronger 
 sense than formerly of his own responsibility ; 
 and in strenuously supporting the cause of 
 social reform, in devoting himself wholly to 
 the welfare of others, his high powers of 
 mind have found at length a genuine and 
 lasting scope for action. 
 
 Neville is, as of old, his greatest, his only 
 friend (for political partisanship, however 
 warm, can never constitute friendship to a 
 nature like Philip's) and he always looks 
 forward with relief to the close of each 
 session, aud the lonely autumn which he 
 and the painter shall spend together in Scot- 
 land ; for Neville is still the same untiring 
 student as ever ; and, celebrated though he 
 has become, works from Nature with all the 
 fresh zest that he had at eighteen. 
 
 But Philip has never written since Mar- 
 guerite's death. Either he feels no more in- 
 spiration, or the constant excitement and 
 turmoil of political life leave him no spare 
 time for literature. He rarely goes into 
 the world never into the society where 
 he once so shone, and whose leaders would 
 still receive him with open arms, did he 
 choose to return to their small distinctions 
 and applause. 
 
 Is Earnscliffe happy ? 
 
 Oh, reader! is there not some shadow- 
 across your own memory some grave over 
 which no flower can ever grow, to answer 
 that question? 
 
 THE END. 
 
LOAN DEPT. 
 
 LD 2lA-50m-9.'58 
 (6889slO)476B 
 
 Berkeley 
 

 U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIE^ 
 
 955- 
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 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY